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Adjusting her hat on her head, cresting her lips in a full smile, she beamed up at me. “I’m excited,” she said. Then, barely above a whisper, I heard, “Today’s a new day,” and I felt her fingers squeeze mine. Damn, if that wasn’t the cutest, non-direct apology in the fucking world. I squeezed her hand in return as we descended the stairs and greeted our driver, Larry.
He shook both our hands, took the cooler from me, then moved to open Rakell’s door, but I gave him a chin nod, letting him know I got it. She almost leapt into the car, then adjusted her yellow, off-the-shoulder sundress, her eyes darting to me. “Thank you,” she clucked, her eyes brimming with enthusiasm like she was trying to make up for the dispassionate Thank you last night. I leaned in, adjusting her chin so I could kiss her, and damn if her little, “Mmmm” didn’t get me worked up all over again.
We approached the French-style chateau of Domaine Carneros, a Napa Valley outpost of the Taittinger Champagne house, truly one of the most stunning properties in the region. It sits regally atop a vine-covered hill that’s a vantage point at the edge of Napa, close to the Sonoma border. When she peered out of the window, I heard her utter as if she’d been taken off-guard by the impressive structure, “Ahhh…wow! This is more beautiful than Chateau d’Yquem.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she knew one of the premier Grand Cru Chateaus in France, famous for their dessert wine. If I remember correctly from my grand-mère, it’s in Bordeaux. Although I’d visited my grandparents in France a few times, taking me to expensive wine houses hadn’t been on their agenda. They took me to Disneyland in France, making me promise to speak French the whole time. Dwayne and I visited five years ago, a few years before my grand-mère passed away, and we had a travel agent set up a wine-tasting tour, but it was at all the touristy places anyone can get into, so the elite houses weren’t part of it. The truth is, wherever you drink wine in France is good because, well, you’re drinking wine in France.
Looking her way, I asked, though I already knew the answer, “You’ve been there?” Of course, she’d been there. Jake, remember there’s not much this girl hasn’t seen.
Immediately, her face flushed from my question, and she stuttered, “Well, yeah, um, but I barely remember it.”
Bullshit, sweetheart, no one goes to the Chateau d’Yquem and forgets it. I reached over and undid her seatbelt. Putting my forehead to hers, I growled, “Bullshit, but we’ll make sure today is a better memory.” Pulling back, I locked my eyes with hers. “Got it?”
Her sharp intake of air sounded more aroused than shocked. “Yes, yes,” she forced out in a breathy whisper.
Into her hair near her ear, I said, “I’ll get your door.” Now I had today’s challenge in my head; this wine-tasting trip would stand out from any before it. I’d make sure of it. Larry pulled up in the semi-circle driveway at the base of the steps, in the center stood a meticulously groomed circular bush surrounding a three-tiered topiary with white and red blooming flowers adorning the sides.
She pulled on my hand, and I stopped staring at the greenery sculpted into round rings that gradually grew smaller, reminding me of one of Cameron’s stacking ring toys. He’d struggled while figuring out that the largest goes first, then the next size down. According to Melissa, Cassie had that mastered when she was a little over a year old, but Cameron couldn’t quite grasp the concept; the smaller rings would get stuck because he’d put them on before the larger ones, then shriek and throw the whole thing against the wall. My mouth turned down thinking about that simple task and how frustrating a fun activity was for him.
“Jake?” Rakell questioned, her voice ringing with unease. “Are you thinking about how many people it takes to keep this level of greenery and flowers so perfect, how workers must be here early in the morning and have to continue working in the hot sun, trimming all of this so we can have this picture-perfect view?” She removed her sunglasses, a crease forming between her brows as she surveyed the grounds.
“Huh, no, I was thinking about one of those stackable toys…” That was a bizarre thing to say, but hell, I didn’t want to dampen the mood by diving into my nephew having autism and how things that may be intuitive or simple for other kids were a challenge for him, and how isolating that must feel.
She let out a short snort and said, “And I was thinking about how much work we put into making things look just so, like, well, this may be a big jump, but like models, I mean for my photoshoots—sometimes there’s more than a half a dozen people working on me to make me look like some non-real version of myself, so it’s like everyone is seeing me as if I existed in an altered state of reality. It’s funny how we all see different things.” She reached for my hand.
“That’s true, and for the record,” I said, taking her hand, “I want the realest version of you; that’s what I think about.” I soaked up her soft mewl as we ascended the many steps to the magnificent chateau, flanked by more carefully manicured green shrubs and blooming flowers.
Then, the prerequisite, semi-snotty check-in, as if these California natives had been trained in the elite sensibility of the top chateaus in France. I knew that climbing the two-hundred-plus stairs, smiling through the check-in, and negotiating to make sure we had a table with an umbrella near the railing was worth it once we sat, and she said, “This viewpoint is spectacular.” She pointed outward, then slid her hand in the air, right to left, as if indicating that she could see from one corner of the valley to another. The chateau sits close to the border where Napa intersects with Sonoma, offering a wide-sweeping picture encompassing both valleys. I made a mental note to thank Rodger and Melanie for showing me this place.
“Wow, I feel like I can see forever,” she said, smiling. “I think this may even rank higher than the views in Bordeaux.” When I turned to agree, she wasn’t looking out past the veranda. She leaned into my side, her catlike green eyes resting on my face. “All this beauty is making me horny.” She snickered. Such a fucking Jake line. The girl’s stealing my lines.
Trapping her head with my hands and positioning her face, I growled, “Don’t steal my lines, or there will be a price to pay,” my mouth a breath away from her lips.
And just as expected, my bawdy minx rolled her eyes and said, “Jake, if it is clever, it’s my line. If it’s obvious and corny, it’s yours.”
I nipped at her lip, laughing when she squealed. “My next line is to tell you how much that ornate stone railing reminds me of that night I fucked you from behind on the Driskill balcony, when I had to cover your mouth because you were so loud I was afraid that the folks strolling Brazos Street would hear my girl explode,” I said gruffly, not hiding my cockiness, eyes squarely on her face, watching her shocked expression, her mouth forming a large O as her eyes grew into saucers. I wanted to chuckle, to call bullshit on the embarrassment blanketing her face. This girl was the queen of dirty talk; no way she was offended by that. Then I heard someone clearing their throat behind me and swiveled my head to see a young twenties-looking guy, red-faced, with sandy blond hair, cut short on the sides with that wind-blown winging look in the front, holding a magnum bottle of Champagne and listening to me talk like a dirty dog to my girlfriend. I felt my face drop.
“Ah, sir, miss, we, this is…like to start our guests off with our Blanc de Blanc. It’s a club favorite, and sir, you are part of our La Rêve club.”
“Yes,” I responded, looking up to him, while he avoided my eyes. Shit, this kid is mortified and Rakell’s probably ready to smack me.
The kid lifted the bottle slightly so we could see the label, then tipped it to pour a taste into Rakell’s glass. The tremor in his hand was making the pouring precarious.
Rakell cleared her throat, her fingers pinching the stem of the glass. “Um, Scott,” she said, reading his name tag, “thank you. Can you tell us a bit about the tasting notes on this one?” What a class act…she knew he was nervous. Her voice sounded honeyed, reassuring, pushing us all past the awkwardness. I was hoping he didn’t recognize me…not everyone loves football, I reminded myself.
“Yes, Miss, it’s 85 percent chardonnay, estate grown, and 15 percent estate pinot grapes.” He took a deep breath, then twisted his lips into a tight grin, watching us bring our glasses to our mouths, but before Rakell took a sip, I extended my glass toward her. She quickly tapped my glass, slanting her eyes away, refusing to look at me.
“I’ll tell you my toast later,” I said under my breath, trying to swallow my guffaw from her eye roll.
“Mmm, that’s so nice,” she said, directing her attention to the kid, Scott, raising her glass a bit in his direction. “So apple?” she added, taking another quick taste. “A little lemon, but it also has a nice structure.”
“Yes, yes, excellent palate,” he said. “Would you like to do the premium tasting, since it is part of your club membership?”
“That sounds great. We’d also like caviar, the charcuterie plate, and a cheese platter,” I said.
He nodded before letting us know he was here if we needed anything else.
I shifted my eyes to the pissed-off blonde by my side, trying not to laugh when I looked at her pinched eyebrows, her whole face scrunched up in a scowl. I put my hands in the air and said, “Guilty, guilty.”
