Page 18 of Love on the Vine
I handed her another bottle. “Try this one.”
Slowly but surely, she eased the cork out of the second bottle, an expression of pride on her face. “I must seem so pathetic getting excited about using a corkscrew.”
“We all have to start somewhere. I still occasionally break a cork.” I tilted the first bottle over her glass, listening to the wine lap against the glass. The sound had always reassured me, promising good things to come, but now it filled me with anxiety. I’d chosen to start with a Nuits-Saint-Georges from a small producer I’d discovered a few years ago. It wasn’t a fancy wine, but it was one of my favorites.
“Like I said, part of the pleasure is the anticipation. You want to experience the wine with all your senses. So don’t taste until I tell you to.” Holding the glass above a candle, I showed her how to inspect the wine’s color, its clarity or cloudiness.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Like a jewel.” It was true that the bright ruby hue of the wine contrasted perfectly with her dark hair and creamy skin. I could imagine it hanging at her neck or glinting from a delicate earlobe. My eyes slid to the necklace nestled into the hollow of her throat.
Forcing my attention back to the tasting, I showed her how to swirl the wine around the glass. Her eyebrows scrunched together as she twisted her glass in the air. “I can’t swirl it like you do. It looks so effortless.”
“Try this. Put the glass on the table and pretend you’re drawing tiny circles.” My mouth twitched at the surprised pleasure on her face as the ruby liquid swirled elegantly up the sides of the glass.
“Okay, now smell.” She raised the glass and sniffed. “No, you have to stick your whole nose in there. That’s it. Okay, and what does it remind you of?”
“Is it weird if I say mushrooms?”
“No, mushroom is one of the top notes along with cherry and hibiscus.” I swirled my glass again. “Now you can taste.”
She brought the glass to her lips, hesitating. “Do I spit or swallow?”
Her cheeks pinkened at the innuendo, and I pretended to ignore it, but it was too late; my mind had darted quick as a hare into very dirty territory—my cock in her mouth, her hands cupping my balls. “Your choice.” I shifted in my seat. “Since we’re only trying two varieties tonight, you can enjoy a glass.”
As she put her lips to the glass, I noticed again how full and soft they were. What would they taste like? When she pursed her lips as I had shown her, inhaling a bit of air along with the wine, I tensed.
“What do you think?” I rasped.
Eyes still closed, she let out a little sigh. “It’s still doing things in my mouth.”
Goddammit, I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter. I gritted my teeth and reached for the second bottle—a wine from the same region, but a different producer. “Now, this one should be a bit fuller bodied. I haven’t tried it yet.”
I poured us both a second glass and observed her as she repeated the ritual I’d taught her. “You’re a quick learner.”
“That’s what my teachers always said.” She peered at me coyly over the glass before taking a sip. “Oh, this is nice too. Itsure beats the box of zinfandel from Meijers. So how’d you get into wine anyway?”
“Summer job working for a wine store in college. I found out you could make good money as a sommelier, so I dropped out and bought a ticket to Paris. Spent the fall working the harvests, traveled around, passed the exams. I was a lousy sommelier, though. I’m not good at serving. So I got a job with a French company looking to export to China. I spoke a little Mandarin, so they sent me out there. It wasn’t too long before I started my own thing.”
The truth was I had gotten into wine to piss off my father. He’d wanted me to be an engineer and when I left school had threatened to disinherit me.
“Hmm, so kind of similar to my own situation,” she joked.
“Yeah, maybe I’d better watch out. You could end up stealing my job.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I barely speak one language as it is.” She laughed and I let the musical sound of it wrap around me. Then she stopped suddenly, looking over my shoulder.
“Hello there,” she cooed, tiptoeing to the patio where the bedraggled gray tomcat that had been hanging around for the past two summers was lurking in the shadows. She lowered herself onto the step and held her hand out to him. “Is he yours?”
“No, I don’t think he belongs to anyone. He comes around occasionally looking for handouts.” I moved up behind her, and the cat narrowed its yellow eyes at me and ran off.
“We scared him off.” Olivia sighed with disappointment and shook her head, sending her hair tumbling in thick, glossy waves down her back. And now I was imagining what her hair would feel like draped over my naked chest.
Not going to happen.
“I made some food. Do you want something?” she asked shyly. Before I could answer, she darted into the kitchen and came back with an assortment of dishes on a large tray. “I wasn’t sure what would go with the wine, so I made a few different things.”
“A few things?” I sat stunned as she scooped ribbons of shaved zucchini on my plate, followed by salmon rillettes and crusty country bread. A rosemary focaccia and another salad—this time fresh plums with black pepper and parmesan.
I hesitated. It looked delicious, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to taste it. I shouldn’t have worried though; I may have lost my ability to taste wine, but for some reason my taste buds came alive when I ate her food. Each plate was like a mini flavor bomb. Even something as simple as paper-thin daikon with a drizzle of green olive oil and sea salt was a revelation.
