by Rex Pickett
“As soon as some woman shows interest in you, you start self-destructing. What’s the point? And you’re not that drunk.” He let go of my wrist and sat back in his chair, defiant.
“I’m not?” I said, feigning shock.
“Fuck, Homes, I’ve had as much as you, if not more. And our friends here …”—he threw an arm in the direction of the bathroom—“ … in case you haven’t noticed, didn’t exactly ride on over from the local rehab center.”
I stayed silent. I was mortified that I had fallen out of my chair and I wanted to go back to the motel and crash, put a lid on the evening.
“Come on, let’s ratchet this up a notch,” Jack encouraged. “You know how to do it. Here.” He pushed a glass of ice water across the table. “Drink some water. I don’t want you doing a face-plant on me.”
I looked at the water as though it were truth serum. I drained the glass, then set my wine aside.
Our dates came back to the table. Colloquies had taken place on opposite sides of the restaurant and we were now ready for the hoped-for rapprochement, the segue to higher zeniths of libidinousness.
“Should we get dessert?” I said in a manufactured cheery voice, hoping it would momentarily put to rest fears that I had somersaulted off the deep end.
“Why don’t we go back to my place?” Terra proposed, smiling at Jack. “We’ve got wine, music, whatever you like.” She looked back and forth between the two of us.
“Excellent idea,” Jack said, raising both arms like a referee signaling a touchdown.
“Great,” Terra said.
I was too tired to protest.
While Terra wrote directions to her house on the back of a napkin, Maya and I indulged ourselves in the last of the Comte Armand. I was willy-nilly in for the duration and I needed fortification.
Terra and Maya left together as Jack and I hung back to settle the bill. When the maître d’ handed Jack the check his eyes popped out of his head like shooter’s marbles.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exploded. “$828.69!”
“I didn’t want to mention that the Comte Armand was $300. Was afraid it might make you look cheap.”
Jack scowled and fished his wallet from his back pocket as resignedly as someone about to write a check for a parking ticket. “This is one expensive fuck, I’ll tell you that.” He painfully counted out ten hundred-dollar bills and parted with them morosely. “Talk about sobering up, brother.”
I was laughing hard as we left the restaurant. The maître d’ was all handshakes and thank yous as we went out the swinging saloon-style door.
The drive to Terra’s house was a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride along dark, tree-lined, curving mountain roads. Jack, with the tracking instincts of an Indian on the spoor of fresh game, skillfully negotiated the scrawled directions that I woozily recited to him as we careered and fishtailed to our next den of iniquity.
Sometime later we were idling on a dirt driveway in front of a wood-framed home in the hills of Santa Ynez. It was a miracle how we had found the place, what with the poorly-lit and unmarked streets, the numerous turnoffs, and all we’d had to drink. I rolled down the window to get some air. The night was warm and sexy and, as soon as Jack killed the engine, crickets chorused in. It was so quiet and peaceful I wanted to stay put and go to sleep in the back of my 4Runner.
“Give me the keys,” I demanded.
“What?” Jack looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re not driving anywhere. You fell off your chair in the restaurant.”
“I’m not sleeping on some unfamiliar couch.”
“No one is sleeping on the couch, Homes. Women do not invite you back to their place after three bottles of expensive wine …”—he shook his head contemptuously at the memory of the bill—“ … then ask you to crash on their couch.” He slapped his forehead. “I am mystified as to how you got out of high school.”
“Leave the keys under the mat,” I suggested as a compromise.
Jack looked thunderstruck. “There’s no way you’re driving out of here at three A.M., brother. If we’re going
“What?”
“In your condition, you’ll be lucky to get this halfway to the Promised Land.”
“I don’t know about this,” I started.
“Miles. Miles. Listen to me. Let’s just go in, sip some of their Pinot, get to know these girls in a little more comfortable setting. Just have a good time. No pressure. All right?”
I refused to take the condom from him, so Jack dropped it into my shirt pocket. He patted my protection reassuringly. “These are extra-large, so hold on to your hat, Shorthorn, you might lose it in the saddle.”
“Right, Jack.”
I climbed reluctantly out of the car and trailed Jack in a shambling walk up to the porch of Terra’s house. I spotted a comfy-looking two-seater swing and plopped down in it, petulant. “I’ll wait out here,” I mumbled.
Jack quickly hooked an arm under one of mine and jerked me to my feet. “We’re going inside,” he ordered. “Come on. Act sociable.”
He hauled me toward the front door and knocked once, rattling the screen. Then, without waiting, he opened it and shoved me in front of him. We stumbled across the forbidden threshold.
A moment later, I found myself inside Terra’s musty-smelling living room. The décor was an anachronistic bohemian motif, furnished with Oriental rugs, ornate wall tapestries, sloppily maintained bookcases, and antique velvet upholstered chairs and a sofa draped with knitted woolen
“What is this?” I laughed. “Am I going to commune with my former self?”
“Shh, they’re being romantic.”
“I thought candles went out with Timothy Leary.”
“Shh, shh,” Jack exhorted. “Terra?” he called out. “We’re here!”
Terra bounced into the living room from what appeared to be the kitchen. “What happened to you guys? Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“It was a bitch to find,” Jack apologized. They came together and embraced and held it just long enough to suggest to each other that it wouldn’t be the last embrace of the evening, then kissed briefly, but meaningfully, before disengaging. “Hi,” Jack said.
“Hi,” Terra sweetly said back. Then, in a louder voice meant to include me: “Would you guys like something to drink ?”
“Most definitely,” Jack said.
Terra turned to me with an amiable smile on her face. “Maya’s in the kitchen. Why don’t you go in and help her decide on something?”
I missed my cue. Jack elbowed me sharply in the ribs, prodding me along, and I shuffled off dutifully, now an accessory and little more. The pairing off was fully underway.
I didn’t see anyone in the kitchen when I first walked in. Hearing some bottles clinking, I followed the sirenic sound until I came to a cozy pantry area. There, I found
“Hi,” I said.
She turned, showed her lovely face, and smiled. “Hey. Glad you could make it.”
I bent down next to her, drawn to the racks of wine and her subtle, flowery smell. “Terra got any good stuff in there?”
“Oh, a lot of goodies. She likes Pinots, too.” She pulled out a ’99 Ponzi Reserve, an Oregonian Pinot from the Willamette Valley.
“Interesting,” I said. “Probably should hold back on that for a few years. I heard it’s pretty massive.”
“I think you’re right, Miles,” she said, sliding the bottle back into the cellar. “It’s got to be way too buttoned up.” I loved hearing my name spoken in her throaty voice. It sounded so familiar somehow.
She removed another bottle from the racks and handed it to me. It was a ’98 Bien Nacido from Tantara, a tiny, local producer of purportedly good Pinots. “We could do that,” I said. “I’ve never had their wines before.”
“Or,” she said, conveying another bottle and turning the label so I could see it. It was a ’90 Henri Jayer Richebourg, one of the great Burgundian reds from a classic year.
My eyes widened. “Wow,” I s
aid. “Terra’s got some collection.”
“Actually, it’s mine,” Maya confided.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, still stunned.
“My ex. Had quite the cellar, which I plundered in the settlement.”
“Smart girl.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to get married? We could have quite a future together.”
“No, thanks, I just got done with one.”
“Yeah, me, too. Maybe we should celebrate with the Jayer,” I suggested greedily.
“It’s not the right moment,” she said, carefully replacing the bottle. “Some other time,” she added, smiling mischievously.
“Yeah, tempting as it is, I think our palates are a little shot for that tonight.”
Maya decided on the Tantara and we started to move into the kitchen. But I was blocking her path. My reflexes dulled, I didn’t step aside adroitly or quickly enough and we collided. I held her broad shoulders for a moment to regain my balance. When I glanced back at her, she was looking directly up into my eyes, gazing intently, and I wondered if what Jack had said was right. Maybe women sometimes just wanted sex and nothing more.
“Hey, don’t drop that bottle,” I said. We both laughed, and I let her squeeze past me.
I lingered in the pantry checking out the bottles in their cellar. It was impressive and pretty far-ranging for such a tiny collection. “How long have you been into wine, Maya?”
“All my adult life,” she answered from the kitchen. I heard a cork pop, which I sensed was my signal to rejoin her.
As I approached her she turned to me and extended a half-filled glass of the Tantara Pinot. We took seats at a planked dining table. We didn’t make a whole lot of fuss swirling the wine, but when I looked over at Maya she had her head held back and was working the Pinot around in
I sampled the wine. It wasn’t coming through, but I didn’t think the wine was the problem. I kept working it like crazy, but my palate was washed out. “It’s a waste on me now,” I said.
Maya smiled until the kitchen warmed. She poured two more glasses and rose. “Back in a sec,” she said.
She carried the newly poured glasses out to the living room, while I hung back. I heard Jack’s voice cheering, “All right! More wine.” Partying laughter erupted from the three of them. A few seconds later, music blasted from the stereo system. I didn’t know if they were waiting for me to join them or not, but I stayed in the kitchen anyway, holding my face with both hands as if trying to prop myself up.
Maya reappeared, thank God, rolling her eyes at the music and chuckling. It was a romantic ballad belted out by Tom Jones and my mind suddenly came alive with the image of Jack and Terra in the living room performing some kind of tribal, hip-grinding dance, rubbing their crotches together like crazed Vegas dancers.
“Your friend is a hoot,” Maya said.
“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, hoping she would catch it. “He’s a bundle of laughs.”
“Terra seems pretty taken with him.” From the timbre of her voice I could feel she was mildly concerned about her friend.
“Jack has that effect on women.”
Maya sat back down at the table and refilled her glass. Jack was right about one thing: these girls could hold their own when it came to drinking. She sipped her wine and combed her fingers through her hair. “What happened
“Oh, it was stupid. I called somebody I shouldn’t have, and, uh …” I trailed off and reached instinctively for my glass.
“Girlfriend?” Maya probed.
“No, I don’t have a girlfriend, Maya.” I leveled my gaze at her. I was transfixed by her large, dark, liquid eyes and I just sank into them for a moment. “Ex-wife,” I finally confessed.
“Oh.” But the way she said it suggested she was confused about why exactly that would depress me.
“I just learned today that she got remarried,” I continued.
“Ah,” she said, this time with empathy. “Did that make you sad to hear it?”
“It was just weird, that’s all.” I tried to shrug it off, but I could feel the gesture probably seemed insincere to her.
“You must still be in love with her,” she said.
“I honestly don’t know. But it really doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Her wide mouth broke into a strained smile, then quickly disappeared. I sensed that she had experienced her own share of sadness and disappointment in life and didn’t find sharing mine all that comforting.
“What the hell are they listening to anyway?” I said, louder, in an effort to brighten the mood.
“Terra’s going through a Tom Jones phase. Don’t ask me why, but she’s nuts about him. Especially when she has a man over.”
“That a frequent occurrence?” I asked, refilling my glass.
“Mm,” she said, swallowing a taste of wine. “She broke up with a guy recently, dyed her hair blond, got her belly button pierced, and has been, uh, well, let’s just say, dating a lot.”
“Why is it when women end a relationship they start dating like crazy, and when men break up they go into a protracted hibernation?”
“A somewhat sweeping generalization, don’t you think? When I divorced I just wanted to be alone. And I was. For a long time.”
A silence descended, which the music blaringly filled. We sipped our wine for a moment, having momentarily lost the thread of our conversation.
“Do you like Tom Jones?” Maya asked, her face twisted into a grimace.
“He’s an acquired taste,” I said. “Has to be the right occasion. Though I’m hard-pressed to conjure one at the moment. Maybe after a successful run at the blackjack table and five double Scotches.”
She laughed. “I know what you mean.” She traced a red-nailed finger along the rim of her wineglass and cast her eyes down. I kept oxygenating the wine in my glass out of habit, even though it had long since stopped needing it. We were both marking time until Jack and Terra withdrew somewhere more private. “So, what’s your novel about?” she finally broke the silence.
“It’s a mystery.”
“What’s the story, or the premise, or whatever?”
“It features a private eye who can only solve cases after he’s had two bottles of the finest Bourgogne Rouge.”
She laughed. “Lew Archer meets Robert Parker?”
I laughed.
“No,” I elaborated, “it’s about skullduggery in Hollywood.”
“That’s great you’re getting it published.”
I bit my upper lip and hoped it wasn’t noticeable. “Yeah, I guess,” I said weakly, pretending modesty.
“Is that what you want to be writing? Mysteries?”
I shrugged, eager to shift to another topic. “If this one takes off, yeah. I can write one a year and become Sue Grafton’s dark side.”
Maya laughed softly. She sipped her wine again and mercifully changed the subject. “What do you think of this Tantara?”
“I don’t know if it’s my palate or not, but it seems to be losing its fruit. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
She held the glass up to appraising, narrowed eyes. “Too much alcohol. Overwhelms the fruit.”
“Is that what it is?” I wondered.
“Sometimes they build them too powerfully,” she said.
I stared at her until she blushed. I had momentarily forgotten about my debauched, betrothed friend and was losing myself in Maya’s wiles and wines. “You really do know a lot about wine, don’t you?”
“Why? Does that surprise you?” she said defensively.
I shook my head. “It’s just refreshing. The wine world is so male dominated.”
There was another silence. Tom Jones crooned away. I didn’t hear any other sounds from the living room, so I assumed Jack and Terra were pretty deeply entangled in each other. I must have looked downcast, because Maya said, “Are you uncomfortable here?”
I raised my head to look at her. She was a tall, full-figured woman, wit
h high cheekbones and bold facial features. And yet they seemed underscored by something
She nodded. A few wordless minutes passed. Then the volume on the music dropped abruptly. Maya gestured with her head in the direction of the living room. “Want to go in the other room where it’s more comfortable?”
“What’s happening with them?” I said.
“Oh,” Maya smiled slyly, “I think your friend and mine have moved on to bigger and better things.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, getting a sick feeling in my stomach. Then it occurred to me that it would all be over in a few hours. In the morning I would dutifully listen to Jack’s blow-by-blow of the best fuck of his life and that would be that. We would play some golf, do some more wine tasting, gorge ourselves at the local restaurants, and then I’d send him off to the altar. “Yeah, let’s,” I replied, convincing myself that this was a one-night anomaly.
We rose from the kitchen table, and Maya picked up the Tantara and led me into the main room. There were no lights on anymore. The room was lit solely by candles and the warm glow emanating from the embers in the fireplace. I settled down on the couch as Maya knelt in front of the stereo, which was positioned low on an entertainment console. Her sweater rose up out of the back of her skirt and I could make out the two firm lower back muscles that flanked her spine. My eyes followed them down to a dark hollow leading into her underwear. From a bedroom down the hall we could hear occasional shrieks of laughter interspersed with silences. I imagined half-clothed bodies in amorous clenches.
“Any preferences?” Maya asked, throwing me a backward glance and smiling.
I shook my head. “Whatever you feel like. I’m easy.”
She selected a jazz compilation CD to cleanse the air of Tom Jones. Then she coiled to a standing position, stepped across the room, sat opposite me on the couch, and draped her arm on the backrest. She locked her eyes on mine, but I looked away and sipped the wine. Drunk as I was, I was keenly aware of the fact that if this woman knew the truth about my life she wouldn’t be caught dead with me, even for one night.
“I take it you’re no longer with the Lit professor?” I inquired.
She shook her head slowly several times, one for each reason she didn’t feel like explaining. “Nope.”
