Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“Did you know this was a hospital during the Civil War?” he asked, tracing a finger around an old hole in the dining room door. “See this? It’s an old bullet hole. They never repaired it.”

Though I knew the house well, I didn’t want to spoil his pleasure in showing it to me. “It’s fascinating,” I said, smiling. “And I did hear about the hospital.”

He looked sheepish. “I reckon you know more about what went on here than I do. Your family’s been here for…what, two hundred years?”

“Longer,” I said. “But I do know a thing or two about its history. When is your furniture arriving?”

“In about a fortnight,” he said. “I’m flying back next weekend to sort out a few details.”

“I thought you were leaving tomorrow or the next day.”

“I was,” he said, “but I gave Ross use of the place and my boat to get away for a few days. He needed a break. I don’t know if he told you that he’s seriously considering relocating to Florida.”

I nodded. “He really is going to leave, isn’t he?”

“Looks that way.”

We toured the grounds, finishing in the sunken rose garden, with its fountain surrounded by perennials. “It’s like Versailles,” I said. “You really bought yourself a palace.”

“Wrong country,” he said. “It’s like Queen Mary’s Garden in Regent’s Park in London.”

“‘Oh, to be in England now that spring is here’?”

He laughed and kissed me. “Not England,” he said. “Right here.”

We had dinner outdoors. The stone fireplace from the original summer kitchen had been converted into an outdoor grill, so we fixed chicken and skewers of vegetables, eating everything with our fingers. I brought the wine—a Pouilly-Fuissé from Leland’s wine cellar.

“I thought we’d go for a moonlight swim,” he said after we cleaned up.

His house—like mine—was built on a hill so that part of the backyard fell away to a breathtaking view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, much like ours. Jim Studebaker had taken advantage of the steep slope of the land to put in what was called an infinity pool—a swimming pool with no edge or rim on one side. As a result it seemed as though the water flowed out and disappeared, almost as if it joined the sky. In reality it cascaded like a waterfall into a smaller pool below. The effect, however, was stunning.

The other night Mick hadn’t really seen my twisted foot in the dark when we were lying together in the hammock. But if we went swimming it would be so…visible.

“I don’t think so—” I began.

“Lucie,” he interrupted, “it’s all right. My oldest sister had cerebral palsy. She was one of the most beautiful women I knew.”

“Was?” I could feel the color in my cheeks.

“She died of a brain aneurism when she was thirty,” he said.

“Oh, God, Mick, I’m so sorry.”

He stood up and scooped me up in his arms. “About that swim…”

“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” I protested.

“I know,” he replied. “Neither did I.”

Afterward, he led me to his cavernous bedroom. The mattress was surprisingly comfortable, when we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms. The Studebakers had sold him all the curtains, but we didn’t close the heavy brocaded drapes so we could see each other as we made love in the scuffed silver wash of a nearly full moon.

I woke at daylight, briefly disoriented as to where I was. Then I saw his tousled head next to mine and reached for my watch on the floor. Five-forty. He must have felt me stir because he opened his eyes and pulled me into his arms.

“You don’t need to get up this early,” I said as he kissed me.

“I do if you want a lift home.”

I was suddenly self-conscious about my foot again, which he seemed to realize. I showered alone in his spa-like granite bathroom while he made coffee.

“When can I see you again?” he asked as he dropped me off at my house.

“How about tomorrow? It’s primary day. Come by the Inn after the polls close. Seven o’clock. Noah’s going to win and I’m sure there will be a victory celebration,” I said. “Though it’ll probably be muted, under the circumstances.”

“I’ll try. I’ve got more meetings with my architect. If I can’t make it I’ll ring you.” He kissed me until I was dizzy and left.

Quinn was in his office when I got there shortly after seven. I called out good morning without sticking my head through his door and continued down the hall. A moment later, he stood in my doorway, tossing his tennis ball in the air and catching it.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

“You didn’t stop by.”

“Sorry. I know I’m late,” I said.

“In a hurry to get to your desk chair?”

“Ha, ha.” I covered my mouth, stifling a yawn.

“I thought I’d check the Chardonnay and Riesling,” he said. “The boys have been tying up the vines and pulling leaves the past few days. Want to come along?”

“All right.”

“I’ll get the Gator,” he said. “Meet you out front in five.”

“They’ve been working in the south fields,” he said when I joined him. “We’ve got three new guys this season. I want to make sure they did this right.”

“Isn’t Manolo keeping an eye on them?”

“Sure he is.” He sounded surprised. “But I want to see for myself.”

If he left, I would miss his thoroughness. Jacques had been attentive, but Quinn was downright obsessive.

The tasks of tying up the vines to the trellis wires so they don’t hang down and pulling leaves off by hand, exposing the grapes to sunshine and air, are mind-numbingly tedious. Come harvest time we’re always glad we made the extra effort because of the difference it makes in the taste of the grapes. What Quinn wanted to check was to be sure there were no leaves covering each bunch of grapes. Otherwise the ripening process would slow down, robbing the fruit of the sunshine needed to increase flavor and sugar.

He turned down the service road toward the orchard. It was as good a time as any to get this over with.

“I talked to Mick,” I said. “I heard you’re thinking about leaving here and going to work for him.”

He was sitting with his profile to me, but I could still see the visible shock that went through him. “He told you that?”

No point involving Bonita in this, even though she was the one who spilled the beans. “Yes,” I said, and yawned.

“How’d the subject come up?”

“We were talking about vineyards.”

He grunted. “Opportunity’s good. Pay’s better.”

“So you’re going to take it?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

My mouth felt dry. “What’s stopping you?”

He turned down a row in the Riesling block and stopped the Gator. We both climbed down and he reached out, touching leaves, trellis wires, and bunches of grapes as we slowly walked down the row. Honeybees buzzed and tiny black flies alighted on the Gator. A hot breeze blew and I regretted not grabbing Eli’s Mets cap off the credenza in my office.

Quinn, who’d been walking ahead of me, stopped abruptly and turned around to face me. I nearly collided with him in the middle of another yawn.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. “I’m asking. Do you want me to stay?”

Here it was. My chance to ask him not to go. “Of course I do.”

“I’m bowled over by your enthusiasm.”

“Quinn,” I said, “I don’t want to stand in your way if a better opportunity comes along for you.”

“And this is a better opportunity,” he said in a hard voice. “Plus it’s not like I wouldn’t see you anymore, being as you’re getting so tight with Mick.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to make a retort about Bonita, but instead all I said was, “So you’ve made up your mind, then?”