Had he always wanted to save people?
“Ohh,” Rose cried.
“You all right?”
“Yes, yes, go…don’t stop.” He’d thrust into her hard, skipping their usual foreplay, bunching her nightgown up around her neck, and with his fingers splayed across her chest, pinning her down. Her cries echoed through the empty house. So rarely did they have it all to themselves. He heard his own moans, too, reverberating in his throat, his breath coming faster, his desire swift, heedless and unstoppable, and then Rose slapped him across the face, the resounding bite of her hand stinging his flesh, and he came instantly.
He rolled off her. They lay there next to each other, spent and looking up at the ceiling. He was reluctant to speak, and Rose’s breathing filled the silence. Finally, he asked, “Why’d you do that?”
“You…”
“What?”
“You said his name.”
She had never slapped him during sex or any other time. It was so unlike her. So unrestrained. He’d burst forth at the touch, but now he couldn’t tell if the slap had been simultaneous or if his coming had preceded it. “I think you imagined that,” Noah said. “Just because we’d been talking about him.”
“I didn’t. You called his name. It bothered me.”
“I wasn’t thinking about him.” Or was he? Was he thinking that he hadn’t told Rose about Miles’ bragging about his new penis or about the sudden kiss on Noah’s cheek that took him completely by surprise as they were saying goodbye and how he couldn’t get over how soft it was, Mimi’s kiss, as if Miles purposely had turned himself into her for a moment just to confuse him.
Noah propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Rose, her flushed face and chest, her still-erect nipples, her eyes a green bemused cloud. “Well, whether I did or not, I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Did I hurt you?”
“No. I was just…surprised.”
She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to his cheek. “I wanted your attention. On me.”
The phone rang. He got up to answer it because it might be Leah. One day, when she was older, he wouldn’t feel the need to jump for the phone every time, but now he imagined terrible scenarios in the span of milliseconds. It was a hang up, a Denver number on the caller ID, and he wondered for a moment if it might be Miles.
When he came back to bed, Rose was lying on her back with her knees pressed against her chest. The doctor had told them this position didn’t help. If she was going to get pregnant, if they were going to have another child after trying all these years, the little fellas would swim up in her regardless and do their job, the doctor said. But Rose did it out of habit or superstition and Noah accepted the practice without comment. “Wouldn’t it be ironic,” Rose said now, speaking into her knees, “if after seeing Miles, it finally did happen?”
Noah lay down beside her and placed his hand on her flat belly after she unfurled herself. He felt the warmth there, felt something stirring, felt, he was sure, a magnificent and mysterious transformation taking place. And he felt, too, Miles’ faint lips against his cheek, the same cheek that Rose had slapped, as if to startle a new life into being, neither him nor her but faceless creation.
Goodness
They’d arranged for a private wine tasting. It was their thirtieth anniversary and somehow—somehow!—they’d never been to Sonoma. You must go! friends told them. It’s beautiful there! Wine country! You won’t regret it!
Neither of them were big drinkers. (That doesn’t matter, everyone insisted. It’s wine.) In fact, they knew little about wine and didn’t care to know a great deal more. Larry, their corner liquor store clerk, had always advised them on the “fruit-forward” wines they preferred. He’d talked them out of the Merlots (Hadn’t they seen Sideways?) and dismissed outright any Rieslings as kids’ soda pop, and forget about the so-called table wines, even though Alan had always liked Chianti with Italian food.
Larry, who visited Sonoma every year, had persuaded them to sign up for a private wine tour. It did cost, but then again, how many times did your thirtieth anniversary roll around?
The pressure fell somewhere between guilt-tripping them and a motivational session. In the end, they agreed to the private tour, as well as the upscale inn with its ten luxury suites. They chose the Zen suite that included its own meditation garden with river stones smoothed by the ages, a burbling fountain, Asian vases, and a two-person shower bigger than their bedroom at home. Now that he was retired, Alan worried they couldn’t afford the trip, let alone the four-hundred-dollar, all-day private tour. But Larry swore by this company. “Do you want to be stuffed on a bus with a gaggle of tourists, fed a bland box lunch and herded into one of the big commercial places like a trip to Costco? Or do you want to be chauffeured around in a Tesla and given the royal treatment?”
Alan wasn’t sure he cared. It was only wine, after all, a sentiment he knew was blasphemous and worthy of a beheading in Larry’ eyes.
“How many times will you have this opportunity? This should have been knocked off your bucket list a long time ago.” Larry blanched. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Alan said. “You’re probably right.”
A year ago on a trip to Costa Rica, Alan had suffered a massive heart attack, requiring evacuation by helicopter. He hadn’t traveled anywhere since. His doctor assured him he was good to go: “It’s understandable you’re concerned, but you’re perfectly fit to travel. And it’s California, not international, so that should ease some of your worries. Consider it a trial run. Trust me, it will do you good.”
The Costa Rica trip had been their first big vacation since Alan retired from the Denver Building Department. Donna had left her high school teaching job two years earlier and been eager for him to do the same so they could travel. And when they did, on the Tarcoles River Crocodile Tour, enjoying the rewards of all those years of working and limited vacation time, he got struck down as if someone had thrown a spear from the jungle banks. He didn’t know how to reconcile what had been promised—the joys of his golden years—with what actually occurred—near annihilation on a crocodile-filled river. He became so depressed that Donna made him see a therapist. He was on medication now, and he still went weekly to see the therapist. By all outward signs he was doing better. And yet he woke up every morning not meditating on a Sanskrit word or the sensation of his breath, as recommended in his survivors support group, but visualizing and urging the traffic of his blood through his heart’s bypass.
“You’ll enjoy yourself once you get there,” Donna assured him, as if he were a child afraid of going to sleepaway camp. Come to think of it, he’d never adjusted to sleepaway camp either. While the other kids flourished and forgot they even had parents, he wrote plaintive letters throughout the session asking to come home.
He knew other men who’d had their brushes with death, some of them heart attack survivors like him, but they—often literally—thumped their chests with pride. Never felt better. Makes me appreciate every single day as if it were my last. The swagger in their voices! A triumph of nerve over the inexorable forces of fate. Meanwhile, Alan could barely contain his jackrabbit fright when anyone asked him how he felt since “the event.”
“Don’t compare yourself to anyone else,” Donna encouraged him. “You’re making progress.”
And wasn’t wine good for the heart?
•
They’d flown the two hours or so from Denver to San Francisco, rented a car, and arrived in Sonoma just in time for the inn’s late-afternoon wine tasting.
One couple from Oakland had come over just for the weekend. The man, tan, wearing a golf shirt, worked in finance. “We make a run out here every couple months and bring home four or five cases—particularly a Syrah we can’t get anywhere else.” Alan already felt uncomfortable. They lived in a nondescript suburb of Denver and had little experience with cocktail chatter, let alone how to banter with wine enthusiasts. “I actually like nutty,” the man
said. “Not oxidized, of course.” He winked at Alan.
“Of course,” Alan agreed.
“When there’s just a bit of an oaky flavor it can be a positive. You don’t want it to cross the line, however. Which wineries are you visiting?”
“We have a private tour tomorrow,” Alan said, puffing up a bit.
“Nice.”
“I think it will be.”
“Your first time?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Just a guess. Enjoy yourself.”
“We will.”
He walked across the room to Donna, sitting on a loveseat in a quiet corner. “Try this,” she said, handing him a glass of red wine. “I believe its nose has that nouveau flavor and velvety essence of a Beaujolais, though you might actually find it more herbaceous.” She broke into laughter.
“Shh,” said Alan. “They’ll think we’re making fun of them.”
“Aren’t we?” She was already tipsy. “I’m going to scarf down some of that cheese.”
“Scarf?”
“That’s the right term for these gatherings, isn’t it? Also, ‘guzzle,’ I think I heard someone just say, I’m going to guzzle this Bordeaux until I vomit!”
“I’m sure you did not.”
She gave his belt a tug. “There’s only one thing to do after all this imbibing.”
“What’s that?” Alan asked.
“It involves our extravagantly overpriced suite with its enormous bed and the one-million-thread-count sheets. I’ll let you think about it on the way there.” She took his hand and led him away, but not before she conspicuously knocked back a glass of Pinot Grigio to the disapproval, Alan sensed, of the other sipping guests.
The regular driver, Skip, the man Larry knew personally, called early the next morning. He had a family emergency and couldn’t make it. He was sending his colleague, Dean, to be their wine concierge for the day. Just as knowledgeable, Dean would also chauffeur them to the private tastings in his Tesla. “I’m terribly sorry,” Skip said. “My mother isn’t well.”
Donna took the call. Alan could hear her making a lot of sympathetic noises. They’d both gotten up early, showered, and dressed casually for the occasion, Donna in denim leggings and a light blue pullover—it was colder than they’d expected—and Alan in khakis and a windbreaker. They’d stuffed themselves on the lavish breakfast fare of strawberry French toast, green chile quiche, smoked salmon, poached eggs, and orange mimosas. Alan wasn’t overweight, but the gorging nevertheless caused him a moment of angst about endangering his heart.
“Will it be the same tour?” Donna asked on the phone. Alan heard a string of uh-huhs and then Donna saying, “Okay, I hope your mother feels better,” and then some more uh-huhs and finally Donna’s goodbye.
“What did he say?”
“He says it will be all the same. He’ll personally check in with our new guide.”
When Dean showed up, about thirty-five years old, Alan guessed, he quickly reassured them everything would go as planned. “The only difference,” he said, pointing to where he was parked, “is that I drive a black Tesla and Skip’s is white.”
“I’ve never been in a Tesla,” Alan said.
“Well, you’re in for a surprise.”
And off they went. Except not. For some reason Dean couldn’t find their first stop. After repeatedly entering the location into the navigational system of the Tesla—the screen was like an IMAX compared to the one on their Hyundai—they kept getting lost in the wooded hills.
Donna, always obliging, said, “It’s very pretty countryside.”
Dean pulled off the side of the road and called Skip. A number of complicated directions ensued: north, south, a mention of a dirt road, a blue sign for Mantoni Brothers, and then Dean saying, “I think I got it.”
But he didn’t. “I am so sorry,” he said. They were up in an exclusive area with long driveways back to homes hidden in the woods.
“Let’s do that then,” Dean said, on the phone for a third time with Skip. Alan wondered how Skip’s mother was doing and why Skip had so much time to confer with Dean about being lost at their expense. “We’re going to a much better place,” Dean assured them after hanging up. “And Skip is going to cover it. You’ll love this vineyard. Do you know the director Richard Reimann?”
“I don’t think so,” Alan said.
“Ever heard of Hellride?”
“I missed that one.”
“How about Doom Tower?”
“Nope.”
“You must know Final Days and Final Days Retour?”
Donna piped up, excited. “ ‘Retour’ as in French for ‘return’?”
“No, re-tour, like in re-up for another tour of duty.”
She sighed. “I guess not.”
“Are these popular movies?” Alan asked. He meant escapist films.
“They’ve made millions,” Dean said. “Richard lives here in Sonoma when he’s not in LA. There’s a chance he’ll be at home. His assistant is going to meet us up there and bring Richard’s labels. You won’t believe the quality of these blends. I have to tell you, it’s a blessing in disguise we never found Mantoni Brothers. Nobody gets to go to Richard’s house. There’s private and there’s private. This is going to be sweet. And Skip is taking care of it all. Is the music okay?” Dean asked. “Because I’ve got jazz, classical, rock, alternative rock, blues, country—”
“No country,” Donna said. “Maybe some classical. I may be getting a bit of a headache from driving.”
“Totally understand. We’ll be there soon.” He floored the Tesla on an open stretch of road to demonstrate how it zoomed from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds—nicknamed “the insane mode.” Alan was thrust back against the Tesla’s leather seat as if on a space shuttle.
The rutted, narrow road to the house wound up through verdant vineyards, immaculately tended. At the very top stood the director’s house, teetering on the edge of the hillside as if in some beanstalk part of the sky and breathlessly open to the valley below. The entire front of the home was glass, with a balcony stretching its length, the sun glinting off its steel railing.
The movie director’s tall assistant, Lila, met them inside. Her long brown hair fell over the front of her blouse when she bent down to grab a box. Straightening up, she tossed her hair back with a flourish and extended her thin hand. “So glad you’re here,” she said.
They sat around a table. Alan couldn’t stop staring at the view outside the house’s front wall of glass, the sublime airiness of the director’s retreat. Lila unpacked wine glasses from a box, along with three bottles of red wine. A cooler held the whites. They came from the director’s store in town that sold his private label. “Usually,” Dean informed them, nudging them again at how special this was, “you have to sample the wines at the store. No one actually gets to enjoy the vintages in the splendor of Richard’s home, right, Lila?”
Lila stretched her long neck and nodded.
On the adjacent wall to the kitchen, in Alan’s direct line of sight, were posters of the movies that Richard Reimann had directed: buildings in flames charring their inhabitants; women and children running from slimy aliens; commandos attacking a Middle-Eastern-looking compound; a frothing dinosaur with a victim’s legs wiggling from its jaws.
“That’s right,” Lila was saying to Donna, after pouring them each a taste of wine, “swirl it around, let it settle a bit, stick your nose in and smell those berry flavors with that touch of Asian spice. There’s no better place to grow grapes for this Pinot Noir than right here in this ancient volcanic soil.”
Alan took a sip. He didn’t know the protocol. Was he supposed to spit it out into the dump bucket? But why waste good wine if it was so outstanding?
“Well, well, well,” said Lila. “Look who’s here.”
A short, muscular man in jeans and a sweaty gray T-shirt and at least a day’s growth walked in with a tennis racket in hand.
He nodded at Alan and Donna.
“Hi there,” Alan said. “Great house.”
“I like it,” he said. “And then I don’t. And then I do again.”
“I get what you mean,” Donna said, who sounded convincingly like she did.
Alan raised his glass. “Thank you for letting us come into your home.”
“The pleasure is all—” He turned away abruptly and went into the bedroom off the kitchen. When the door opened, Alan glimpsed a massive bed with a steel frame and headboard.
Alan suddenly felt uncomfortable, like a lookie loo who’d come to gawk at the famous director’s house. Meanwhile, Lila had poured another red wine, this one a “Cab,” with “a hint of ginger and green peppercorn.” He also noticed for the first time in the table’s center a sheet of quality paper stock with elegantly printed lettering listing the outrageous prices—some into the hundreds—of the wines they were sampling and no doubt were expected to purchase. He tried to catch Donna’s eye, but she was savoring the cab’s taste and making increasingly stronger mmmmm sounds.
Dean, who had been in a corner talking on his cell phone, came over and sat down with them at the table. He spoke in a low confidential voice. “The wine? A sideline for Richard but like everything he touches, a huge success. His is a multifarious mind of broad ambition,” he intoned. Alan bent over to hear him better. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be and he sometimes had to fake it. “Also noteworthy,” Dean continued, “the man enjoyed a wild youth. Kidnapped while running guns and hashish in Afghanistan. A stint as a professional boxer—welterweight, twenty knockouts. Cliff diver in Hawaii. Saxophone player in a jazz band. Most impressive of all?—you seem like educated folks so you’ll appreciate this—a PhD in literature from the University of Mississippi. Dissertation on William Faulkner. Did all this before turning to screenwriting and directing and making his millions.” Dean looked over at Lila who was waiting to pour them another wine. “Am I telling tales out of school here, Lila, or just the god-honest impressive truth?”
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