Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

“Spit it out.”

  “I can tell you’re aching to antagonize Willem, but please don’t. Believe it or not, he’s making a huge concession allowing you to be here now.”

  “Allowing me here? This is where I live,” I fumed. “He’s a bigot.”

  “I’m not making any apologies for him, but the family in the old country has a long memory for the atrocities we suffered. If he sees you as a security risk, my job will get more complicated.” He sighed. “Believe me, it’s already complicated enough.”

  Gabriel was being serious, so I said, “Okay, I won’t cause you any grief. I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

  “I know, but it seems to find you anyway.”

  “Not always. Only with SLIME. Have you heard anything about him lately?”

  “Still slimy,” he said. “CACA has completely disbanded, and Sebastian seems to have settled into his exile for now.”

  “I never would have believed that he would accept living in Nebraska.”

  “You’d change your mind if you saw Omaha’s downtown,” Gabriel said. “Sebastian bought a historic warehouse and completely renovated it. It’s an amazing space, with views to die for.”

  “You got all this from your research team?”

  “That was from a spread in Architectural Digest, but we keep an eye on his movements. I think he’s happy there for now.”

  We stood by the creek and watched the water sparkling in the clear morning sun.

  Business concluded, my redheaded pal was happy to gossip. “I hear Ian is coming.” Gabriel grinned. “What a man.”

  Laughing, I said, “Does he know about your crush?”

  “I don’t think so, but what I don’t know about Ian Ducharme could fill a book.”

  “The Dark Lord!” I said ominously, repeating the name Gabriel had once called him.

  Gabriel’s smile froze. “Please forget I ever said that—it was just a stupid joke.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I know it was a joke. Anyway, I thought you were dating someone.”

  Gabriel looked away. “Not anymore. He kept wondering when he was going to meet my family and wanting to know details about my business. I’d take off on so many mysterious trips, he started to think I was cheating.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not like I didn’t know it would happen eventually. It always does.”

  I offered a sexual favor, “but only to help you relax,” and he laughed easily, so I assumed he wasn’t too crushed by the breakup.

  I ran into town to pick up and drop off mail, and when I came back Oswald had washed up and changed into a sea foam-green button-down shirt and olive-green slacks. His parents were waiting for us by his car. Mrs. Grant got in the passenger seat, and Mr. Grant and I sat in back. I hadn’t been able to get a sense of him yet. As we drove past a field of yellow flowers, I said, “That’s wild mustard, generally considered a noxious weed, but I have a hard time hating it.”

  “Oswald says you like plants,” he replied, as if liking plants was indicative of serious brain injury.

  “Yes, I garden for pleasure and profit,” I said idiotically. “How nice for you to be retired. You have so much time to travel and, um, pursue hobbies. Do you have any hobbies?”

  He turned his head and gave me a long look that reminded me of his mother just before she delivered an insult. “I travel and golf.”

  My own father loved golf—not the game, but the courses, those vast expanses of emerald lawn rigorously maintained by excessive labor, water, and chemicals. I could have expressed my own opinion of golf courses in a drought climate, but I thought it wiser to keep quiet.

  In the front seat, Mrs. Grant chattered happily with Oswald. Her side of the conversation consisted primarily of “How interesting!” and “You’re so smart!” She was as cheerful as someone getting paid by the smile.

  Oswald drove along the gently winding roads through nearby vineyards and orchards. We stopped and took a walk through a wood of oaks. Oswald walked ahead with a stick, checking out the ground.

  “Ozzie, what are you doing?” his mother asked.

  “Looking out for rattlers,” Oswald said. “We had one at the barn already this year.”

  “Don’t bother, son,” said Mr. Grant. “Your mother hates reptiles, but a snakebite isn’t going to kill her.”

  “Milagro’s not immune, Dad,” Oswald said. “So far as we know.”

  “You could let a rattlesnake bite her and find out,” Mrs. Grant said with a fake-innocent laugh.

  I wanted to reply with a scornful “Ha, ha, and ha,” but Oswald had already joined in his mother’s little joke. Was I overreacting, or did Conrad and Evelyn simply lack the social skills of my friends at the ranch?

  The path narrowed and somehow I got left behind, trailing Oswald and his parents. The day was warming and the air carried the scent of leaves crushed underfoot, earth, and stream. We rested against a boulder shaded by a tall pine. Mr. Grant pulled a silver flask out of his jacket. He took a sip and said, “Evelyn?”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the flask. She reached past me to hand it to Oswald.

  He saw my expression and said, “It’s calf’s blood, Milagro.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said his mother. “I didn’t know if you drank.”

  “Not blood,” I answered, trying to sound pleasant. “I did once, but I don’t have the urge anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said.

  When we finished our walk, Oswald drove us to one of the bigger wineries, a favorite for tourists. “It has a funicular,” I said with some excitement. I could say the word “funicular” all day long. I loved the view from up high and the swaying of the compartment as it traveled along the cable.

  “We’re not taking the tram,” Oswald said as he drove by the parking lot for the ride.

  “I don’t do heights,” Mrs. Grant said.

  Well, what was the fun of a mountaintop winery without taking a funicular? As we drove along a road lined with olive trees, I stared longingly out the window at the funicular suspended above us. We went past a pond with a fountain and to the paved lot beside the stark white modern structure with narrow windows.

  The temperature in the winery was chilly, and we joined a group that was just beginning the guided tour. I’d taken the tour before. This winery was impressive, all stainless steel drums, metal walkways, and scientific technique; but I preferred the funky little tasting rooms that operated out of converted barns and garages, where the vintner himself would open a bottle for you.

  The Grants were at the front of the group, listening intently to a lecture that made winemaking sound about as much fun as a pop quiz in thermodynamics. Actually, the tour guide used the word “thermodynamics” twice. “The condensed tannins used in winemaking are polymers of procyandin monomers,” said the guide, which made me lag behind the group, fearful of what other atrocities she would inflict upon my ears.

  So when the brawny, ruddy blond guy strutted up to me with a big toothy smile, I smiled back. “Hello, love. Where can a bloke get some grog?”

  “Does laying on the Aussie accent work for picking up chicks?”

  “You tell me, gorgeous,” he said, with an exaggerated leer that made me laugh. A few of his friends materialized, and I got the distinct impression that this was not the first of their winery visits. Wearing T-shirts and shorts, they were in their late twenties, tall, muscled, and tanned, with rough good looks.

  “The tasting room is downstairs. There are signs.”

  Another man shook his head dramatically. “He can’t read, sweetheart. Can you show us?” The men circled me and gave pleading looks.

  I could either catch up with the tour or help these hunky men. The tour group had turned a corner, and Oswald hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t with them. “Sure,” I said. “Follow me.”

  As I led them downstairs, they jostled and slugged each other amiably.

  “What’s your name?” asked the blonde.
“I’m Lemon.”

  “Lemon?”

  His grin widened. “Gimme a squeeze.”

  “He’s really Lennon, not Lemon,” said a man with bright blue eyes and shaggy brown hair. “I’m Bryce.”

  “I’m Milagro. You can call me Mil.”

  Bryce tried to take my hand, but I slapped him away. “Behave yourself,” I said, which threw them into gales of laughter as they mimicked me and slapped at their buddy.

  “Where do you live, Mil?” asked Lemon. “Got room for guests?”

  “I’m here with my boyfriend. We live on the other side of the mountain.”

  “I don’t see a boyfriend,” Lemon said. “Anyone see any boyfriends?”

  There was a chorus of no’s.

  “Here’s the tasting room,” I said. “Have fun.”

  Beyond the wide doorway was a gift shop and beyond that was a light-filled room with a long bar at the end. I was disheartened at the idea of rejoining the tour, but Bryce said, “How can we have any laughs without you? Share a round with us.”

  “Well…” I supposed that it would have been rude to say no to these visitors. I didn’t want them returning home saying that we Californians were unfriendly, which would have a domino effect and eventually devastate the entire tourist economy in our state. “I guess I have time for a glass.”

  The guys bellied up to the bar, where a pair of slim, neat bartenders were pouring small amounts of red wine in glasses and attempting to describe the vintage and the characteristics of the ruby liquid. It was impossible to hear them because Lemon said something about the small portions and the bartender’s anatomy.

  “You stingy bastard!” Bryce bellowed. “Give the lady a proper drink!”

  I guess by “lady” he meant me, because all the other customers had edged away from our group. After dealing with Willem on my own the night before, I was happy to have a lowland sun idolater advocating on my behalf. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m fine.”

  Lemon threw crumpled bills on the counter and his pals followed suit. “Start pouring, mates,” he said with a wink to the bartenders.

  The bartenders filled our glasses to the top with red wine, and the Aussies insisted on toasting to me, Aussie-American relations, Disneyland, nude beaches, beer, and the La Brea Tar Pits. They had a strapping Down Under charisma that increased considerably after my second glass of wine.

  In the back of my mind, I was aware that I’d been away from the Grants for too long, but I felt no eagerness to return and struggle to make conversation with Oswald’s taciturn parents.

  “Any more at home like you?” Lemon asked, leaning against me. “Or any sexy girlfriends? We’ll take you out tonight, you name the place. I think I’m falling in lust, I mean, love with you.” His eyes strayed down the front of my blouse.

  I shoved him away and laughed. “You’ll have to entertain yourselves.” They were doing a pretty good job of this now, since one of the guys had grabbed some open bottles of wine, which they started tossing to one another. A bottle of zinfandel (intense flavors of blackberry, cedar, and spice, according to the bartender) slipped and exploded on the floor.

  It was at this point that I noticed Oswald and his parents in the doorway. Two men in dark suits nudged the Grant family aside as they approached my new amigos.

  I quickly moved to a brochure display and pretended to read a pamphlet on viniculture. As the Aussies were escorted off the premises shouting their good-byes, I joined Oswald. “Sorry about that,” I whispered to him. “They thought it was funny to take the mickey out of the bartenders.”

  “The what?” Oswald asked.

  “I’m not really sure. I think it has something to do with their visit to Disneyland.”

  “Your blouse,” Mrs. Grant said.

  Looking down, I saw that red wine had splattered all over the front of my blouse, and the damp fabric was clinging to my exuberant girly parts. I looked like an extra for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. For the first time, interest flashed in Mr. Grant’s eyes.

  Oswald had to buy a case of merlot in order to persuade the men in suits to let me stay. When we sat at the outdoor café, I tried to get one of the seats facing away from the rest of the tables, but Oswald’s parents took them because they wanted to admire the view off the deck.

  I was shamefully aware of other diners staring at me. I wanted to tell them, “Oh, you think I’m bad—this nice-looking older guy swills blood from a silver hip flask.”

  Mrs. Grant looked at me over the top of her menu and said, “I hope we’re not taking away from your large friends.”

  She didn’t say “you tacky ho,” but she didn’t need to.

  “Not at all. I was merely showing them a little hospitality,” I said, keeping my voice even. “It’s so seldom that people treat each other with real courtesy.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” she said with a tight smile.

  I glanced at Oswald, but he and his father were studying the menu as intently as if they were the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  “Perhaps things got out of hand,” I said. “Different cultures have different standards of behavior. Here, we’re very tolerant of others, even when their ways seem, oh, strange and frightening.”

  Oswald looked up then and said quickly, “Let’s start with the antipasto platter. It’s very good.” He gave me an irritated look, and I knew I’d gone too far.

  I swallowed my pride, which made me too full to enjoy the meal. I pushed my food around the plate and listened to Oswald talk about his practice, his investments, and a paper he’d published in a professional slicing-and-dicing journal.

  Mrs. Grant angled her body toward Oswald, and all her conversation flowed in that direction. I had a strong suspicion that she wouldn’t be referring to me as “my son’s lovely girlfriend” anytime soon. Mr. Grant stared out at the view and made occasional comments to his son about all of his wise decisions. No one talked to me.

  The ride back was tense, at least for me. I sat silently in the backseat with Conrad Grant, while Evelyn Grant listened in fascination as Oswald described maintenance procedures at the ranch, such as the digging of a new well. I resisted the urge to kick the back of Oswald’s seat all the way home.

  When we finally got back to the ranch, I quickly left Oswald and his parents outside. I found Edna in the small parlor reading an Italian cookbook. “Studying up on the foods of the lower lands?” I asked, and plopped down beside her on the velvet loveseat.

  “No one dictates my menu,” answered Edna. She noticed my blouse and pointedly did not ask about the stains. “How did you get along with my daughter-in-law?”

  “She hates me with a deep and burning passion.”

  “I mean, besides that.” Edna gave me a quick smile.

  Edna looked and acted nothing like my abuelita, the grandmother who had rescued me from my mother’s clutches for a few brief happy years. But when Edna talked to me like this, I felt the same warmth and affection.

  I leaned gently against the older woman. “Oh, other than that, fine, except that your grandson did not stand up for me against his mother’s hostility.”

  “Oswald knows better than to get involved in a fight between two women. Don’t put him in a position where he has to choose.”

  “I did not…,” I began defensively. “Well, maybe I did. She seems to have an innate dislike for me.”

  “When we met, you didn’t care if I liked you.”

  This was true. She had been icier than a blender of margaritas. “You know, I don’t mind outright antagonism. I have a problem with veiled hostility, though, and being ignored.” My mother Regina had ignored me for most of my life. It was as if she thought that not recognizing my existence would negate it. “But how can I win Evelyn over?”

  “I think I’m the wrong person to ask that question.”

  “She doesn’t like you, or you don’t like her?”

  “We like each other just fine, Young Lady, especially when there are large bodies of water between us,” s
he said. “You should know better than anyone that you cannot choose your relatives.”

  I sighed. “If I could, I would have chosen Evelyn over my mother Regina. Evelyn adores Oswald. I think it’s mutual.”

  “And that’s as it should be. She has been a good mother to him and a good wife to Conrad, and I am grateful for that.”

  “Too bad she’s not any fun.”

  Edna narrowed her great green eyes. “Were you having fun when you ruined your blouse?”

  I grinned. “As a matter of fact, I was. Do you want to know how?”

  “No, thank you. I will hear Evelyn’s version of the story soon enough.”

  I cringed thinking of the unpleasant slant that Evelyn could put on a completely innocent situation. “I could have behaved with more decorum, I suppose.”

  Edna patted my knee. “Don’t hope for the impossible.”

  “Very funny, Edna. What’s on the menu for tonight’s it’snot-a-party?”

  After I changed my blouse, I had to hard-boil dozens of tiny brown speckled quail eggs. The menu included vamp favorite red foods: French toast with mascarpone and berries, beet salad with oranges, very rare leg of lamb, and raspberry sorbet. Bloody Marys and the merlot that Oswald purchased today would be served.

  “Eggs, Bloody Marys, French toast,” I said. “It’s a midnight brunch.”

  “Yes, you could call it that. Young Lady, do keep Daisy out from under my feet.”

  I had put aside the end of a baguette for Daisy and now I shooed her outside and tossed the treat.

  When I was done helping Edna, I went to the Love Shack. I fully expected Oswald to scold me for baiting his mother and carousing with rambunctious foreigners. All my self-righteousness had dissipated with the residual effects of the wine. When Oswald acted as if nothing had happened, I was so relieved that I treated him to an exhilarating tumble.

  I was feeling a warm zuzziness toward him, and I said, “Oswald, I’m sorry about that incident at the winery. I got caught up in the silliness, and…”

  “It’s all right. It must be boring for you here all the time. I know it’s quiet and isolated compared to your old life.”

  My old life consisted of borderline poverty, rats in my apartment, not enough time to write, and a yearning for a fabulous relationship and a home with people who loved me and whom I loved. “No, I love being here.” I did love living at the ranch, but perhaps I also missed a few of the City’s charms.