A Taste of Sauvignon (15 page)

W
ednesday, Esteban went to Mass.

Thursday, he got a haircut.

Friday, the utility company told Esteban he could start anytime. He picked the day after the closing on his family's property. That way, he could spend the next thirty days helping his parents prepare to auction off the farm equipment and pack up the house.

Friday night, Madre invited Savvy to dinner.

“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Morales, pulling Savvy into her warm embrace.

“Is that a new dress?” asked Savvy, handing her a bottle of wine.

“Yes.” She spun around. “You like?”

“It's lovely.”

The dress wasn't the only change Savvy noticed. Esteban leaned against a doorframe with arms folded, watching her. He was rocking a hot new haircut. If he'd reminded her of the David before, now he was the spitting image of him, with those waves molding to his head. It was all she could do not to fly to him and run her fingers through the layers, but the two of them stood on shaky ground, despite a couple of brief phone calls over the past few days. In the first one, he'd apologized for overreacting—his term—to the sale of the property.

She'd been apprehensive about coming to dinner—she, the rich-girl troublemaker who lived in the mansion next door. So far, nobody had jumped down her throat. In fact, his mother actually seemed to be in a festive mood.

“So many changes since you were at our table last, eh?” Mrs. Morales smiled, motioning proudly toward the dining table. Pretty lace placemats dressed up the colorful stoneware. And tonight, instead of Coke, a bottle of Dos Equis sat above each plate. “Come. Sit.”

“Yes, so many,” Savvy said. She held out her plate while Mrs. Morales scooped enough enchiladas for three people onto it. “Whoa,” she said, too late. Oh well. You had to pick your battles.

“What do you think of Esteban's haircut?”

She chanced a shy grin his way. “Very . . . hip.” She'd opted for a ponytail again tonight, herself, after Esteban had complimented her on it during their picnic.

“Tomorrow is the market's opening day. And next week, Mr. Morales and I have an appointment with a Realtor to see some houses in Verdant Acres.”

Really
. Verdant Acres was a new over-fifty-five development on the other side of 29. Mrs. Morales sure hadn't wasted any time since the sales agreement had been signed. She sighed and fidgeted with the napkin in her lap. “They don't allow chickens there. I'll miss my girls, but . . .”

Oh, God. Was that a tear in her eye?

“. . . I have to look at the bright side of things, right?”

Guilt stabbed at Savvy.

“You're still doing the farmers' market, then?”

“Only tomorrow. Why not? It's all ready to go. The equipment is packed. The stall rent is paid for the whole summer. It's a good way to see my friends, tell them the news, and sell what produce we can before. . .” Her mouth forced a tight smile.

Mr. Morales seemed as hard to read as ever. Did he hold the sale against Savvy? Blame her for derailing the
Plan Familiar
? Suddenly, her heart squeezed with empathy for the gruff immigrant. It must be hard to be left out of every conversation in which English was the primary language.

“Mr. Morales?” she said.
“Como estas?”

He stopped chewing and raised suspicious eyes from his plate. After a pause, he replied,
“Estoy bien.”

“Espero que disfrutes esta próxima etapa de tu vida,”
said Savvy.

Mrs. Morales's smile grew and grew. She patted her husband's forearm, resting on the table. “Do you hear that? Savvy wishes you happiness in your new life. Isn't that nice.”

He grunted.

Savvy shrugged. “Don't be too impressed. It's the only thing I know how to say in Spanish.”

“You learned it just for him,” his wife replied. A look of pure appreciation shone from her eyes.

Esteban went to the fridge and pulled out another Dos Equis. Savvy slid her untouched bottle toward Esteban's father's plate when she saw that his was low, and poured herself a scant glass of the cabernet she'd brought to show she still wanted to be part of the family's little celebration.

Later, when Madre had stepped out of the kitchen and Savvy was drying the last dish, she asked Esteban, “Want to go to Bodega for a nightcap? I'll drive.”

At the bar, Esteban pounded yet another beer, while Savvy stuck with lemon water.

Next to them, a fortyish couple debated the details of their upcoming vacation as if it were a federal case. The woman sported inch-long, squared-off fingernails with white-painted tips. Her husband wore one of those color-blocked, silk bowling shirts.

“I say Florence. The art is better in Florence,” declared French Nails.

“Your mother is so gracious. It felt wonderful to be invited to your house tonight,” said Savvy. “I really think a lot of your family, you know.”

“It's no secret Madre likes you.”

“I can't help being a little worried, though.”

“You're worried
now
? Now that it's a done deal?”

“Yes, I am.” Before, the Moraleses had been just the faceless farmers next door. Jeanne raved about them now and then, and Papa ranted. Now they were real people. “How do you think this is going to shake out for your family? It's going to be a big change for them.”

Esteban took another pull on his beer.

“I vote Rome,” argued Bowling Shirt. “We can fly into Rome, get a car and maybe rent a villa in Tuscany, then circle back through Umbria. Maybe take a day trip to Sardinia.”

“Seems like Madre's almost looking forward to moving,” said Esteban sheepishly.

“Are you sure? Because to me it looked like maybe she was only pretending to be excited.”

“Well, she did make that appointment to see that new housing development.”

Savvy twirled her glass thoughtfully. “I hope she'll be happy.”

“Don't worry about Madre. She's the backbone of the family. She'll be fine.”

“What about your dad? I'm trying as hard as I can with him.”

Esteban shook his head. “It's not you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It's your father. He's tried to buy our land before. At first, when you brought us this latest offer, Padre thought it was just another of his ploys. That he was using you to go through me.”

Savvy's hand flew to her heart. “Papa tried to buy your land? When? What happened?”

“Couple years ago. The same way as this time, a Realtor brought Padre an offer from a partnership. You know how our fathers feel about each other. They'd cross the street to avoid shaking hands. It didn't get too far before Padre said
nada
, no way.”

French Nails argued, “You got to decide last time. It's my turn. I vote Florence. Suzie went there last year and she loved it. That's where she got her Fendi coat.”

“I swear to you, Esteban, Papa has nothing to do with this.”

“That's what I told Padre, but he doesn't trust any of the big vintners. He's afraid pretty soon all the land is going to be owned by anonymous corporations.”

“I know land is being bought up by foreign companies. My father doesn't like that any more than yours does. They both believe the people making the decisions that affect local policy should be people who actually live here.”

Esteban raised a brow. “You asked.”

Time to change the subject
.

“I called Anne Rathmell today. She said I could come back up and look at the still again Saturday morning, before I stop by the farmers' market to see your family's stall. I think I'm going to make her an offer on it. She's never even used it, so I can't imagine she'll say no.”

“Where are you going to put it, now that I won't have a greenhouse anymore?”

“I guess I'll find a place in one of our outbuildings. It won't take up that much space.”

“You ought to consider setting up a real distillery if you're planning to start processing oil this summer.”

“Did I tell you? That guy in New York is putting together a kit to see if I have the potential to be a real nose.”

He peeled the label on his beer. “That's great, Savvy.”

Her dream was growing while his was dying. Her heart ached for him. But letting on would only make things worse. Better to be encouraging.

“Are you going to look for land somewhere else? Since you're not interested in grape growing, you won't have to limit yourself to the Valley. Judging by Rathmell Ranch, the poorer the soil, the better lavender likes it. You might be able to get something at a good price.”

“With what?”

“The proceeds from the sale, of course.”

He shook his head. “I'm not taking any of the proceeds.”

“What? Surely your parents will want you to share in it.”

“They offered. I turned them down.”

“That's crazy.”

“Why? It's not my money. I haven't done anything to deserve it.”

“Are you kidding? You told me yourself, you've been working that farm since you were a little boy!”

“Yeah, helping Padre. He mapped out every bed. It was his farm. Everything was his idea.”

She frowned.

“Granted, now my parents will have a decent nest egg. But they could live another thirty years. You know how expensive everything is. Mortgages, medicine. After they buy a house, they're going to need to invest the rest of the money. That's all they have to live on.”

“That Spanish expression that you used right after I told you that NTI had accepted the counteroffer. What was that again?”

He lifted a hand and let it drop onto the bar. “Give me a hint. I was pretty whipsawed at the time.”

“It sounded something like
cambiar la vida
.”

“Oh, that. ‘My whole life's about to change.' ”

“So if you're not going to look for another place to grow lavender, then what are you planning to do?”

“I don't know,” said French manicure. “Maybe we should just cruise the Rhine, instead.”

“Let's get out of here,” Esteban said, downing the rest of his beer.

“W
here are we going?” Savvy asked.

“Head south.”

Down the road a bit, Esteban said, “One good thing that's coming out of this, I'm finally going to have my own place.”

They both knew what that meant:
privacy.
But Savvy was still subdued.

“See that school up here on the right? Pull in behind it. Park in the back where there aren't any security lights, facing outward.”

She did as he asked.

“Shut her off.” In the dark, he saw her head turn toward him, wondering what they were doing there.

“This way we'll be sure to see any paparazzi that may have followed us.”

There was nothing else to do then but come out with it. “Got a job with the utility company.”

“Excuse me?”

“Going to be a lineman.”

“The guy who climbs up the telephone poles and handles the high-voltage lines?”

In answer to his nod, she sat there speechless.

“What about your lavender?” she said after she recovered. “You had your heart set on that!”

“I told you, that dream's dead.”

Through the gloom, he felt her glaring at him.

His hands went palms up in his lap. “I have nothing anymore, Savvy. I'm not like those people at the bar. The one percent, whose biggest decision is where to take their next vacation. I've got real world problems. Paying rent. Making sure my aging parents are set up.”

“Your parents are going to be fine,” she soothed. “Two million dollars is more money than they could ever have hoped to earn on that little farm. I can't understand why you don't want to keep pursuing your goal.”

“That goal went hand in hand with carrying on the family tradition. I'm not sure one exists separate from the other.” He scrubbed a hand through his cropped hair, still not used to what the barber had said was the latest style.

“Besides, I'd have to start all over. How long 'til I would turn a profit? I need to start making money right now.

“When do you start your new job?”

“Right after closing. 'Til then, it's going to be insane, what with looking for new places to live for my parents and myself, figuring out what goes and what gets tossed or auctioned off, and so on.”

“Whatever happened to putting your hands in the dirt? Watching the seasons change? Being your own boss?”

“Maybe I'm not meant to be a farmer after all. It is kind of ironic, though. Just when those plants were starting to take hold . . .”

He looked down at his arm, where Savvy had laid her hand. “Don't pity me, Savvy. Don't ever pity me.”

“Esteban! I'd never—”

He held up a halting hand. “Just listen.” His beer buzz was coming in handy to say what he needed to say next.

“You see this parking lot? This used to be the place to go. For me and everyone else at Vintage High. I won't tell you how many times I've parked here, with how many girls. They mean nothing to me. After you, there's nobody. And I'm not talking about your money, this fancy car”—his eyes flitted around the dim interior, the rich upholstery, the expanse of fine wood trim—“or that big white house you grew up in.”

She looked away, embarrassed. Because that was Savvy. She was more interested in meeting people, pursuing goals, discovering new things, than she was in money.

“And it's not because you look like a mermaid with glasses, either.”

He heard a sniff, and he couldn't tell if it was a muffled laugh or she was crying.

“It's because I love your heart, and your energy, and your curious mind. You have this craving to learn about everything . . . nature, people, business . . . nothing's not interesting to you. You were even interested in my lame attempts to grow lavender. Do you know who else cared about that, over my whole lifetime? No one. Well, maybe Madre. Mothers are supposed to care about their sons.

“You know what else I love about you? That can-do attitude. I'll admit, it doesn't hurt that a, you have money—shut up, let me finish—and b, brains. There's nothing you can do about that. Those are things you were born with. Money opens doors, and so do smarts. But lots of rich, smart people aren't as positive, as engaged with the world as you. When you want something, you just go for it and assume you'll get it, and I have a feeling that usually, you do. You're so confident and self-assured. Want an example? Soon as I showed you a few varieties of lavender, you were off and running, calling up people to pick their brains, visiting that ranch. Now you're studying how to make perfume. You're amazing. Rich or poor, that's the kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Now she was crying, for sure. Softly snuffling, not blubbering in a way that made him uncomfortable. But he wasn't through yet.

“Here's the thing, Savvy. Here's the thing. I don't have all those degrees, like you do. And I don't have a last name that opens doors. Up until yesterday, I thought that maybe—just maybe—there was an outside chance I could make something out of my experiments. Take what was handed down to me and become an entrepreneur, like your father. Become worthy of you in my own right. Now, all that's gone. I'm not ashamed of being a laborer, but I need to put it right out there, not hide from it. I know there's not a chance in hell you ever thought you'd end up with a common workingman. But if you'll have me, I'll make you the happiest damn woman on the planet. And that's a promise.”

“Oh, Esteban.” Savvy leaned past the steering wheel to put her arms around his neck. “You already have.”

Her cheek was wet. She dipped her head to kiss him, and he took it up a notch, delving into her mouth with his tongue, reaching to cup her dainty breast, loving how his outsized hand dwarfed it even more.

Her fingers slid between the snaps on his shirt.

He took a steadying breath. “You don't know what that does to me.”

Her hand left his chest to curl around his quad, where his thigh met his torso.

“Savvy.” She was ten inches shorter than he and a hundred and thirty pounds lighter. So how was it that she could control him with a feather-light touch of her fingertips?

He removed her hand from his thigh, kissed it, and held it to his chest. “Not in the car. You're too good for that. Give me a week, and I'll have a place for us to go to be alone together.
Cristo
, give me 'til tomorrow.”

Pop, pop, pop
went his shirt snaps, and she bowed to nuzzle his chest with her nose.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the leather headrest, picturing them as they had been the day they'd met, she in her tight-ass bun and nun's habit, he grungy as a stray dog.

Who would've believed that, two months later, he'd be stroking the length of her long, thick locks as she kissed a path down his stomach?

Gently, firmly, he pulled her up. “Hey. We took one chance already.”

In the past, any other woman would have had to hold him back like a freight train. But with Savvy everything was different. He exalted her. And hopefully, this was only the beginning. They had a lifetime ahead of them to do things right.

“Wait.” She reached into the back seat and found her bag. Rummaging around, she pulled out—not a foil square, as he'd expected—but a tumble of small boxes. “Look what I have,” she sang like a teenager, spilling them onto his lap.

“What the—?” he exclaimed. “What is this, Christmas? What are we going to do with all these?”

“Use them, what else?” she answered. There was just enough moonlight to catch the glint in her eyes. Until him, she'd been a twenty-seven-year-old virgin. She was so, so late to the party. So sophisticated, and yet so naïve.

He rifled through the boxes, straining to pick out the descriptive lettering on them. “What'd you do, buy one of everything?” He couldn't help chuckling at her zeal to catch up.

“Well,” she said defensively, “I wasn't sure what size you were, what kind you liked.”

“You weren't sure what size I was?” His laughter came harder.

“I have no one to compare you to,” she huffed.

“Oh, my.” Now he was having trouble breathing, he was laughing so hard. “You see? This is what I'm talking about. Everything you do, you go all the way.”

Savvy wasn't laughing, though. She'd begun gathering up all the boxes from the seat and where they'd spilled onto the floor, shoving them back into her bag.

“What's the matter?” he asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I'm putting them away. Sorry for not being a prophylactic pro.”

“Hold it.” He reached for her. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

Her jerking her arm away was answer enough.

“
Chula
, the first time, I was out of my mind. That was a . . . a celebration of being alive.” He wanted every time they made love to be a celebration. He didn't want anything coming between them. Not even a sheath of latex.

But he also didn't want her to ever have to look back and wonder if a poor boy had trapped a rich girl into marrying him by getting her pregnant. He wanted her to say yes of her own free will, not out of any obligation.

While she was still rounding up her stupid boxes, he got out of the car, strode around to her side, and yanked open her door, holding out his hand. “Don't worry about those. Come here.”

She still looked hurt, though she didn't object when he reached for her hand and gently tugged. Just tumbled out and leaned against the car with her arms folded.

“There's more than one way to get the job done, counselor,” he whispered. He reached up and took off those infernal glasses, laying them on the roof. Then he began gently working out the elastic band that held back her glossy auburn mane. Finally the band sprang away into oblivion. Then he lowered his head to hers.

She was slow to respond. But when he pulled her to him and kissed her, his hand making circles on the small of her back, her mouth parted . . . a little. And then, eventually, her arms unfolded and found their way around his neck.

Esteban flipped up her skirt and slid his fingers up her leg to her hip, then under the side of her panties. Felt like lace this time.
Sweet.
Not that it mattered. She would be hot even in burlap. Then he switched hands, working the thin, stretchy material down first one side and then the other until they finally dropped.

He slid his hands under her ass and easily scooped her up, leaving her white panties lying in a heap on the black pavement. Inexperienced as she was, her legs somehow instinctively knew how to wrap themselves around his waist, locking at the ankle.

Now she was right where he wanted her, sandwiched between him and the Mercedes, suspended by a combination of the tilt of her pelvis, the slope of the car, and his hips. The heat of her body activated her fragrance. They kissed in the ways they'd already discovered, and added more.

They were in a public area. Anyone—the cops, the paparazzi—could pull in at any time. But they were still fully clothed. If he saw headlights, it would only be a matter of smoothing down Savvy's dress.

He couldn't see it in the dark—couldn't even feel it through his coarse pants, but he knew that her most sensitive, intimate place pressed, vulnerable and open, against the rough denim of his jeans, and it made him almost
loco
with desire to please her. He began rocking against her, slowly at first, then faster as her body responded. Her grip on his neck grew tighter. Behind their kisses, she started making little mewling noises in her throat. When she had to tear her lips from his or suffocate, he peered down on her face in the moonlight and watched her lose control, panting as he kept up the rhythm.

When she collapsed against him like a rag doll, he felt like the king of the world. He stayed with her, cupping her rear . . . biding his time until her shredded breaths tapered off to sighs.

After reining himself in to focus on her pleasure, her total innocence of his plan for what he intended to do to her next was almost too much for him to endure.

When she finally found the strength to lift her head off his shoulder, thinking they were finished, he stroked the hair away from her damp temple and kissed her forehead. Savvy moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and smiled.

That's when he knew it was time.

Slipping his hand between them, he found the slickness he'd known would be there, and used it to ease the friction.

The pleasure it gave him to surprise her with another orgasm so quickly more than made up for containing his own.

“
Mía.”
he whispered in her ear.
Mine.