Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

I attached the phone to the charger and put the gun in the cabinet. When I walked into the parlor, he was on his knees in front of the fireplace, sticking fatwood and newspaper between the logs on the grate.

“Do you have any idea how to shoot that gun?” he asked. “I mean, so you hit what you’re aiming at? What made you get it just now? That fox crying? Jeez, Lucie, you’re jumpier than a june bug.”

I sat on the floor next to him and, out of habit, tucked my bad foot underneath me where he wouldn’t see it. “I didn’t hear the fox. You were gone a long time just to get an armful of firewood.”

He got the fire starter from the mantel and lit the newspaper. Without looking at me he said, “I figured I’d check around the house. Antonio’s patrolling the grounds.”

“He is?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “We’ve got a couple of guys babysitting the entrance to the vineyard. They’re armed. We’re gonna rotate people on security duty. Days and nights. Figured you’d okay the overtime pay.”

Security guards at the gate? No one had said a word to me.

I swallowed. “Sure. Thanks.”

“How about if I get that bottle of Saint-Estèphe and decant it? And yes, I’m going to check the door in your basement, too. Make sure the dead bolt’s in place.”

When he came back he said, “I forgot what a fabulous wine cellar your old man had. You sure you want to drink this with takeout? Maybe you should save it for a special occasion, you know? Something to celebrate.”

How could I tell him I thought dinner with him was something to celebrate?

“I’m sure.”

He looked at me for a long moment and I held my breath.

“You know, it’s going to take that wine awhile to decant,” he said. “We could stay right here in your nice parlor and enjoy the fire while we wait. Or we could do something else.”

We did something else.

It had been months since the last time, but I no longer cared if he realized how much I’d missed his lovemaking. We began kissing and undressing each other right there in the parlor, dropping our clothes one by one on the grand spiral staircase like a couple of giddy kids. By the time we reached my bedroom we were panting and out of breath. He threw me on the bed and bit my shoulder as he climbed on top of me. I tangled my fingers through his hair and pulled him close. Usually he was tender, but tonight whatever fierce demon possessed him caught fire with me and we weren’t gentle. Tomorrow we’d both be sore and bruised.

I lost track of how many times we made love, except that the ache that gnawed inside me grew deeper each time, a melancholy void that threatened to swallow me up. Why couldn’t we continue what we had before he left for California? Why did things have to change?

After months of abstinence I’d given in without hesitating, thrown away any pride or pretense, like the recovering alcoholic who believes one little drink won’t hurt. But as some poet said, one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. I’d had my crowded hour. If I had to lose him, at least we’d had this one last night together.

Later he went downstairs to get the Saint-Estèphe, but it again seemed like a long time before he came back to bed with the decanter and two wineglasses. He’d found his clothes and gotten dressed, but he’d brought only a few of my things—which didn’t include my underwear.

“Everything all right?” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest as he sat next to me and poured our wine. I touched my hand to his face. “You’re cold. How come you got dressed?”

“Just went outside for a little night air.”

I knew then why he was here. “You’re babysitting me, aren’t you? You and Antonio worked this out. Tonight your turn, tomorrow his. You were checking around the house again.”

“If I catch Antonio in bed with you …” He grinned.

“Don’t.”

He handed me a glass and kissed me. “It’s not what you think.”

“It is what I think. You’re here as my bodyguard, aren’t you?” I set my wine on the nightstand. “That’s the only reason you showed up tonight.”

He took my face in his hands and kissed me for a long time. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Let me prove it,” he said, laying me back on the pillows, “so you won’t have any doubts.”

Afterward we lay next to each other in the dark.

“I’ve missed you,” I said.

“I’ve missed you, too.” He rolled over and sat up, turning on the light and reaching for our wineglasses. “Interested in some very cold Chinese food? I’m starved.”

Had he not wanted to continue that conversation, or had sex really made him ravenous?

“Sure.”

We drank in silence, and it was as though I could feel the filaments of the web we had woven together these last few years slowly begin to tear apart.

“What would it take for you to stay on here?” I said.

He stared into his wineglass.

“A partnership? Think about it. Please? I don’t want to lose you, Quinn.”

His smile was full of sadness and regret, but he still didn’t look at me. “This isn’t about you, Lucie. It never was. It’s about me, facing some things from my past that have finally come home to roost. I’ve got to work them out—”

“Work them out here!”

“I can’t.”

“But—”

He laid a finger across my lips. “Not tonight. Please.”

I nodded and he brushed a tear from under my eye.

“About that dinner,” he said.

Later he came back to bed with me, but this time we lay in each other’s arms.

“Get some sleep,” he said into my hair. “You look exhausted.”

I didn’t want to close my eyes. I wanted to remember everything that we did and said to each other and what it felt like to be in his arms again in bed. But wine and lack of sleep the night before and physical exhaustion from our lovemaking finally caught up with me.

I fell asleep and dreamed I was dropping into the abyss.

When I woke up the next morning, I was alone. I could still see the impression of Quinn’s head on my pillow and his body on the sheets, but his clothes were gone. The smell of coffee floated up the staircase. He always made coffee when we spent the night together. I sat up and pulled the wedding ring quilt I used as a bedspread around me.

He appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs. “Morning, sleepyhead. You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I thought you’d left.” I took the coffee from him. “Then I heard someone on the stairs.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I already talked to Antonio. All quiet last night.”

I nodded. Already our torrid night in bed seemed like it had happened to other people. And Quinn looked ill at ease, a warning sign that maybe he had regrets about what we’d done. I could take anything but his remorse.

“Speaking of talking to people, your cell was ringing when I came downstairs. I brought it with me.” He pulled it out of his jeans pocket. “I wasn’t trying to pry, but you’ve got a missed call from Mick and a message. Kind of early to be calling, so I thought it might be important.” He said it without emotion.

“I have no idea why he’s calling at this hour.”

“Call him back and find out.”

“I’m sure it’s business. Probably something about his vines.” I set the phone on the bedside table and sipped my coffee. As usual he’d made sludge that tasted like rocket fuel. “Good coffee.”

“I didn’t want to make it too strong since I know you prefer that dishwater you drink.”

“It’s not dishwater!”

My phone rang and we both glanced at it at the same time. Mick, calling again. Did he have radar or a hidden camera so he knew to call only when Quinn was around? Quinn picked up the phone and gave it to me.