“She’s done with that by six.”
“Don’t you have to help, too?”
“Technically, yes. But as you’re here I’m going to entertain you.”
“I’d be more than happy to pick grapes.”
“I know, but I want you to myself. Besides, they started hours ago and will be finished by half ten. If the grapes come in too warm, they’re useless for good wine. You shall survey the harvest from the comfort of a pretty chestnut mare. Faezel and Nazaar are bringing them around at nine-thirty.”
“That sounds like heaven. I’ve dreamed of riding over the hills with you.”
“Anxious is making us a picnic, aren’t you, Anxious?”
Anxious lifted her eyes over the teapot and grinned at him affectionately: “Yes, Master.” She poured into Angelica’s cup.
“I’m going to show Angelica the estate.”
“Tell her to wear cream: the sun is very hot, and she is very pale.”
“You’d better do as Anxious says,” he teased, watching her big body vibrate with a chuckle. “I’ve done as Anxious says for the past thirty-five years, haven’t I, Anxious?”
She shrugged. “Some of the time. Most of the time, no.”
“When will the picnic be ready?”
“Just now, Master.” She put the teapot down and went to fetch it.
“She’s a real character. I love her like my own mother.”
Angelica sipped her tea and helped herself to toast. Across the garden she could see a couple of dark-skinned men working in the borders, their heads protected by white hats. The sound of their chatter floated across the lawn with the twittering of birds.
“It’s so beautiful here, Jack. I don’t ever want to leave. I hate to think of returning to our winter: the short, bleak days; the cold, damp air; the bare trees and borders of dead flowers. Here it’s so lush and fragrant. The light is so bright, the sky so blue, the green greener than I have ever seen it. Everything is an extravagance of color and scent. Even you look browner and glossier out here.”
He took her hand. “I’m so happy it’s touched you like it touches me. I love this place more than any other. When I die, my ashes will be scattered beneath those hills.”
“A fine resting place.”
“I’ll never leave.”
She looked alarmed. “You’ll come back to London soon, I hope.”
“If you’re there, then I’ll devise a good excuse.” He looked at her fondly, but his smile faltered.
“I’m looking forward to riding out. I haven’t ridden a horse in years.”
“Don’t worry, Fennella is very placid. She’ll look after you. And so will I!”
At nine-thirty two men appeared with the horses. Jack’s was a fit-looking gray mare, with the legs of a racehorse, while Angelica’s was smaller and sturdier, with a gentle face and soft brown eyes. She approached Fennella and stroked the white blaze down the center of her nose; the mare nodded with pleasure, snorting through dilated nostrils.
“She likes me,” said Angelica, patting her thick neck.
“She’s a good girl,” said Faezel.
“Just the sort of horse I need.”
Jack took her foot and lifted her into the saddle. “How does it feel up there?”
“Oh yes, it’s all coming back to me now.”
“All right?”
“Yes. Lovely view.”
She took the reins and tried to remember what to do with them. Jack swung into the saddle with the artlessness of a man who has spent most of his life on a horse. He thanked the boys, then trotted up to the terrace, where Anxious stood with the picnic basket. He heaved it behind the saddle, then tied it securely in a specially tailored harness. “Thanks, Anxious. We’re all set. See you later.”
“I’m glad your friend is wearing a hat. That skin is like an orchid.”
“Anxious wants to be reassured that you put on sun cream.”
“Of course,” Angelica shouted back.
“Does she know how to ride?”
“If she doesn’t, she will by sunset.” He chuckled as Anxious shook her head disapprovingly, and cantered back to Angelica, who hadn’t yet dared move. “Let’s go.”
Tentatively, she gave the horse a squeeze. She needn’t have bothered. Fennella knew to walk alongside Jack’s horse, Artemis.
“You know Franschhoek was once known as Olifantshoek, Elephant’s Corner, because, being bordered on three sides by mountains, the valley was ideal for elephants to raise their young. They liked the isolation.”
“Are there any elephants here now?”
“No, but we have loads of other wildlife. We might see some steenbok, and of course there are plenty of birds where we’re going.”
They made their way up a dusty track, alongside a thicket of pine trees. The vineyard stretched out lush and luxuriant, and in the distance they could see the grape pickers among the vines like giant bees, the buzz of their chatter rising into the still air.
“All this is yours?”
“All mine,” he replied proudly. “Before me it belonged to my father and before him to my grandfather, who bought it as a young man.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“No, he died when I was a teenager.”
“It can’t be easy growing up without your father.”
“I still miss him. He was a wonderful man.”
“And your mother?”
“She lives in Denmark. She tried to make us all leave with her, but I don’t hold the same fear of the place as she does.”
“She fears it? Why?”
“South Africa is very troubled. You know that. Crime is rife. It’s not a safe country to live in anymore. But we’ve been lucky.”
“Your mother went far.”
“She’s Danish, so she went home. She lives in the countryside, in a crumbling old farmhouse, with my brother and his wife and their children. They come out every year, and I’ve made the detour to see them on the way back from London. Wild horses wouldn’t drag her here. E-mail has reduced the gap between us, and we speak a lot on the telephone.”
“So you have no family here anymore, besides Anna and your daughters.”
“That’s right. It’s just us now.”
“How sad that so beautiful a place is marred by crime.”
“When you see the differences between the haves and the have-nots, it’s really not at all surprising. But it’s the price you have to pay to live in such glory.”
“It’s a hive of activity over there,” she said as they approached.
“We’re two weeks late in starting this year due to the unusually long winter rains.”
At the end of each row was a red or white rosebush, planted to reveal the first signs of disease before it hit the vines. A flurry of butterflies fluttered in the air, dropping onto the flowers to sip the nectar.
“Look, there’s Lucy.”
Lucy looked up over the vine and waved vigorously. Beyond her, Anna was busy picking and chatting to the African women who came from nearby towns to help. The sound of singing drifted down the narrow avenues between the vines with the chuckling of black guinea fowl.
“What happens once the grapes are picked?”
“You’re really interested?”
“Of course. I’ve never thought beyond my glass of Sauvignon.”
“Then I’ll give you a tour before we head off into the hills.”
Angelica was enchanted by everything at Rosenbosch, from the beauty of the countryside to the functional charm of the winery. They tied the horses in the courtyard outside the farm buildings, designed in the same Dutch style as the main house, and Jack took her inside to show her the winemaker, stopping to chat with workers on the way. Finally, down in the dank darkness of the barrel cellar, they were alone.
Jack pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, as if he had been waiting all morning for an opportunity, holding her close and inhaling her scent.
“You smell so good,” he
breathed into her neck, and the warmth on her skin made her shiver. “I really love you, Sage.”
He swept her hair off her face and gazed at her features as if committing them to memory. She allowed herself to be enveloped by his giant frame and nestled happily there, his words echoing in her ears and in her heart.
• • •
They rode up into the hills, where low shrubs and bushes, known as fynbos, grew in abundance, pollinated by birds. Jack pointed out the orange-breasted sunbird and the yellow-fronted bee-eater with its yellow wings and bright red throat. The mist had lifted, leaving the way open for the sun to blaze down ferociously. Angelica could feel it on her forearms and through her shirt. The horses walked at a steady pace, and she began to feel confident in the saddle. As they climbed higher a light breeze swept across her face, and she was grateful for its cooling fingers. After a while, they arrived at a small plateau, where a copse of tall pines gave shelter from the sun. They dismounted and led the horses into the shade.
“We’ll set up our picnic here,” he said, lifting down the basket. “Let’s see what old Anxious has prepared for us.”
He laid out a green tartan rug and put the basket in the middle. Angelica sat down and fanned her face with her hat, pushing her sticky hair off her forehead. Jack opened the basket and took out a bottle of wine in a cooler. Anxious had packed a small bucket of ice, smoked salmon, lemon, bread, pâté, and salad. Everything was neatly wrapped and insulated with ice packs.
Hungrily, they tucked into their picnic. The wine was refreshing, mixed with ice, and there was grenadilla juice to quench their thirst.
“So how’s your book going?”
“I’ve come up with a brilliant idea.”
“About the secret of happiness?”
“No. About greasy green Troilers.” She pulled a face. “I don’t think I’m qualified to write about happiness.”
“Sure you are.”
“I love exploring ideas, but I can’t put them into any coherent order. They’re scattered thoughts and arguments, like we’ve been having over the Internet. I’m still searching.”
“Keep a diary. Perhaps you could turn that into a book one day.”
She laughed. “And risk someone’s reading it?”
“Would Olivier really read your diary?”
“No, I don’t think so. But things haven’t been good between us recently, so he might be tempted were he to see it lying around.” She bit into her pâté sandwich. “This is really good.”
“Homemade duck liver pâté.”
“You should sell it.”
“We do, only locally.”
“Quite industrious, aren’t you?”
“We have to be resourceful. It’s not easy at the moment.”
“Maybe you should write the book. You’re much wiser than me.”
“I think we should write it together.”
“Now you’re talking. You can do the serious stuff, and I’ll do the fluffy stuff.”
“You’re not fluffy, Sage.”
“You know what I mean. You’re more intellectual than me.”
“I wouldn’t say that. But we would make a good team, bouncing ideas off each other all the time.”
“Okay, what if we did write a book together, what would we call ourselves?”
He thought about it a moment, chewing on smoked salmon. “D. O. Porch.”
She laughed. “That’s hilarious! What about Fido Porch?”
“Doesn’t quite have the right ring to it.”
“No, you’re right, it doesn’t.”
“Let’s think laterally.”
“I’m rather light-headed, I’m not sure I can think at all.”
“Go on. Wine loosens up the imagination.”
“You think?” She looked doubtful. “Just makes me silly.”
“The sillier the better. We want something that’s eye-catching.”
“Like Marmaduke Picnic?”
“Now you’re on the right lines.”
“Marmalade Pickthistle. Migglethwaite Harp. Humpfink Danwit.”
“Now I see how you get all those crazy names for your characters. A few glasses of wine and you’re at your most creative.” He helped himself to another slice of bread and spread it with pâté. “Tomorrow we’ve asked some friends over from a neighboring vineyard for a braai.”
“What’s a braai?”
“A barbecue.”
Her face lit up. “That’s it! Something Braai.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I like Braai. It has an eccentric ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Braais are symbolic of happiness, because we all love our food.”
“What about the Something?”
“I’ve thought of Braai. You have to think of the Something.”
“All right. Leave it with me. I’ll come up with something for Something.”
They finished lunch and drained the bottle. Lying on their backs, holding hands, they gazed up into the kaleidoscope of pine needles to the glimpses of bright blue sky above. The wind picked up. Known as the southeaster or Cape Doctor, it took the edge off the searing heat. Down in the valley Anna, Lucy, and the grape pickers would be enjoying lunch. Angelica was pleased to be alone in the quiet with Jack, where time seemed to stand still. Nothing else seemed to matter but Jack and her and this precious afternoon without commitments or cares. They could lie in the shade, talk about life and love, and pretend they had forever.
At five, they sat up and watched the sunset. Angelica thought of Anna and how much she loved the changes of light and color at the end of the day. It perplexed her to think that she had suggested Jack take her up to Sir Lowry’s Pass the night before. It was as if she was pushing them together. She didn’t seem to be watching out for stolen glances, hoping to catch them in a romantic tryst, willing them to trip up so that she could throw accusations as she had every right to do. She left them to their own devices, as if she didn’t care what he did.
As the sun turned the sky pink and gold, Angelica hugged her knees, the bubbly feeling in her belly souring with melancholy.
“Have you had many lovers?”
He frowned at her. “What kind of question is that?”
“Does Anna tolerate them?”
“My darling, what’s inspired this line of thought?”
“I don’t know. The sunset makes me think of her.”
“She’ll be enjoying it down there with the workers.”
“You should be with her.”
“We have enjoyed thousands of sundowners together. I only have one more with you.”
She inhaled the fragrant air, filling her lungs before letting it out in a rush. “Anna knows we’re lovers, doesn’t she?”
“If she does, she hasn’t said anything.”
“But she suggested we watch the sunset last night. Isn’t that behavior a little odd for a wife?”
“Anna’s not like other wives. We make our own rules.”
“Are there others like me?”
He put his arm around her and pulled her towards him. “Don’t be silly. There’s no one else like you.”
“Really? Scarlet suggested you had a lover in Clapham.”
He stared at her. “She said what?”
“She saw you with a woman in Clapham.”
The horror evaporated. “Ah, the lovely Mrs. Homer.”
“Who’s Mrs. Homer?”
“An old lady of eighty. Scarlet needs her eyes tested. You don’t need to be jealous of Mrs. Homer.” He placed his lips on her temple and left them there for a long while. “You don’t need to be jealous of anybody.”
“Not even of Anna.”
He sighed. She sensed he was deliberating how to respond. Finally, he pulled away and gazed at the hills on the other side of the valley.
“Look, she’s her own person. She’s a free spirit. She doesn’t own me, and I don’t own her. We love each other, which is a choice we make, not conditions imposed on us by an institution, and how we choose t
o love each other is our own business and no one else’s. We conduct ourselves in a manner that respects the other. She doesn’t judge me, and I don’t judge her. We’re friends and soul mates. But the way I feel about you is different from the way I feel about anybody in the world. You have to trust me.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder and let the amber light warm her face. “I do trust you, Jack,” she said. But still something wasn’t quite right. There was something he wasn’t telling her.
25
When you love unconditionally, there is nothing to forgive.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
That evening, they had dinner on the terrace with Lucy, Anna, and a friend of Lucy’s called Fiona. Anna was lively, despite having toiled all morning in the fields with the grape pickers. Her eyes were bright, her smile uninhibited. Angelica watched her closely, trying to decipher her. But she seemed to have no side, and she certainly didn’t seem to be hiding anything.
In the middle of dinner the telephone rang, and Anxious came onto the terrace to tell Angelica that her husband was on the line from London. Angelica was brought back to reality with a jolt. Her first thoughts were for her children, and her chest compressed with fear. Why on earth would Olivier be calling her at Rosenbosch? How had he got the number? It must surely be an emergency. She hurried after Anxious into the sitting room.
“Hello, Olivier?” She could barely restrain her impatience.
“Hi, darling? How are you?” His casual voice dispelled her anxiety.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. I tried to call you on your mobile, but it’s always switched off. As you didn’t call me back, I got the Meyers’ number from Scarlet.”
“You had me so worried. I thought something terrible had happened to the children.”
He laughed. “They’re here. They want to say hello.” Angelica’s eyes brimmed with tears. She felt the familiar pull in her chest and swallowed hard. “I’ll pass you over. They’re really missing you.”
Angelica waited tensely as Olivier passed the telephone to Isabel. “Hello, Mummy.”
“Hello, my darling. Are you having a nice time with Daddy?”
“I miss you.” Her voice was small, and Angelica felt the tears spill onto her cheeks.
The Perfect Happiness Page 26