Authors: Rex Pickett
“Oh, give me a break. You are so fucking full of yourself.”
“Miles. Miles.” He placed both hands on my shoulders and spoke to me gently now. “This may come as a total shock to you but sometimes … chicks just want to get pounded.”
I looked wordlessly into the artificial smile frozen on his big round face.
“Let’s go,” he said. “They’re waiting.”
“Wait a second.”
“What now?”
“I feel a mild panic attack coming on.”
“For crying out loud,” Jack said, exasperated. “Did you bring your meds?”
I unpocketed a small vial of Xanax and rattled the pills around inside. I hadn’t had to resort to any since my most recent hospitalization a few months before, but I carried them with me everywhere as a kind of security blanket.
“Good. Because, Lord only knows where 911’s going to take us up here.”
I chuckled anxiously.
“All right,” Jack said. “Let’s rock and roll.”
We circled around to the entrance. Inside the loud, crowded restaurant we paraded right past the “Hey, can I help you?” maître d’, and made a beeline to the bar. Jack, sporting his ear-to-ear convivial grin, spearheaded our offensive.
“Hey, girls,” he said in a rising tone. “Sorry we’re late.”
They swiveled on their stools at the same moment and faced us with friendly smiles and a toast of their glasses.
“We got stuck in traffic,” I said.
“Yeah, that 246 can get really jammed up this time of night,” Terra joked.
Everyone laughed. As planned, Jack circled around and plopped down on a stool next to Terra and I mimicked his move on the north battlefield next to Maya. I noticed Jack touching a hand briefly to Terra’s bare neck and massaging it casually. “How’re you doing, beautiful?” he said in his sweetest voice.
“Good,” she said, beaming at him. “How’re you?”
“Great,” Jack said. “You look smashing.”
“Thank you. Not bad yourself, sexy.”
I finally eased onto the stool next to Maya. Unlike Jack the actor I was clumsy at flummery. Besides, I didn’t think Maya was really the type who would fall for it. “There’s no karaoke here,” I said. “Let’s split.”
There was laughter as Jack and Terra turned toward us.
“My apologies for last night,” I said to Maya. “I really don’t despise myself that much.”
Maya looked at me. “That’s good to hear. I found it amusing. In a kind of sad and pathetic way.”
I laughed. “You must be bored here in Buellton.”
“Homes!” Jack reproached me with arching eyebrows.
“Why does he call you Homes?” Maya asked in her throaty, low-register voice.
“Because if he uses my real name it’ll sound too personal. We’ve depersonalized our relationship for the sake of its longevity.”
“So, what’s
his
nickname?”
“Oh, it varies. Lately I’ve been stuck on peckerhead, but I’m open to suggestions.”
Maya cracked a smile and I looked away. Our shoulders were touching, and there was something electrifying in that glancing tactility that I couldn’t wrap my brain around. Part of me wanted to close my eyes and lean all the way into her lap, but I knew that that indiscretion had the potential to capsize the whole evening, at least as Jack had it scripted out.
Jack and Terra were laughing hard on the starboard end of our foursome, and for a moment I fantasized what it would be like if Babs were watching us on a hidden camera, what conclusions she would draw. What gun shop she would patronize.
“So, what are you drinking here?” I asked Maya.
“Andrew Murray Viognier.”
I brightened. “Oh, yeah, how is it?”
She slid the glass in front of me. “Here, try it.”
I swirled the wine in the tulip-shaped glass and put my nose in it. It smelled of apricots and melons. I took a sip. It was massive, a viscous conflation of tropical fruit, butterscotch, and spritzes of limes. “Nice,” I said. “Very nice.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I like it a lot.” I helped myself to another mouthful. God, the wine tasted delicious on my palate. It was refreshing to be once again beyond the narrow simplicity of champagne and back into some serious grape. “Mm. Delish,” I said, sliding the glass back to her.
The maître d’ appeared behind us and said, “Your table’s ready.”
All four of us pivoted off our bar stools and were escorted to a corner table. We assumed strategic positions: boy, girl, boy, girl. Terra knew the maître d’ and thanked him personally. After he passed out menus, he recited the roster of the evening’s specials: seared ahi on a bed of mixed baby greens as an appetizer; medallions of pork with a light dusting of black truffles; a poulet with
pommes frites
; and Copper River salmon roasted on an alder wood plank. After he had concluded his recitation, he said, “Who would like to see the wine list?”
I raised my arm in the air with the zeal of an over-achieving first grader, but Jack was zapping me with one of those withering looks of his, so I lowered my paw.
“Did you want to choose the wine?” Terra asked, laughing.
“No. No. Be my guest. Please.” I held up my hands in surrender.
Across the table, Jack nodded at me with a Cheshire-cat smile. The wine list was handed to Terra. “So, what is everyone in the mood for?” Terra wondered.
“Whatever you girls are drinking, it’s on me,” Jack said magnanimously.
“What is everyone ordering?” Maya said. “Then we can sort out the wine.”
I turned and looked at her. “
Exactement!
”
Jack wagged a finger at me. “No, Jean-Pierre, no.”
Maya and Terra exchanged bemused looks, but pressed on reading their menus.
“I’m going to have the salmon,” Maya decided.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to have,” I said, slamming my menu shut.
“Duck breast for me,” Terra said. “Maybe the house salad to start.”
“Excellent choice,” Jack said, slapping his menu decisively on the table.
“So,” Terra said, turning her attention back to the wine list again. “What—are—we—going—to—drink?” She pretended to be poring over the list for a few serious moments, then raised her head and rested her chin on the rim of the menu, peering over it with theatrically batting eyelashes. She looked coquettishly at Maya, then at me, then back and forth a few more times. “Sounds like Pinot Noir to me!”
“Pinot!” Jack and I both echoed simultaneously, raising fists into the air. Our rah-rah response caused our dates to titter. They were probably wondering if we were fun guys or full-blown lushes.
“The question is,” Terra settled us down, “which
Maya scanned the list briefly.
“May I make a humble suggestion?” I offered, timidly holding up my hand.
“No,” Maya snapped without looking at me. Then she smiled to mollify her curt response.
I leaned over, cupped a hand to shield my mouth from Jack, and whispered into Maya’s ear, “Remember, Jack’s paying, and he’s
butt
rich.” Maya touched my arm conspiratorially. “Don’t be afraid to cross the Atlantic,” I added.
I straightened back in my chair. Jack’s eyes were narrowed at us, trying to decipher our little tête-à-tête.
“Why don’t we go back in memory lane and revisit the ’95 Whitcraft from our own Santa Ynez Valley?” Maya suggested.
“Sounds good,” Terra said.
“We’ll pay for the food,” Maya said.
“Forget it,” Jack said. “It’s on us. We’re celebrating Miles’s book deal.”
My head slouched forward and I shielded my embarrassment with a swiftly moving hand.
“So when does it come out?” Terra asked. “You must be excited.”
“In the spring,” I said softly. I hated to lie, but I had little choice.
“Isn’t that awfully quick for a book just acquired?” Maya asked.
“It’s a hot commodity.” Jack came in to shore up the levee.
“Very little editing,” I said.
Maya gave me the gimlet eye, then lifted her Viognier to
The maître d’ returned—thank God!—erect and proper in his black pants and white shirt.
Maya looked up at him and said, “Greg, a bottle of the ’95 Whitcraft.”
“Excellent selection, as I would expect.” He disappeared into the back to uncellar the bottle.
“Have you had the Whitcraft?” I asked Maya, wanting to steer her away from my bogus book deal.
“I’ve had the previous years, which were all pretty amazing.” She turned to Terra. “You’ve had the ’95, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. It was great. Be interesting to see if it holds up.” She raised her eyebrows in anticipation of its uncorking and smiled. Jack kneaded the back of her neck again and she gazed up at him with moony eyes.
Maya turned to me. “Ninety-five was a really dry year and the taproots had to go deep for water. That produced a low yield but a highly concentrated fruit.”
A giddy feeling washed over me. It was fun to be in the company of these two knowledgeable wine women, and I was beginning to feel slightly guilty for having agreed to the dinner on such false pretenses, in tow with my wickedly amoral friend.
The maître d’ promptly returned with the bottle of Whitcraft, opened it, and placed the cork aside.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to smell the cork?” Jack blurted out.
Maya, Terra, the maître d’, and I all exchanged raised eyebrows. I broke the silence: “Jack, that’s like sniffing a woman’s butt before you have sex with her.”
Maya stifled a laugh with her hand. Tears of hilarity sprang to Terra’s eyes and she bent to one side, losing it for a moment.
“Hey, I’m learning,” Jack said. “I didn’t know.” And then he, too, laughed.
Maya turned serious as the maître d’ poured her a small amount in a proper Burgundy glass. She swirled the wine, brought it to her nose, and breathed it in for a full three seconds. She set the glass back down and raised her eyes to the maître d’. “It’s fine, Greg. You can pour the rest of us.”
Greg poured us glasses all around.
I must have been staring at Maya for the longest time because she finally turned to me and said, “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, awestruck. I wanted to say: You’re beautiful, and goddamn if you’re not the first woman I’ve met who didn’t need to taste the wine to know that it wasn’t corked, which makes you even that much more extraordinary. Instead, I looked away and took hold of my glass and swirled the ruby-colored liquid around until little bubbles formed on the surface. I trickled some into my mouth and thrashed it around.
“Well?” Maya asked. “What’s the verdict?”
“Very concentrated, like you said,” I commented. I took another sip. “Jammy.”
“Mm, I like this,” Jack said. “Very fruity.”
“What do you think, Terra?” Maya asked.
“Maybe starting to fade a tad, stewed plums on the nose,” Terra replied after relishing a mouthful.
A second taste only affirmed the first and seemed to build on it. I turned to Maya. “This area’s just ripe for Pinot to explode, isn’t it?”
“Ten years and we’re going to be right there with DRC.”
“I don’t know about that,” I countered, “but these wines coming out of here are pretty fucking delicious.”
“All right, all right,” Jack interjected, arms folded across his chest, “what’s DRC?”
“Don’t Rain on our Company,” I shot back, for a little more laughter at his expense.
“Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” Terra decoded the famous initials. Judging by Jack’s puzzled expression, that hadn’t helped a whole lot.
“Famous Burgundian producer,” I elucidated, remembering that he was paying for the wine and not wanting to bite the hand that intoxicated me.
“Ah,” Jack replied. Then, in an effort to reenter the conversation, he let slip, “We’ve got a bottle of ’82 Latour back at the motel.”
“Oh,
yeah?
” Maya said, her eyes widening. “Why didn’t you bring that?”
I closed my eyes and bowed my head for a protracted moment. One bottle of ’82 Latour should be drunk alone or between two, tops, but among four its depth and richness would be reduced to little more than abbreviated foreplay.
“Miles claims it’s one of the great years of the last half century,” Jack added, sticking his foot deeper into his mouth.
“Miles is right,” Terra said.
“I would
love
to taste that,” Maya said, warming to me.
“We’ve decided to cellar it another few years.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Maya said. “Because I’m of the impression that the ’82 is on the decline, despite the ravings of Robert Parker.”
Terra was the first to burst out laughing. Then, everybody else chimed in. It took me a moment to realize they were all laughing at me, and that my proprietary tone toward the coveted ’82 was so blatant I might as well have screamed:
It’s all mine, leave me alone, go away!
“Homes, you crack me up,” Jack said, having successfully rejoined the conversation. That broke Terra up again. Maya, sensitive to my chagrin, tried hard not to laugh. I hid behind my glass of Whitcraft, adrift in its mysteriousness. When I reached for the bottle for a refill, Jack clamped his hand on my wrist and said, “Slow down there, F. Scott. We’ve got a long evening ahead of us.”
“Bungo,” I said.
“So, who’s publishing your book?” Maya asked, shifting the conversation to an ostensibly less touchy topic.
I quickly scrambled back to that false-hearted corner of my mind. “The truth is,” I started haltingly—I noticed Jack’s face start to blanch—“it’s gone to auction with a floor bid of sixty-thousand from a very good house. I’m not sure who the ultimate publisher is going to be, just that it’s a
fait accompli
. I’ll know more middle of next week.”
Jack closed his eyes for an almost imperceptible moment, as if an angel had alighted on his shoulder to whisper to him that it was all going to be okay. In that moment I snared the Whitcraft and replenished my glass. And Maya’s. And, then, eventually, Jack’s and Terra’s. I had righted the ship, and we were back on course.
After we had put in our orders, Jack told the maître d’, “Better bring us another bottle of the Whitcraft.”
“Let’s try something else,” Maya said. “If that’s all right with everybody.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “Let’s have an unofficial Pinot tasting.”
The maître d’ handed Maya the wine list. She cracked it open. I swayed toward her and read it with her over her shoulder. “Remember,” I whispered, “Jack’s got
serious
bank.”