After a few minutes of increasingly languid kisses and murmured rea.s.surances, Liddy smooched away the faint hint of tears in the corners of Marian"s eyes. "Love you, and I love doing that to you."
"Baseball night," Marian mumbled. "We"re missing out."
"Sleep." She watched Marian"s eyelids droop.
"But you wanted to gamble."
"Don"t need to. I"m already the winner." Marian"s hand tightened on hers, then slowly went limp. Liddy smiled into Marian"s hair, and after one more sigh of contentment, joined her in sleep.
Just Like That.
Published: 2005.
Characters: Syrah Ardani, vintner Toni Blanchard, financier Anthony Ardani, vintner.
Bennett, factotum Setting: Napa Valley, California Seventeen is Prime Time.
The Beautiful Expression of Her Dark Eyes.
(5 years).
She was late for Missy Bingley"s and Jane Lucas"s anniversary party. This fact mattered not at all to Toni Blanchard. Far more importantly, as she sat in Friday evening traffic streaming out of San Francisco and into the soft summer Napa evening, was that Missy"s and Jane"s anniversary was also her own. And she was late.
The lazy Napa sun was so low it seemed to drape over the coastal hills, dusting translucent orange silk over the rolling fields and the surface of Toni"s convertible windscreen. The evening breeze, which rose when the sun set, tickled at her temples. Inching along at less than five miles an hour she was busy doing things a person shouldn"t while driving-pulling toiletries out of her suitcase, stripping the ties out of her braid and brushing it out, sponging off make-up she"d put on almost fourteen hours ago in Minnesota. She wanted to be clean.
Clean, and human. She wanted out of her suit, away from cars and fumes and even the small shops that lined the center of the small town. She wanted to be in Syrah"s fields, rolling a grape between her fingers and listening to her love tell her why that grape would-or wouldn"t-someday be poetry in a gla.s.s.
She would watch Syrah crush a grape and smell it, touch it to the tip of her tongue and inhale, then bite off about half the fruit and mash it against her upper palate as her eyes closed. "This will be early September," she"d say. Or she"d shake her head and murmur, "I still taste the last year"s dry summer."
Syrah would guide Toni"s hand to the base of the vine, explaining its lineage the way a trainer would describe a thoroughbred"s pedigree. Toni adored Syrah"s hands, always slightly dry, fingertips so sensitive. Her touch never failed to send warm, delicious tendrils of desire along her arms.
Eventually Syrah would say, "You"re not really listening."
"Every word, I heard every word," Toni always answered.
"Oh yeah? What"s the last thing I said?"
If she"d been listening, Toni would recount the last few words. If she"d been instead focused on Syrah"s fingers, the graceful arch of her wrist, the memory of the night in these fields when Syrah had first overwhelmed her senses, she"d kiss her as an answer.
More often than not, she"d kiss her, even if she had been listening.
But for the traffic she would have closed her eyes and recalled any of the dozen times they had fallen together into the shadow of the leafy vines. In spite of their jeans and Ardani vineyard work shirts, they became two women loving each other as simply and naturally as any might have hundreds of years ago under Bordeaux or Provence skies. Though surrender in the bedroom had never been easy for Toni, with Syrah, among the vines, she found it easy to let Syrah"s sensuality wrap them both in the coc.o.o.n of love.
C"mon Toni, she chided herself. Coc.o.o.n of love? How many of her New York friends would be begging her to stop right there? But it wasn"t her fault. Syrah"s father had put it best: "Wine makes poets of us all. Maybe not good poets, but happy ones."
She laughed into the rearview mirror. The deep lines around her eyes revealed her as anything but happy. She ached all over, her stomach was queasy in spite of her feeling echoingly hollow and if she let herself, she"d cry in a heartbeat.
Probably would before her anniversary was over.
Ten minutes and three waits through the central square"s stoplight later, she turned off the main drag and headed for a less direct and much faster route toward the Ardani vineyard. Five years ago she"d been put out by the use of country roads when a perfectly good freeway was available. No more-she"d learned every possible alternative.
Learned, too, that most of the time in a vineyard was spent waiting. Crews came and went, barrels were rotated, all routine. All in due time. All in measured steps. Then the grapes came on to ripen in September and October and the pace was frenetic. Frenzied harvest, trucks from other growers everywhere, grapes they were keeping loaded into the first presses for crushing and everyone and everything sticky with grape juice.
Kisses were tart, hurried, lovemaking frantic and needy.
"I"m too tired to sleep," Syrah had said at one point last year. They"d showered and fallen into bed.
Rolling over, Toni had lost herself in the beautiful expression of her dark eyes, just the way she had the moment they"d met. Shivering, she had buried her lips in the hollow of Syrah"s throat, whispering, "Let me put you to sleep, darling."
Syrah"s groan had inflamed her further and words spilled around them. At first they were endearments, then short, sharp explosions that finally lost form but not meaning. Toni had felt drunk with the knowledge of her lover"s body. Time had ripened them both. She knew the shudder, heard the need, was fast and hard. Fast and hard until Syrah had shivered with a more profound exhaustion and tumbled into sleep, leaving Toni to listen to the slowing heartbeat against her ear.
Left, right, stop sign, turns and double-backs as complicated as a maze, but every turn took her further from work and closer to home.
She"d warned Syrah that the negotiations might drag on. Explained she might miss their anniversary. Syrah had gone to Missy"s and Jane"s alone, but a party at Netherfield was always an event. Missy and Jane oozed happiness, brimmed with good cheer, their lives one day of bliss after another. She"d once told Missy that they were so sweet together they should provide guests with insulin.
Missy"s narrow-gazed retort had been, "As if everyone who visits you and Syrah doesn"t need a cold shower after ten minutes."
She"d been glad to check out of the residence hotel where she"d been living out of her suitcase for the last month. She"d exhausted every possible entertainment available in c.o.kato Minnesota and its surrounds. She"d even been to the Corn Festival. Twice in one weekend.
All for naught.
Treacherous thoughts had not crossed her mind until the door slammed behind the last party to leave the table but her. She couldn"t let it. She was utterly and totally committed to a workout of some kind. But the moment it had irrevocably fallen out of reach she had thought, "I can go home now. Thank G.o.d, because I hate this."
Her admin team had worked wonders finding her a flight, having a rental car waiting, but they couldn"t do anything about the d.a.m.ned traffic. What she had hoped would be a surprise arrival in time for the party had turned to a hope to surprise Syrah before the sun set. It was three-quarters hidden by the hills now.
There was only a sliver of golden disk left when she turned in to the gate and gunned the rental up the hill to the house. The kitchen lights were on, and so were the lights in Syrah"s father"s rooms in the front of the upper floor. Their room was dark. Perhaps Syrah was still at the party.
She left her suitcase and jacket in the car. Stiff, almost limping with fatigue, she walked around to the kitchen door.
She wasn"t even through the door when Bennett, hands on her hips, barked, "About time!"
"It"s so good to be home." The warmth and soft lights of the Ardani kitchen was like a balm on her bruised spirits.
Bennett thrust a wedge of crusty bread at her. It was slathered with a soft cheese and dotted with diced sun-dried tomatoes. "Syrah"s been like a cat on a hot tin roof for a week. Got back from the party a bit ago and went for a walk. Restless, like always when you"re not here. I don"t know what could possibly be so fascinating about corn and it"s vexing that-"
"She went toward the chardonnays and building four." Anthony Ardani leaned against the doorjamb, a relaxed smile of welcome lighting up his gentle face.
Toni finished the treat Bennett had given her in four bites. Her stomach immediately settled. "Thank you, sir."
"I"m glad you"re home. You"ve been missed."
Bennett harrumphed. "Indeed, no one with a sensible clue about a good diet when you"re not here. Syrah will be getting fat one of these days. And himself," she added as she turned back to her cutting board with a sniff. "It"s cheese every meal and twice that on Sundays. Finally have someone around who appreciates a proper salad."
"I don"t care what you make, Bennett dear, as long as it"s not corn."
She left the familiar, comforting bickering behind, regretting her high heels and hose as she made her way over the gravel drive in the direction Anthony had suggested. She pa.s.sed building four with no sign of Syrah, so turned back to the vines she thought were the chardonnays.
All that was left of the sun was a glow of sharp yellow that softened to burnt orange, then deepened to a crystal blue. The evening star winked into sight and she realized that the moon was rising. It would be a beautiful Napa Valley night.
She caught the distant sound of humming on the breeze and turned toward it, knowing the tuneless murmurs. More confident now, she followed a downward slope. The vines were fully leaved and she was sure there were healthy cl.u.s.ters hiding under those leaves, but with day fading and night coming on her eyes were only for the outline of the woman at the end of the next row.
She was, and always was, exactly as Toni remembered her, only better. How had she ever thought Syrah unremarkable? Walking in her fields Syrah was a dancer in jeans and muddy boots. She touched her grapes like they were precious lovers. So close, not yet seen, Toni ached for Syrah"s touch. Wanted to be enclosed, sensed, felt, measured and loved.
Syrah saw her.
The moonlight carried that look and all in that moment Toni felt claimed by those dark eyes and by the soft smile of wonder and relief.
"Happy anniversary. I"m sorry I"m late."
"Don"t be silly. You must have bought an airline to get here so quickly." Syrah held out her hands.
She must have walked down the row, but didn"t remember it. All she felt was the warmth of Syrah"s fingertips and a wave of pleasure at the touch of their hands. "The ticket price should have made me a major shareholder, but that"s not the way it works."
Syrah gazed at her, then said simply, "Welcome back."
"I don"t want to leave, ever again."
With that she started to cry, tried and failed to stop the tears, and then was a mess of gulping sobs. The hard-boiled corporate workout specialist-right. Undone by poetry in a gla.s.s and the love of a good woman.
Syrah settled down on the ground, vines to her back, and pulled at Toni to join her. Cradled against Syrah"s shoulder, she managed to get herself under control, but it took a while.
After offering the underside of her T-shirt for the purpose of wiping Toni"s eyes, Syrah said, "I take it things didn"t go well."
Toni shook her head. "One hundred and seventeen jobs. n.o.body wanted a pay cut and so n.o.body has a job. The investors didn"t want less than all their money back so they"re going to get next to none of it. It"s on the auction block next week, as already ordered by the court. Item: one corn processing and packing plant, vacant."
"It takes so much out of you." Syrah gave her a squeeze.
Toni could hear the low, steady beating of Syrah"s heart. "Well, there"s been a lot more failures than successes for the last two years."
"Do you really want to give up?"
"And what will my staff do?"
"Open their own firms?"
Toni sighed. They"d been through it all before. She enjoyed the work when it went well. But when it went badly she wanted to sink her fingers into the vineyard dirt and listen to Syrah"s heartbeat. "I felt like such c.r.a.p and then Bennett-"
"Gave you a snack, chewed on your ear and now you"re better?"
A tiny smile threatened. Bennett"s food, Syrah"s eyes...miracle cures. "She"s a kitchen witch-and I mean that in the best sense of the word."
"You"re so lucky, because I don"t cook."
"Neither do I."
"You have other talents." Syrah"s lips brushed over Toni"s brow.
The skin across her chest tingled and then an enveloping warmth spread over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stomach. "So do you."
Syrah tipped her head back and kissed her softly, then again with more intent, and again with rising heat.
Toni turned fully into her embrace, yielding. The depth of her abandon had once frightened her, but now she reveled in Syrah"s strength even as her hands explored all of the soft, full curves of Syrah"s body.
At times like this Toni thought they shouldn"t be so close to the vines. The heat between them was so intense she was surprised they didn"t singe the grapes. She slipped her hands under Syrah"s shirt and was completely undone at the soft, voluptuous welcome. The smell of fresh earth, the scent of growing things and a sensuous woman-they were better than any drug could be. And they were hers.
She loved the little sounds that Syrah made. Lost in their kisses, she wasn"t aware of Syrah"s hand slipping under her skirt until the pressure of fingertips sent a shockwave down her legs.
"Please," she whispered. There was no reason not to yield. They were alone in the world, surrounded by beauty, and the moon was rising.
If Anthony noticed the dirt on Toni"s suit, he didn"t mention it. She ran up the stairs to change and was back down in time to catch the ripening scent of the lovely varietal table red that Anthony had uncorked.
"To my two daughters," he said, lifting his gla.s.s. "To married life, and to the grapes!"
"To the grapes," Toni echoed. She caught Syrah"s hand, kissed her lightly and was home again, sipping poetry from a gla.s.s.
Finders Keepers.
Published: 2006.
Characters: Marissa Chabot, online dating consultant Linda Bartok, traveler.
Setting: A not-so-deserted isle in the South Pacific East Bay, California.
Nineteen, on the edge.
Gladiators.