by Diana Stone
Oops, I just said I’m lonely. Oh no, never say that to a man. They run when they hear those words.
“I always keep my eyes open, just in case I find the right person somewhere in my travels…” he replies.
Oh, so he isn’t anti-relationship after all. Or maybe he isn’t looking for a relationship, but he wants a woman. At this point, I don’t have enough information to know which.
He doesn’t seem bothered by my loneliness, and that makes him more approachable. Since I opened up to him, maybe it’s allowing him to say things from his heart. And no, I don’t have any illusions that he would be interested in me. Or would he?
Picking up the book of matches, he lights the two candles. The flickering lights are pretty against the backdrop of a beautifully set table.
Our conversation moves downward to the feast. The quiche, and the vegetable pies, look and smell good. I’ve been riding all day, so I’m running on empty. I don’t mind eating in front of people, who cares if they see me chewing? I show my appreciation by nudging over the mounting block to sit on, and I ask if he’d care to have a bite. He declines, but I don’t. Slicing the quiche, I slide it onto my waiting plate. I give an appreciative groan of delight as I take my first bite, and my second.
“This is delicious!” I smooth a crumb off my lip. “You won’t have any?”
“I’m glad you like it, but I’ve eaten.” He grins.
Bite by bite, I’m finishing the quiche. It was only a small one, so it’s okay.
“It’s nice to see a beautiful woman eat.”
How should I reply to that? “Thank you, I love good food.”
Since he doesn’t seem bothered, and the food is good, I’ll try a sliver of the meat pie. Just a tiny piece, since I’m not really a meat eater. I slip this one off the serving plate and onto mine. Just one forkful tells me this was baked by someone with skill — the meat flavor is hidden with spices. I take one forkful after another until it’s gone.
We’ve been talking the entire time; about wine, tourists, California, and the job market. Pretty much everything newsworthy. His pies satisfy my actual hunger as well as my soulful hunger. I feel less alone now that he’s in the barn, he’s buoying me up.
“There is so much left. I want you to know I really appreciate your gift, but I’m slowing down,” I admit.
“You’re the best eater I’ve seen in a long time. I like watching you.”
“Okay then, I’ll have a small piece of the lime pie.” Just a small piece.
As I’m about to reach for the pie he says, “Allow me.” He selects a clean dessert plate and picks up the pie. He cuts a small wedge, then slides it onto the plate. Choosing a dessert fork, he takes a sample and slides it into his mouth… as I sit here watching. “It’s good,” he pronounces, then hands me the plate with his fork.
This is a test, I feel it. So… I use the same fork and slip it into the green pie. Looking directly into his eyes, I raise it to my waiting mouth. I take the bite, then slide the empty fork back out with a slow smile.
My heart gets a lift because, right before me, I see his face go red and his breathing increases. I don’t know what is going on beneath the table, but based on the view topside, I’d say I scored a hit.
“Did you choose the contents of the baskets or did the chef.” I give a little smile. I can’t imagine him doing the actual work.
He admits that his event coordinator chose from last night’s banquet.
The conversation moves to his winery. He proudly tells me about his plans for an expansion. He’s thinking of an exclusive B&B with a spa. He says the location is unique because it lets you get in tune with yourself and with nature. I bet he has been regaling me for an hour while I sit and listen with interest. I can imagine royalty coming to stay, I can also imagine all the lovely princesses within arms-reach.
“It’s been an unexpected pleasure meeting you tonight,” he says with a smile, then he stands, signaling the end of the evening. “I have a few calls I need to make.”
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, thanks for reconsidering my position in your office,” I add with a hint of word-play. I’m also referring to my position on my back on his desk.
He pauses and I wait expectantly — but he only says, “I had the police run the license plate on the guy. They cross-checked the registered owner’s name with his driver’s license photo. His name is Wayne Pickett and he has convictions for forgery and identity theft in Vegas.” He pauses with a sad look. “He befriends older women and gains their trust. Just keep an eye out and let the police know if you see him.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me his business card. “You can reach me on my cell, and call the police dispatch so they’ll send a unit. Sorry — of course you know how to call the police.” He remembers my former career.
“How did you get his license plate?”
“We have cameras at the gate and on the building. They caught his plate.”
“Who is Mr. James and why did he throw me out without investigating my story, or this Wayne Pickett guy?” I’m puzzled.
“He’s the tasting room manager—or, he was.” His expression turns dark.
“Why didn’t he give me a chance to explain?” I look back at him with a frown, “You know what happened, right?”
“Yeah, I do now. Veronica called me this morning. His actions were unacceptable, and I have handled it,” he states with finality.
He gives me a brief, strong hug. He’s attractive and warm, and I’m definitely interested in getting to know him… as long as I’m not going to fall for an uncatchable man.
“Do you like dessert wines?” he asks.
“Oh definitely, especially Port. Do you make them?”
“I’ll give you one of my samples, it’s in the car.” We leave the table and I follow him to the car. “I’m considering branching into that area, I was just wondering.”
He hands me a bottle with an imaginative label. With a slow smile and strong eye contact, he turns to leave, but he’s still looking at me. Then he drives off… and I’m standing here alone, as usual.
7
Monica’s
The following days are frustrating for me. First, nothing has come of the crime report. Second, I’d like to see Jack, but I don’t have an excuse to call. I go about my daily routine. I pack away the empty containers and continue snacking on the cheese and crackers. I slather the new jams on bread in the morning and for my between-meal snacks. I jot down a thank you note to show my quality upbringing, and also to provide him with a reminder of me. I’ve opened his bottle of experimental Port—it has nuance and depth of flavor, it’s also thick and sweet. As they say, it has good mouthfeel.
Today we only have riders booked for the morning. I’m leading an interesting ride with a woman who taught desert warfare in the Army. Her stories are amazing; she endured hazing that I didn’t have on the police department. One soldier even put a rattlesnake in her satchel. I disagree that boys will be boys—what they did was vicious. She says by the time she retired she had a terrific reputation, and the guys were sorry to see her go. She is an amazing woman and full of fun. I wonder if I should stay in contact with her, or just enjoy our day on the trail. We exchange email addresses just in case.
Veronica comes to meet me while I’m hosing off the horses. We haven’t spoken about Jack since I told her about the picnic he brought.
“Do you think Jack is interested in me, or what? I swear I think he’s interested,” I begin the conversation.
She gives me a motherly look. “He is a very handsome man, I can see why you’re attracted, but I’ll advise you against it. He goes to Europe all the time and he usually comes back with a gorgeous woman on his arm.” She stops for a second. “If he’s interested in you, it’s because he thinks you’re cute and you caught his eye.”
I stand in silence, digesting this. “He seemed so interested, but it’s been three days already, so you may be right. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Don’t c
hase him,” she advises. “If you want him, you must be subtle and different from the rest.”
“Fine.” I wonder how to be different.
“We need to schedule your days off.” She changes the subject.
“But I have nothing to do,” I whine.
“Of course you do! Go to town and check out some of the wine cellars. There’s also the feed store, a nice tack shop and several art galleries. You need to get out of the saddle and live a little. We have a cute little town right down the street — GO.” She makes shooing motions with her hands.
I finish with the horses, then shower up to rid myself of the horse smell I never notice on my clothes—until I’m somewhere nice. I check through my tourist brochures, looking for discounts. Being on a budget, I can’t afford to spend $15 at each tasting room. Inflation has caught up with wine tasting, it used to cost $5 and we got to keep the glass. Now they keep the glass and the cost is more than I want to spend.
My relaxed drive to town takes ten minutes because I’m looking at vineyards and neighboring estates. I could make it a lot faster if I stepped in the gas, but we all know I’m not in a rush to go anywhere. I don’t have a destination besides the town itself. I find a place to park up past the flagpole, at the north end of Grand Ave.
Strolling through this cozy town should be fun, but I feel alone. I don’t want to — I want to feel happy and free. Darn it, how am I supposed to feel happy and free? I want a partnership with a man that’s more than just physical. I have to rebuild my goals and dreams. My whole emotional being needs bolstering.
As I wistfully meander along, I keep seeing happy couples joined hand in hand. I stop to look in store windows and see pretty artwork, and people enjoying their life… or at least their day. I feel sad and lonely. I mentally give myself a little slap, I somehow have to get over it and get on with life. But how? I need to start at the beginning, wherever that is.
I’ll stop by the art gallery and see what they have. I think it’s a Co-op of several artists, with the rooms partitioned off for each one. They filled the first area with small 12 x 12-inch acrylic paintings of desserts. The tiramisu, cherry pie, and biscotti are my favorite ones. That’s a cute idea for a decorating a kitchen, but it probably would make me snack after dinner… and that wouldn’t be good for my waistline.
I spend about ten minutes looking through the gallery. Each room exhibits huge amounts of talent and beautiful work. I think I missed out that extra spoonful of artistry while I was in the womb. On my way out, I quietly mouth thank you to the lady at the front desk. Her Field of Sunflowers painting is on display, and she is explaining her vision to a potential customer.
I step back into the sunshine and look both directions. I wonder where to go next.
Passing in front of me are several women dressed in, I assume, the latest fashion. They look like a bunch of friends moving along, taking in whatever meets their eye. I stand here for a minute watching as one runs her hand through her hair, then tosses her head in a feminine way. The other tips her head back in laughter. The third is a little more reserved, but is so elegant she could be a dancer.
They make me feel rather plain. Is this why my husband left me? Should I have put on a flashy show and looked more like them, should I become more vivacious? I could play the part until it becomes second nature… it’s called ‘Fake it until you make it.’
I make a quick dash across the street to avoid being hit by traffic. I’m mulling over the idea that I should act more feminine. The elegant tasting rooms and shops make me feel a little out of place. I pause at the tack store and peer in the open door. I won’t go inside since I could be tempted to spend money, and that won’t advance my feminine look.
There’s a garden shop around the corner from the park. Its entire yard is filled with garden ornaments and treasures. This is my type of store. I see dozens of wind chimes in all sizes, including the giant six-foot pipes that softly gong in the warm breeze. This is an outdoor shopping paradise. If I had a garden, I could spend a fortune here. They have colorful sun-catchers, miniature gardens, and refreshing fountains. I pick up and put down so many things I know I’d really like. It isn’t an impulse purchase when I buy a small wind chime for my horse trailer patio. They wrap it in tissue paper, and I walk out with my purchase in a cute little bag. I have become one of the happy tourists, bringing home something that reminds me of a day in paradise.
The walk is helping. I’m soaking up Vitamin D and getting my blood moving. I also like to people watch, it gives me a distraction, unless I start to feel insecure. I know things are changing in a good way for me, but I also know it will take time to become whole again.
Sniff, sniff, I’m getting a whiff of a bakery. Sweet scents are wafting out to the sidewalk and they’re drawing me in. Hmm… I’ll stop in and see what they have. The bold letters on the sign advise me that I’m entering Monica’s.
Displays of two-bite treats, rich dark brownies with exotic spices, and mini-eclairs filled with a variety of flavored creams are lined up under the glass. Reading each little name tag makes me smile with anticipation. Clear crystal bowls are spilling over with chocolate covered morsels. Granite slabs are piled with pastries. I like all the usual chocolate covered things like cranberries, raisins, coffee beans, and almonds; but what else does she have?
“Would you like a few samples?” The lady behind the counter smiles. “I have shredded coconut mounds infused in lime liqueur, then rolled in dark chocolate.” She places a small slice on a monogrammed cutting board and passes it across the counter.
“Thanks, I’d love one!” I remove it from the board and pop it into my mouth. “Mmm, the lime liqueur is wonderful.” It’s refreshing, yet sweet/tart. “Wow, it has a unique flavor!”
“How about chocolate-covered candied-tangerine-peel? I soak the rind in liqueur.” She places a sliver on the board.
“Oh yes, please.” I take a nibble and I roll my eyes in delight, “How about a handful of those, to go.”
“And this is chocolate-covered candied-lemon-peel.”
“Well that’s an easy decision, I like all marmalades, so I’d better try one of these too.” Sampling is becoming purchasing; they taste fabulous, unique. I wonder what flavors she added, do I dare ask?
“This is the key to my heart.” I laugh as she sets out more treats on the little board. “That one was good, oh, this one is amazing as well.” I take another nibble, “What are these you just gave me?” I hold up the little tidbit.
She smiles a knowing smile. “Raisins soaked in a spice-infused liqueur. It has good mouthfeel with the flavor of the liqueur. The secret is in the length of the soak and,” she laughs, “a few other secrets as well. Try this one.” She places another on the board and passes it to me. I nibble the end, to savor it.
I let my eyes slowly roam the eclectic room with old style whitewashed wood cabinets. I’d love to explore the bin drawers and see what secrets they contain. The white wood shelves are stocked with unusual jars of jams, preserves, and honey. In the middle of the store is a Carrara marble table stacked with pretty dishes and table decorations, little marble mortar and pestle sets, and travertine coasters. Everything I don’t need, but somehow feel I do.
A stand of brochures next to the cash register catches my eye. ‘Creative You: Classes designed to give meaning to your life.’ I unfold the glossy paper, scanning the list of creative classes. The photos of art, wine, and happy women grace the pages and make me wonder if I should enroll.
She sees me looking at the brochure,.“If you’re interested, speak with Liliana, she’s an amazing woman.”
“My life could do with a shot of B-12 right about now, I’ve just come out of a divorce. Well, come to think of it, it was a while ago, it just feels recent,” I murmur.
“I was also stuck in a rut,” she explains, “Liliana showed me how to grow into the woman I wanted to be. She does life coaching and it really works.”
“Your shop so inviting, I came in here feeling
a little sad, but seeing what you’ve done is inspiring. Your chocolates are magic.” I look around, taking it all in. “Oh, I should introduce myself, I’m Jessica.”
“Hi Jessica, I’m Monica.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Are you here for the day?”
“I work with Veronica Martin leading her wine tasting trail-rides, and I’m staying at her place.” I omit the part about sleeping in my horse trailer.
“That sounds fun, do you meet interesting people?”
“I sure do, our riders are mostly women, some with great jobs, and others looking for a new one. It’s fun to hear their stories. When there are only a few riders it’s more personal, it makes me feel like a hairdresser, hearing all the gossip and offering my opinion. The bigger groups get so involved and rambunctious with their personal stories. If a girl has a problem, I get to hear ideas and feedback from all her friends,” I laugh.
“I like to hear people’s stories too,” she chuckles.
“It’s like reading their diary, they let it all out, and I just ride along — listening.”
“Are you staying permanently, what are your plans?”
“I love Los Olivos and this whole area, I’d like to stay and change my life. That sounds like a big demand. I’m not sure what I want to do, or how to go about doing it… it’s so frustrating,” I admit.
In a soft, inviting tone she asks, “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you sad?”