Bentley Little - Dominion

Dion took a deep breath. The air was rich, smelling of sweet grape and tart fermentation.

He thought of his mom.

What if he and Penelope eventually got married? What would happen if there was a winery in the family? If his mom had unlimited access to alcohol?

He did not even want to think about it.

"That's the basic tour, the non-technical tour. If you want a more in-depth look at the wine-making process, if you want to follow it from step to step, I'm sure I could get one of my aunts to take us around."

He shook his head. "No, that was good enough." He smiled at her. "You're really an excellent tour guide. Ever think of doing it professionally?"

"Very funny."

They walked out of the room the way they'd come in, but exited the pressing room through a side door which led down a hall. There was only one door in the wall of the hallway. "What's in there?" Dion asked as they passed.

"In there? That's the lab. But we can't go inside. That's Mother Sheila's territory, and she's very protective. Even I've never been in there."

"What's the big secret?"

"Well, that's where they come up with new blends, new wines. That's where the serious brain work is done."

They walked outside, squinting against the sudden brightness of the late afternoon sun. "So where is your wine sold?" Dion asked. "I haven't looked, but Kevin told me your wine's not sold in stores, that you have to mail-order it?"

Her face tightened. "Did he call it 'Lezzie Label Wine'?"

"No," Dion lied.

"Kevin Harte? He didn't mention the word lesbian in there somewhere?"

Dion smiled. "Well, yeah, he did."

She shook her head. "We produce what are called 'specialty label' wines.

Kevin's right, they are mostly sold by mail order, but that's because most of our customers live out of state. Or out of the country."

"What's a 'specialty label' wine?"

"It's a wine that's sold primarily to collectors or connoisseurs. It's the equivalent of, like, a limited-edition book. A lot of the smaller labels like ours couldn't afford to compete with the big names in the mass market, so we've sort of carved out our own niche. We produce the type of wine that it is just not economically feasible for a big winery to produce. Specialty labels usually specialize in wines made from obscure or exotic breeds or new hybrids of grape. Some use archaic or adventurous pressing, fermenting, or distilling techniques on their product."

"Sounds like you're quoting from a textbook."

She laughed. "Close. Our sales brochure."

"So what do you specialize in?"

"Basically, we make Greek wine, the type of wine they drank in ancient Greece, in Socrates' time and the days of Homer. Wine played an important role in the religious and social life of ancient Greece, but the classic techniques of wine making have been virtually abandoned in favor of the European style of wine making. It's really almost a lost art. The machines you saw in there are all modern, but they're used to duplicate those processes." Penelope smiled shyly. "That's in the brochure too."

"That explains the architecture," Dion said. "And I assume that's why you're taking Mythology."

She looked surprised. "Not really. In fact, it never even occurred to me. But now that you mention it, yeah, I suppose it did influence me."

They walked slowly across the lawn, toward the house. Dion glanced up, saw Penelope's mother and two of her aunts watching them through a window. They smiled and waved when they saw him, and he waved back, but it made him feel a little creepy. He couldn't help thinking that he and Penelope were being spied upon.

"It's getting late," Dion said. "I should be getting back."

"This early?" Penelope sounded disappointed.

"My mom expects me home for dinner."

Did she really? he wondered. From school he had called his mom at work, explaining that he was going over to Penelope's, telling her that he would be home by dinnertime. He had assumed that she would be home before he was, would have dinner waiting, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind kept saying that this would give her free time, that she would use this opportunity to do what she wanted and that she would not be home when he got there.

Stop it, he told himself.

"You always talk about your mother," Penelope said. "Your father doesn't live with you?"

Dion shook his head.

"Are your parents divorced?"

"No." He looked at her, aware she was waiting for more, not sure how much he wanted to reveal. He took a deep breath, took the plunge. "I

don't know who my father was," he admitted. He glanced away from her, toward the house, ashamed, embarrassed, though he knew it was something over which he'd had no control.

"But doesn't--"

"My mom doesn't know either."

"Oh."

She was silent then. He wanted to apologize somehow, to say it was not his fault, to tell her not to blame him for the circumstances of his birth, but he said nothing. He tried to read her face, but he could not tell from her expression if she was disappointed, angry, hurt, sympathetic, whether he was tainted in her eyes or it made no difference to her at all. The silence dragged on, and he felt he had to say something.

"My mom's a slut," he said.

He regretted the words instantly. The statement did not really express how he felt, and outside the confines of his brain it sounded much too harsh, much too cruel. He had wanted to disassociate himself from his mother and at the same time show that her values, her lifestyle, were not his own. But he did not like the cold, judgmental tone of his own voice, the thoughtless dismissal implied by his words. And he could tell, that Penelope didn't like it either.

"You dare to say that about your mother?" she said, turning on him.

He wanted to take it back, wanted to explain what he meant, but he couldn't. "I don't know," he said ineffectually.

"Don't you have any respect for your parents?"

He was quiet.

"I'm scary," she $aid, pulling back. "I didn't mean to jump all over you. I don't really know the circumstances of your life, but I just don't think that you should heap everything on your mother. If you've had a tough time, then she has too. She's probably doing the best she can. It's hard being a single parent, you know? I mean, I don't blame my mothers for ..." Her voice trailed off..

"For what?"

"My father." She looked away..

Neither of them said anything as they continued walking across the grass. It was Dion who spoke first. "What about your father?"

She did not answer.

"Penelope?" he prodded gently.

"My father," she said, "was torn apart by wolves."

Dion was shocked into silence. He looked at her, turned away, not knowing what to say. He took a deep breath, "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Penelope nodded slightly, her voice subdued. "I am too." She pulled ahead of him. "Let's just forget about it."

Dion hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should continue with the conversation or let it drop. She'd said she didn't want to talk about it, but he sensed that she did. The subject of his father was a sensitive one for him; he knew how he felt when other people asked about it, and he was sure that she probably felt a thousand times worse.

Nevertheless, he hastened forward and caught up with her at the edge of the parking lot. "Do you remember him?" he asked.

Her steps slowed. She stopped walking, turned to face him. "I was a baby when he died. I have pictures of him, and from the way my mothers talk about him, I feel as though I know him. But, no, I don't remember him.

My father exists only in my mind." She looked at her watch. "It's almost five-thirty."

"Yeah, I'd better go."

Penelope licked her lips. "Still friends?" she asked.

He nodded. "Still friends."