Merlot Is a Terrible Alibi

Alondra reached Bruma Alta before the heat had settled into the stones.

The road had left the highway forty minutes earlier and then appeared to lose interest in being a road at all. Dust filmed the rental’s hood. Vines ran in strict green rows over the pale ground. Beyond them, the hills looked baked clean.

She parked beside the concrete crush pad and killed the engine.

Two black guitar cases filled the back seat. One held the hollow-body she trusted more than most people. The other held pedals, cables, and a small amplifier that had survived years of baggage belts and bad loading crews.

She had expected a producer with a clipboard.

Instead, Paloma Serrano stood beside the loading bay.

Seven years had changed the shape of her hair. It was shorter now, dark still, with silver at both temples. She wore a work shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, jeans marked with dry earth, boots that had done honest work. Alondra knew that face at once. Her body knew it before her mind agreed.

Paloma’s mouth opened.

“Maribel.”

Alondra shut the car door.

Paloma went still. Then she looked down at the clipboard in her hands, as if her name might be written there in a larger, kinder print.

“Alondra,” she said. “I mean Alondra.”

Alondra could have helped her sooner. She did not.

“Eventually.”

“I’m sorry.”

“About the name?”

Paloma looked at her then. “About that too.”

The old answer rose fast. It had been waiting in places Alondra had not checked before taking the contract. She put it away. Not because Paloma deserved mercy. Because the vineyard was bright with morning, and because she had not driven across two borders to make a fool of herself beside a grape press.

She opened the rear door and lifted the heavier case.

“I can take that,” Paloma said.

“I have it.”

“It has wheels.”

“So do hospital gurneys. That never stopped you from carrying those around.”

A small change passed over Paloma’s face. Not amusement exactly. The memory of it.

“You still make everything sound like an argument.”

“Only the things worth winning.”

Paloma set the clipboard against the side of the loading bay. “Berta said you would be here at ten.”

“Berta was wrong by forty-seven minutes.”

“She is rarely wrong.”

“Then this is an important day for both of us.”

A white utility cart came around the barrel shed. The driver stopped beside them with a short squeal of brakes. Berta Lujan climbed out slowly, as if the ground had made an appointment with her knees and she intended to keep it.

Her gray hair was pinned high. Her shirt bore a dark wine stain near one pocket. She took in Alondra, Paloma, and the guitar cases without showing surprise.

“Good,” Berta said. “Nobody has fled.”

“Give it time,” Alondra said.

Berta handed her a folded sheet of paper. “I gave you a schedule. Time is what you have least of.”

At the top was the benefit’s name, printed over the Bruma Alta mark. Below it came the facts: the growers’ cooperative from Las Lomas, the silent auction, the food vendors, the farewell performance Alondra had agreed to play before she stopped touring. A final contracted show. One night meant to raise money for women who owned small plots and needed equipment before harvest.

Her set began at eight on Saturday.

Before that: tasting-room meeting at noon. Outdoor stage inspection at two. Vendor route at four. Soundcheck at sunrise. Rehearsal at noon the next day.

Berta tapped the page.

“Paloma handles the property, permits, staff, power, and every locked door. Alondra handles the stage, sound, and anything a musician might complain about before I tell her to complain more quietly.”

“I complain with excellent diction,” Alondra said.

“I remember.”

Paloma took a copy of the schedule from Berta. Her thumb rested over the stage inspection line.

“We can assign someone else to walk the grounds with you,” she said.

Berta gave her a flat look. “You own the vineyard.”

“My staff knows the place.”

“Your staff does not know why the eastern terrace loses power when the irrigation timer gets ideas.”

Paloma’s jaw set. Alondra remembered that movement. It once meant Paloma had decided to solve a problem alone, even if it broke furniture, sleep, or a person who loved her.

Berta turned to Alondra.

“You need Paloma. She knows which part of this property will betray us first.”

“And Paloma needs me?”

“For the concert to sound like a concert instead of a tractor accident.”

“That seems fair.”

“It is not meant to be fair.” Berta picked up the smaller guitar case. “It is meant to get forty women better tools before harvest. You can dislike each other on a more generous schedule.”

“We don’t—” Paloma began.

Alondra looked at her.

Paloma stopped.

Berta put the case on the cart. “Tasting room at noon. Both of you. If either arrives late, I will make you drink the reserve Merlot.”

“That bad?” Alondra asked.

Berta considered it. “It has character.”

“Merlot is a terrible alibi for character.”

For the first time, Paloma almost smiled. It disappeared before it became anything Alondra could trust.

Berta drove toward the barrel hall with the guitar case behind her.

Paloma picked up the clipboard again. “The stage is this way.”

The outdoor platform stood beyond the vines, bare beneath the hard blue sky. There was no route to it that did not take Alondra beside Paloma.

She took the path anyway.

She took the path anyway.

At noon, Berta had arranged four narrow glasses along the tasting-room table. The windows faced the vines. Sun struck the glass and made hard little coins on the wood.

A printed set list sat beside the bottles.

“Drink slowly,” Berta said. “I need opinions, not confessions.”

“I charge extra for both,” Alondra said.

Berta poured the first wine. “Then this is a charitable event.”

Paloma stood at the far end of the table with her clipboard. She had changed shirts. The clean white linen made her seem less familiar, which was an insult to seven years of memory.

Alondra lifted her glass. The wine smelled of dark fruit and dry ground after heat. It was good. That irritated her too.

Berta tapped the set list. “Seventy-five minutes. No intermission. The auction ends before you begin, so people will either feel generous or guilty.”

“Both make excellent audiences,” Alondra said.

“Start quiet,” Paloma said.

Alondra looked at her.

Paloma checked the page. “The terrace carries sound badly until the crowd fills in. If you open with something loud, it goes into the vines.”

“You remember my set construction.”

“I remember practical things.”

That had not been true. Paloma remembered the chipped blue mug Alondra preferred. She remembered which side of the bed made Alondra’s shoulder hurt. She remembered the names of people Alondra had mentioned once and never expected to meet.

Alondra took another sip.

“Fine,” she said. “Quiet first. Then the older songs. Then the louder ones before the auction donors realize they have cash left.”

Berta made a mark on the schedule. “And the new song?”

“No.”

Paloma’s eyes lifted. “Why not?”

“Because it is new.”

“That is usually how new songs work.”

Alondra gave her a flat look. “You have become very brave since breakfast.”

“I was asking.”

“And I was answering.”

Berta poured the second wine. “This one is from the north block. It has more patience than either of you.”

The meeting went on by inches. Paloma listed power outlets, cable routes, the location of the backup generator. Alondra marked the stage diagram and asked for two monitors, then changed it to one when Paloma explained that the eastern terrace shared a line with the irrigation controls.

“You cannot run both?” Alondra asked.

“We can. If we want the vines watered with your guitar.”

“Some audiences would pay for that.”

“Not mine.”

There it was. The old rhythm. A joke returned without permission. It made something inside Alondra go still.

Berta noticed. Of course she did.

“The fourth song,” Berta said. “What is it?”

Alondra read the title on her page. “Paper Houses.”

Paloma said, “No.”

The word came too quickly.

Berta turned her head. “No?”

“It is too slow in the middle.”

“It is two minutes and forty seconds.”

“It drags.”

“It has never dragged in its life.”

Paloma’s hand closed over the clipboard. “Choose another.”

Alondra set down her glass. “Why?”

Paloma met her eyes. “Because it is not right for this event.”

“It is a benefit for women rebuilding work after bad seasons. It is almost offensively right.”

Berta sat back in her chair.

Paloma said, “Alondra.”

There were too many things inside the use of her name. Alondra hated that Paloma could still do that.

“What?”

“The breakup had been necessary.”

The room became very quiet.