One of them said the F-word out loud several times. His friend was equally aggravated.
“The cops must have the stuff then,” cried Dude One. “Otherwise why are all the doors gone?”
“Fuck!” yelled Dude Two.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Fuck, this is all your fault!” Dude Two continued.
“My fault? Blame him; it’s his fault. He gave us the wrong shipping number.”
“Yeah, he forgot to mention that cargo boxes all look the same. Fuck, now what do we do?”
“I don’t know, you got us into this.” Claimed Dude One.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
We didn’t stay for the rest of the scintillating conversation because we didn’t need to. I had their address and Ben had a GPS in his truck. We pulled quietly away during the debate, leaving them reduced to chanting, “did not,” “did too,” back and forth like a mantra.
“I think the house is safe now.” Ben commented.
“I probably should just go home.” I said. I saved the address in my contacts list.
“Can I take you home?” he offered.
“Oh, thanks, no, I need my car.”
He pulled back into the driveway and I slid out. “Thanks for your help.” I circled around to the driver’s side of the truck.
He leaned his arm on the open window and peered at me in the dim light. I could still feel the imprint of his hard body on mine – muscle memory.
“You’re welcome.”
I paused, how much did I have to lose? Nothing, except the bathroom still needed a coat of paint. But I could do that myself, if I had to. But before I could launch into something clever, he beat me to it.
“You know, my parents have never let me forget I like to work for a living. My father makes comments all the time about my rough callouses and wasted potential.”
My chest felt a little less tense. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Anytime.”
He even waited while I walked to the side door of the garage (it’s always open because my parents don’t think anyone would steal something from the garage) and opened the main door. He didn’t leave until I pulled out, closed the garage door, and climbed back into my car. He followed me out of the country club and onto the freeway. I gunned it and sped home.
There are some mornings when I work and some mornings when I actually stop by the office. I needed some door hangers for the open house at the newly painted Navaho white Norton place and to print up some contracts on Inez’s dime.
“Did you hear about Rosemary?” Patricia looked positively, well, positive. I haven’t seen her this happy since the last Twilight movie released. Patricia loves anything dark, murderous or undead. Cheerful is not her usual state, so I was suspicious.
“No,” I glanced through the flyers that seem to breed in my in box, anything interesting for my clients the Smiths? No, they are looking for a “bargain”, and have been looking (or I should say, I have been looking) for six months. This is Sonoma County, California, not Kansas, there are no housing bargains. The best the Smiths can hope for is to find something with a price that doesn’t send them immediately into cardiac arrest.
“She erased her hard drive.” Patricia announced happily.
“Erased?” I was still glancing through the flyers. Many price reductions.
“The whole thing, wiped out.”
“How on earth did she do that?”
“Magnets.”
I smothered a smiled just in time because Rosemary herself, draped in a green sari scarf (she is a bit too robust to wear the full sari, the scarf wouldn’t cover enough, so it has to be accompanied by additional articles of clothing. Like I should talk) waltzed by the front desk. She seemed to be taking her hard drive cleansing in stride.
“Did you call that nice man who retrieves information on hard drives?” She asked Patricia, who nodded in response.
“Oh Allison, but of course you should try these.” Rosemary pointed to the heavy bracelets still clutching her wrists. “I feel so much more energy, so much more alive!”
“That’s because you drained all the energy from your computer.” I said.
“Oh, kind of like the Fantastic Four.” Patricia piped up.
“No, no, it was an accident.” Rosemary insisted.
“There are no accidents, we all make up our own reality and in fact you all don’t really exist at all, you are just a product of my mind.” Katherine emerged from the copy room and regarded her competition.
“Who is she listening to now?” I whispered.
“Someone name Patent” Patricia explained.
Katherine and Rosemary each have a shelf of golden trophies in their office. They compete for top position in the company every year. I pick up accolades and trophies as well, but I’m always a few dollars short of their stellar activities, so I’m allowed to be friendly with both of them. In fact, I’ve learned a great deal from each (in terms of sales) and they treat me as a baby sister. Which is good, as long as they don’t stuff me into a dryer.
Robust Katherine and expansive Rosemary faced off in front of the reception desk like Xena Princess Warrior versus Sheena Queen of the Jungle.
“So,” Katherine tossed the first volley. “How is 239 Grant Ave. coming?”
“Well, I have an open house on Sunday.” Rosemary said, pretending it was a good idea.
“Another one?” Katherine raised a thinly plucked eyebrow.
Rosemary eyed her. Katherine waited patiently.
“We had another price reduction.” Rosemary admitted.
“Ah” Katherine smiled. “I sold 68 Claudius Way.”
“Already?”
“15 day escrow, the buyers are anxious.”
Price reduction versus short escrow, Rosemary was toast. Today, the Princess Warrior was also queen of the jungle.
I slipped out to the back room to print my contracts.
“How about 90 Honor Place?” I heard Rosemary volley back.
Ouch, that one had gone through three price reductions and the owners were getting desperate. Katherine was not having fun with that one, plus she had foolishly agreed to a 2.5% commission for the listing.
It was war out there. I did not want to contribute my own doom and gloom to the competition, then we’d all end up half dead and the only person who would like that would be Patricia. I cowered in the back and worked as quietly as I could. I updated, downloaded, printed. All those chores that take roughly half your attention, so the other half thinks about ways to make life more complicated than it really needs to be. I called Carrie while I kept an eye on the printer.
“I am not having any luck,” she complained. “The sisters don’t leave us alone, Patrick doesn’t talk much when they do, and I don’t think he likes me at all.”
“Ready to give up?”
“No. I am not giving up. But I need to find a way to get him alone for longer than just a car ride home.”
“Get him alone? What is this, a Jane Austen novel? Ask him to have a picnic with you, hike, do one of those cute bicycling adventures where you end up on a windy beach and share your first kiss, something like that. Come on, you have an imagination.”
I pulled off my copies and waved to Patricia who scrutinized the number of pages I held in my hand, but since she was in a magnanimous mood, what with Rosemary’s erased hard drive and all, she let me pass.
“A picnic, that’s a great idea, come with me?”
“Come with you? Are you mad? Hi, here is my friend Allison, she’s the third wheel and here to look after me.”
“Then bring that guy.”
“What guy?” I separated my contracts; one set for my files and another set for my transaction coordinator and put her set in her box. I know, I know, by the time you read this, all our transactions will be on-line, but I still needed something for the clients to actually sign. Not everyone is wired.
“The contractor guy – you can bring h
im too, I know, wine tasting, we can go wine tasting on Saturday.”
“Everyone goes wine tasting.”
“Sure, because it’s easy, fun and we live in the wine country, duh.”
“But does the boy drink more than milk?”
“Come on Allison, help me out will you?” She cajoled.
“Okay. Saturday,” Since my last outing was to a funeral, I thought, what the hell, help the girl along; maybe talk with Ben about the murder.
Okay, I didn’t put it that way when I called up Mr. Stone, a little spin was important. Besides, the contact with Mr. Sullivan of Cooper Milk could be advantageous for both of us; always look for the business angle, especially if you think that the relationship angle may not lead to anything.
I called Ben immediately before I lost my nerve.
“Wait,” Ben turned off something loud in the background and was immediately clear. “You friend needs to get her boyfriend away from his sisters? What is this Sense and Sensibility?”
“Thank you, that’s what I said.” Wow, he knew more than one Jane Austen title. Maybe there is something to be said for a Stanford education.
“Saturday? Are we all going in one car? I’ll drive if you like.”
“So, you’ll be the sober one.”
“Not necessarily.”
Summer in the wine country. The next best thing to fall in the wine county. We did not even consider the strip in Napa, we were heading to funky wineries and tasting rooms: Kokomo Winery, Terroirs, Trattore and for the traditional, Gloria Ferrer. Sonoma still offered free tastings as well as winding roads riddled with potholes and no shoulders, so you have to be careful of the bicyclists.
August is the month of heavy clusters of purple and green grapes hanging low under canopies of dusty green leaves. Rolling green hills covered in regimented vines spread out in the hot sun as you, the happy tourist, roll along the shady road every once in a while crossing a low creek or creek bed. Sonoma County really does look like the very worst of the sentimental portraits and calendar art with titles like “Wine County Autumn” or something silly like that. In fact, I’m surprised Thomas Kinkade hasn’t painted vineyards. Maybe the light is too difficult to capture.
I’ll tell you why the light is difficult; there is nothing like the golden light in California. Nothing. Even Rosemary who has traveled around the world, admits there is something special about California. In two months the autumn will be luminous. It fills the afternoon like a bright Chardonnay – one that doesn’t taste like horse piss.
I digress. The Chardonnay’s around here have gotten much, much better. Aged in stainless steel tanks instead of oak. Not perfect, but better.
I still prefer red.
Ben, handy man turned chauffer, showed up at my house exactly on time driving a silver Mercedes sedan, with tan leather interior, very nice.
“Grandma’s, she only drives it on Sunday to go to church.” He explained briefly, and I believed him, because sedans are very grandmotherly. Which is why my mother owns one as well, because she’s a grandmother. But not because of me.
Ben and I traced out a sedate schedule for the afternoon; after all, we had young people with us and Carrie is a light weight. It wouldn’t do to get her drunk in front of a boy she was hell bent on impressing.
“So, we’re the old people, the chaperones.”
“That is very much it.” I directed him to the Cooper offices where Carrie insisted we pick them both up. I knew Carrie’s reason why, she lives in a tiny apartment that is more or less a legal unit over a garage. She doesn’t advertise her location. I wondered if Patrick had to drop her off down the street from her place. None of my business.
Carrie was alone in front of the substantial office building. The Cooper Chicken, their official mascot leered from the top of the building.
“Patrick will be here in a minute,” she waved a huge picnic basket and Ben climbed out of the car to help her load it into the trunk.
True to her assurances, Patrick pushed open the double glass doors and approached the car. He and Ben greeted each other shook hands and Patrick slid into the back next to Carrie.
We exchanged pleasantries and Ben drove us north.
We put Carrie and Patrick in the back seat. It was very quiet on the drive up, but Carrie rallied and worked the conversation to include all of us, so Patrick didn’t sound too silent.
Patrick is a handsome boy, but not substantial enough for someone like me.
I need substantial.
We traveled to the base of Dry Creek and worked our way north. My record for wine tasting is 13 wineries and tastings in one afternoon. Personal best.
Ben Stone, on the other hand, was looking more solid as the day arched overhead.
As I said, we began at the border of Russian River and Dry Creek. We began with the new Roshambo tasting room, which is really a very large RV. No, I am not kidding. At Roshambo (it’s named after the rock, paper, sissors game and they hold the international competition for same every year) we knocked back a taste of the Zin, which is always good enough to merit purchasing a case, so I did. Then on the pretense of carrying the wine to the car, Ben and I left Carrie and Patrick at the tiny tasting bar to hold up their glasses to the light and squint at the color and clarity and we wandered around vineyard and parking area and lamented that the owners couldn’t keep up the beautiful tasting room down the road.
From there we drove up the road to Mill Creek that produces some great whites depending on the year. So I bought three bottles of the Sauvignon Blanc (tasting note, if you don’t know what kind of white to buy, Sauvignon Blanc is almost always good, not as tricky as Pinot Gris and certainly not as risky as the aforementioned Chardonnay and you can get away with an eight dollar bottle).
Ben and I lingered on the deep porch while Carrie and Patrick walked through the tiny garden adjacent to the tasting room and admired the water wheel (mill, get it?).
“Here, you have something on you.” Ben brushed my skirt.
“Thanks.” I glanced up at him, and brushed off a leaf from his hair. His hair was thick and curly. I wanted to linger and touch his thick curls, but I resisted.
What use to be Pezzi King Winery is now Passalacqua Winery. As Pezzi King, the staff used to go all out in decorating for Passport, a spring wine tasting event so popular that the organizers hold a lottery to distribute tickets, some years you get lucky, some years you can’t attend. I enter the lottery every year. One year, Pezzi King decorated the winery in a circus theme and paired a Gewurztraminer with cotton candy. That’s why we keep coming back.
This afternoon we were just wine tasting in the real world on an average Saturday, so there were no decorations and no party except the party we created ourselves. Here, Ben and I left Carrie and Patrick in the tasting room to find the notes of tobacco and pencil shavings in the cabernet/merlot blend. No, I’m not kidding. No one in Sonoma County kids about wine, well, maybe a little. The wine with cotton candy pairing was certainly amusing. Ben and I walked down to the lower gardens, to a secluded pergola. Behind us was a wall of green ivy, before us the valley filled with rows of vines opened up under the blue sky.
We settled onto the benches and admired the view.
“You have beautiful skin, how do you get it so smooth?” He brushed his knuckles across my cheek, I resisted the urge to nuzzle against his hand, but ducked my head, becomingly I hoped, and fortunately there was nothing near by to knock my head against.
“Thanks, I owe it all to my Mary Kay consultant.”
“Do they still make that stuff?”
“Indeed they do, and how do you keep your hands so smooth?”
I grabbed his hand and flipped it over. For a contractor and handy man, his hands were remarkably un-marked.
“I thought you said your dad complained about your rough hands.”
“Used to. I found some salt scrub and some lotion.”
“They feel nice.” I couldn’t help it. I stroked his wide palm. He didn’t jer
k his hand from mine, so I continued to hold it.
My phone buzzed. It was my mortgage broker.
“I got it!” He was jubilant; I felt a little less so.
“That’s great,” I attempted to feign some interest, yesterday this would have been fabulous news, I mean, it’s business. “You locked it in?”
“Just now, they should be fine. Do you want to call them?”
“Umm,” I glanced over at Ben. “You can call them.”
“Great, see you at the signing.”
I clicked off the phone.
“Good news?” He asked.
“Locked in a difficult loan, I’ll close escrow on Monday. So yes. Good news.”
But the moment I really cared about was lost.
We walked over to Dry Creek Vineyard because it’s across the street. By this time, Ben begged off a full tasting (not much, by the way, a pour is about one swallow, but the numbers of pours is what you have to watch out for).
“Here, taste this.” I handed Ben my glass and his hand lingered on mine as he took it.
“Very fruit forward,” our pourer explained.
“Very forward.” Ben agreed seriously.
I just tried to breath evenly.
Dry Creek offers benches nestled under large leafy trees for picnics, which was perfect. Carrie retrieved her wicker picnic basket from the car and calmly pulled out a round loaf of fresh sourdough bread, Gallo salami (not the same family), three different cheeses, one hard, one goat and one triple cream brie. She pulled out tiny knives for the cheeses a bamboo bread board and real glasses. Grapes and a container of chicken salad completed the meal. Patrick bought a bottle of the Dry Creek Fume Blanc for lunch and Ben bought sparkling water.
I watched Carrie carefully, the meal represented a substantial investment on her part, I knew what she made and it wasn’t enough, in my opinion, to support something extravagant like fifteen dollars a pound cheese. But I didn’t say anything and just vowed to pay for our lunches together for the rest of my life.
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