Kab Elias Vineyard | كرم قب الياس
"She inherited a vineyard in Kab Elias that's been failing for years. He's the viticulturist who knows how to save it—and maybe her. Between grapevines, they cultivate something new. 'Inti el karma el matloubieh' (أنتِ الكرمة المطلوبة)."
Kab Elias Vineyard
كرم قب الياس
Some inheritances are burdens.
My uncle's vineyard in Kab Elias produces wine no one wants to buy. I'm failing at failure.
Then the vine scientist arrives, offering expertise I can't afford.
I'm Claudine.
Forty-five, reluctant vineyard owner, body built by worry and wine. I know nothing about grapes except drinking them.
Dr. Joseph Fayad knows everything else.
"Your rootstock is wrong."
"My uncle planted it forty years ago."
"Climate changed. Grapes didn't."
"I can't afford to replant."
"Then try something else."
He's forty-eight.
Viticulturist, consulted for châteaux worldwide. Why he's helping my failing vineyard in Kab Elias is unclear.
"Why are you really here?"
"Because Lebanese wine could be world-class. Someone has to try."
"On my disasters?"
"Disasters are experiments that haven't succeeded yet."
He works without payment.
Soil tests, grafting experiments, patience I don't have. Slowly, the vineyard responds.
"Why no fee?" I press.
"Because money isn't why I do this."
"Then what is?"
"Purpose. Seeing things grow that shouldn't."
I grow too.
Learning what he teaches, seeing my uncle's land with new eyes. Hope replacing despair.
"Claudine—"
"Eih?"
"You've changed. Since I started coming."
"The vineyard's better—"
"Not just that."
"What then?"
"You smile now. You fight for this place." He takes my hand among vines. "Inti el karma el matloubieh." You're the desired vine.
"I'm failing—"
"You're becoming. Different thing."
The kiss happens in the vineyard.
Between rows that might finally flourish. His mouth on mine tastes like possibility.
"Joseph—"
"I came for the grapes. I stayed for you."
We make love among the vines.
Where my uncle dreamed, where I'm learning to dream too. He lays me on harvest earth.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Sunburned. Worried—"
"Ripening. Perfectly ripening."
He worships me viticulturally.
Every curve assessed for potential. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Joseph—"
"Let me cultivate you too."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip vine stakes, crying out at Bekaa sky. Pleasure like late harvest—intense, worth waiting for.
"Ya Allah—"
"Perfect sugar levels. Perfect."
When he enters me, I feel rooted.
We move together among vines—his body and mine, growing together.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is first good vintage.
We cry out together—everything yielding. Then we lie in the vineyard, hopeful.
Three years later
Kab Elias produces award-winning wine.
Joseph's techniques, my land, our love in every bottle.
"Worth the experiment?" I ask.
"Best grafting I ever did." He kisses me among ripening grapes. "Including us."
Alhamdulillah.
For vineyards that recover.
For scientists who persist.
For owners who learn to grow.
The End.