FOR ONLY A SEASON

No one called me Pollux Reese Flood the Fourth. Everyone knew me as Scooter, fourth-generation mortician by birth, attorney by trade, and budding vintner by heart. Heir to the largest family-owned chain of funeral parlors in the whole Southeast, our interests included printing and floral shops, a monument company, a casket company, and a thirty percent stake in a chain of Hispanic funeral homes that were rapidly expanding across the country.

I knew life was nearly impossible to predict. I’d experienced this truth on more than one occasion. To me, everyone’s journey seemed like a mosaic containing the highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and every sensation in between—a mosaic speckled by the whims of faith, hope, love, and circumstance. Despite life’s uncertainty, no one or nothing could have made me believe that I’d be a widower at twenty-five. I’d never imagined it possible to suffer through such heartache. I felt as though all signs of light and life had abandoned my heart, replaced by guilt and loneliness. When I was ten, I’d lost both parents within six months of each other, but that pain was not nearly as intense as losing my wife and unborn child. Those losses instilled in me a fear of loving again.

I had some friends who owned a vineyard, so after my loss, I decided to go to their Italian home to heal while learning the ins and outs of winemaking. Before I left, Uncle Clem told me that, somewhere in the world, my heart was waiting for me to reclaim it. He said when I found my heart, I’d find myself again. Then I could forgive myself and reconnect with the purpose of my journey.

I grew closer to the owners of the winery, the DiCarlo family, during the two and a half years I stayed with them in Italy—so much so that we formed a partnership. After another two and a half years in the domestic division in California, and with Uncle Clem and Grammy’s blessing, I was coming home to transform a portion of our family farm into a vineyard.

Outwardly I looked and sounded okay, but inwardly I was still broken by pain and saddled with grief. I still remembered my wife asking me to come with her to the doctor, and I remembered telling her my caseload wouldn’t allow me to join her. “Too busy”—those were the last words I ever said to her. How I wished I had the opportunity to apologize for putting anything ahead of her! If I hoped to move forward in the personal arena of my life, I had to forgive myself.

However, I was ready to start a new chapter in my life back home with the winery and with my great uncle and grandmother. Though I’d accepted what had happened, I’d yet to get over it and find the courage to risk my heart again. Fortunately, I had the support of Grammy and Uncle Clem, as well as “Uncle” Doc and “Uncle” Rev. Without them, I don’t believe I would have ever stood up with the faith to face life again.

Nearly four hours into my flight, I awoke to an attendant’s voice over the intercom announcing our descent into Birmingham. I returned my seat upright and resumed chewing gum, hoping to alleviate the pressure and popping in my ears. As the plane dipped below the clouds, I could see the city’s skyline framed by a periwinkle sky. The sun shone brightly, and on the ground, the temperature reached a balmy seventy-eight degrees. The plane touched down with a couple of bumps and thuds, decelerated, and taxied to the gate. I retrieved my bag from the overhead compartment and bounded up the jet bridge to the terminal.

Greensboro, Alabama, was home. My roots had first taken hold of the soil there, in the place I loved most and the place where I was most loved. Or, as Uncle Clem reflected, “Home is where you take root, and if you never take root, you’ll never grow.”

Inside the concourse, people rushed to make their flights. Business travelers and couples with young kids scurried about. In the excitement of moving home, I’d forgotten to ask Uncle Clem who was picking me up. I looked around at the gaggle of people milling about, hoping to see someone I recognized. Seeing no one, I switched on my cell and headed to baggage claim. I had no messages, so I walked up to the carousel and retrieved my bags. As I stepped away, I saw a beautiful woman walking toward me, waving and mouthing “Scooter.” Smiling, I waved back and walked toward her, trying to figure out who she was. She wore a beige, flowered sundress that loosely outlined her amazing figure.

She boldly walked up to me and said in a sultry but husky voice, “Hi, Scooter.”

“Good afternoon. I seem to be at the disadvantage, since you know me, yet I can’t place you.”

She flashed the straightest, whitest teeth I’d seen. “Boy, give me a hug. I’m Frankie, Frankie Logan, Doc’s granddaughter.” She opened her arms for a welcoming embrace. “It’s been about fourteen years, I think. I had a consultation with a colleague up here earlier, so I volunteered to pick you up. Sorry I’m a little late. You didn’t have to wait too long, I hope.”

“You’re right on time. I just grabbed my bags off the carousel. Wow, Frankie, it’s great to see you. I apologize for not recognizing you, but like you said, it’s been a while. You look amazing.”

She blushed. “You’re real easy on the eyes yourself.”

Exiting the terminal for Frankie’s car, I couldn’t help but stare at her. I remembered her as a sixteen-year-old tomboy. The pigtails and braces were gone, and though still tall, she wasn’t skinny as a rail anymore. In Greensboro, I’d been the only boy who could outrun Uncle Doc’s pride and joy.

Stepping outside to a beautiful first day of spring, Frankie smiled and said, “Follow me. I’m parked right over here.”

“Lead the way,” I responded playfully. Frankie pulled out a clicker, disarming and unlocking a beautiful silver Porsche 911 convertible with an Arizona license plate. “Nice car.”

“Thanks. Have you ever driven one of these?”

“Yeah, I had one in Italy. They handle like a charm, don’t they?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve only had it about five months now. I’m still getting used to driving it.”

“I’m sure you’ll work out all the kinks before long,” I said as she eased gracefully out of the parking spot. “You’re handling it pretty well now, if you ask me.”

“Maybe when you’re free, you could give me some pointers. Though I imagine the winery is going to take up a lot of your time, huh?”

I shrugged. “I’ll be pretty busy, but I always make time for my friends. Besides, our families have always been closer than friends. Plus, it’s not like I won’t have help. The winery is a joint venture. As long as we get the soil treated and the rooted cuttings in the ground by the first frost of autumn, everything will be good.”

Leaving the airport, we turned onto I-20 West and headed for Tuscaloosa. I watched as Frankie deftly negotiated the ramp leading to the interstate while accelerating and shifting. She didn’t need any pointers from me. The sunlight, fresh air, and hum of the engine, along with smooth jazz piping through the stereo’s speakers, dissipated the anxiety I was feeling.

“So, you’ve moved back home?” I asked. “Why did you move back? Unc’s always told me how the top hospitals in the country were fighting over you.”

“Can we talk about it later? Right now, all I want you to do is sit back, relax, and take in the scenery. I’ll have you home before you know it.”

As we turned off the interstate onto State Highway 69, headed for Greensboro, I decided to take her advice and do just that. Like she said, we’d have plenty of time to catch up.