Page 112 of The Mountain Echoes
Still me.
Still sayin’, “Fuck me.”
By the time I get to Maverick and Joy’s place—a white farmhouse with blue shutters and flower boxes overflowing with spring pansies—my nerves are frayed.
I brought along a bottle of each of Knight’s Tale Chardonnay and Cabernet Franc, my favorites.
I almost turned back twice, once in the truck and once out of it.
Joy answers the door dressed in a burgundy dress and what looks like Chanel knee-high boots.
I feel better about dressing up.
“You brought wine?” she beams.
“It’s from my vineyard…ah, the one I work at.” I hand her the bottles.
She takes them gleefully. “I love cab franc.”
The house is warm, open, filled with art and quilts, and sunlight.
It looks like the home of people who love to live here.
Not a French antique in sight.
She leads me out to the porch, where heated lamps throw off steady light and warmth, pushing back the late-spring evening chill.
The porch wraps around the main house, its old cedar planks worn smooth from years of boots and bare feet.
A long, reclaimed wood table sits under a slatted pergola strung with warm Edison bulbs, flickering gently in the breeze.
Chairs with wool blankets thrown over the backs line either side, and steam curls from a kettle on a sideboard set with mugs, preserves, and a plate of still-warm biscuits.
Beyond the porch, the land stretches wide, and even though I’m born and raised here in Colorado, my breath catches at the beauty.
“I hope you like steak.”
“I’m from a ranch. I’d lose my card if I didn’t.”
She laughs. “Good. Mav should be here any minute. He’s the griller.” She waves a hand, gesturing for me to take a seat, as she gets to work opening the bottles of wine expertly. “We both cook. He’s better at it, though. I make a mean salad, but I can’t bake, even if my life depends upon it.”
I pick up two glasses from the table, where three place settings wait—simple and sweet. The light green napkins are tied with twine, each holding a small sprig of lavender.
“White or red?” Joy asks, holding up a wine key.
“Let’s start with the chardonnay,” I suggest. When it comes to wine, I know what I’m doing. “It’ll go better with the salad and will give the red time to breathe.”
“Gotcha.”
Joy fills our glasses.
“To Mav finally finding a woman he wants more than a fuck with,” she toasts.
I freeze, holding the glass still.
She laughs airily. “Oh, come on, you know the man is gone for you.”
I clink my glass with hers. “I know no such thing.”
