by Rex Pickett
“Woman intimidates me,” I said, half-seriously.
“Oh, Christ. It’s the kind of intimidation you need, brother. You probably intimidate her.”
“Oh, bullshit,” I said.
“Successful novelist. Hip movie business wine guy. Come on.” He pinched my cheek. “Wipe that scowl off your face.”
“Hey, let’s not gild the lilted lily, shall we?”
“Are we talking about your pecker or your book?”
“Both.”
Jack laughed boisterously, happy I had returned to form, and rewarded himself with a sip. I did the same. His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s the money thing, isn’t it? That’s what’s got you worried, am I right? Finds out you’re filching from poor ol’ Mom, she’ll …”
“All right, Jackson,” I chopped him off. “Can it.”
“Can dish it out, but can’t take it.”
I sipped my wine.
“It’s the money issue, isn’t it?” Jack persisted.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “The woman finds out how I’m living she’s going to lose all interest. If you don’t have money, especially at my age, you’re not a breeder, you’re a pasture animal waiting for your turn at the abattoir.”
Jack eyed me thoughtfully. “I discussed this with Babs,” he began haltingly, folding his hands and resting them on the bar. “We’ve decided to invest ten grand in your writing career.”
I looked at him like he was mad. “What? I don’t want you to.”
“Why?” he said, looking genuinely surprised that I would reject his offer out of hand.
“Because I don’t want to be indebted to you.”
“Did you hear me? It’s an investment, not a loan.”
I frowned. “Investments are worse than loans because there’s an expectation of repayment. Loans I don’t repay, you know that.”
He leaned in closer. “I’m telling you, Homes, we’re going to give you ten Gs to get your life back on track, and you’re telling me no deal? Our cash stinks?”
“That’s right,” I said flatly.
“Would it make a difference if I told you that Babs’s parents are giving her a half a million the day we get married?”
I looked openmouthed at Jack. He nodded deliberately, a little ashamed, and I knew he wasn’t making it up. “And you were about to run off with another woman?” I shook my head in complete bewilderment. “You’re certifiable, Jackson.”
“Did it occur to you that I might have doubts about entering the lap of luxury via the marriage route?”
“Well, I would certainly hope you’re marrying her for more than just the fucking money.”
“Look, Homes. She wants to marry me so she can get the money, too. Okay?” He turned away. He didn’t want cynicism now; he wanted understanding. “And buy a house, and start a family. And all that other good stuff.”
“Well, I’m flabbergasted, Jackson. I didn’t realize it was a white-picket-fence kind of package.”
Jack ignored my remark. “So, ten grand ain’t shit. And if your book sells—which it will—you can pay us back. If
“You’re going to have children?” I asked, envisioning suddenly this long friendship closing a chapter and slipping into the past.
“Might pop a couple out,” Jack said.
I was floored. I gestured to the imaginary figures of Maya and Terra conferring in the ladies’ room, or wherever the hell women convened to finalize the booty call. “So, what’s this? Practice?”
“No, it ain’t practice. It’s about knowing there’s still life left in these limbs, and that this face”—he tapped his cheekbone—“has still got the goods to rope ’em in.”
“So, you’re going to invest ten large ones in my writing career, without any guarantee of remuneration?”
“I believe that’s what I said. And I ain’t drunk either. Yet!”
I chuckled. I was getting a fuzzy wonderful feeling envisioning all my money problems being resolved for the next few months. No creditors hounding me. No ambushes from my landlord. “And Babs approved this?”
“Absolutely. Without hesitation.” He laid a hand on my neck and squeezed it. “I care about you, man. So does Babs. She still asks about you all the time.”
A sick feeling crept up on me that he was trying to buy my trust with money, but it seemed churlish to accuse him of it. Besides, I needed the cash badly, and if that meant tomcatting another night away, then so be it.
Terra suddenly appeared and Jack hopped off the bar stool with a grand flourish, shepherding her back between us. A great weight had been lifted from my mind knowing that I’d be able to replace the two grand I had heisted from my mother. I’d be able to stop worrying about the rent and
I leaned over to hear Terra saying, “How would you guys like to go to the Cedar Spa? It’s up in the mountains.” She turned to me with that peach-pretty face of hers. “They have these incredible outdoor hot tubs where you can see the stars like you wouldn’t believe.” She glanced back and forth between Jack and me expectantly, waiting for the answer she was sure would be coming. “What do you think, Miles? Sound like fun?” Over her shoulder, I could make out Jack nodding up and down, face plastered with that affected Cheshire-cat smile of his.
“Sure, Terra,” I said, all of a sudden finding myself factoring in the ten grand that might have been hanging in the balance. But Maya half-naked in a bathing suit, and glasses of Pinot to savor under the stars, made it a no-brainer.
“Great,” Terra said. Jack closed his eyes with the nirvanic look of a Buddha and held his nod prayerfully on the downstroke.
We killed time waiting for Maya, miraculously pacing ourselves for the hot-tub bacchanal with two glasses of Highliner each and oak-grilled ostrich filets from the kitchen, compliments of the house. Terra was a free spirit, and her wonderfully crude sense of humor delighted Jack and me. Under different circumstances, I might have found her endearing and cultivated a long-distance friendship.
From time to time, Maya came in to pick up drink orders and check in on us, and each time she made an appearance she seemed to grow ever more beautiful. Every pair of male eyes at the bar followed her movements wolfishly. I relished their attentions, thinking how truly envious they would be if they knew I was taking her to a hot tub spa after closing time.
Around nine, Maya broke off work early and we all piled into Terra’s red Jeep Cherokee. We stopped briefly at the Windmill so Jack and I could get our bathing suits, and then drove east toward the San Rafael Mountains. The two women sat up front bouncing up and down and singing along to Ivy’s CD, Long Distance, while the two of us lounged in the back, reveling in being whisked away by two spirited beauties.
Halfway to the Cedar Spa, Maya turned around and wordlessly handed me a bottle of wine. She switched on the interior light so I could examine it. I read the lettering on the simple white label: ’85 LA TCHE. “Holy Christ,” I said. “Wow.”
“I thought we’d open it when we get up there,” she said. “I know it’s one for the auction house, but it’s time to be drunk, and I’d hate to see some rich asshole cellar it till it turned into vinegar.”
“I agree,” I said, practically breathless with excitement. Everyone laughed. Maya turned away, leaving the bottle cradled in my lap. I kept staring at the label, mesmerized. I had sampled some fine wines over the years, courtesy of film industry connections, larcenous wine store employees I’d befriended, prospective dates who understood that the way to this man’s heart was not through his stomach but through his liver, and the odd high-end tastings I managed to crash. But an ’85 La Tâche? This was an uncharted plateau, a cloud drifting heavenward, Robert Parker’s world, but not mine. Jack was right. Maya must’ve been trying to impress me! I thought, flattered that she would think of me in connection with this great Burgundian producer.
I passed the bottle as gently as if it were a slumbering infant over to Jack. He studied the label for a minute, knowing
I laughed. “Yeah, fucking A it d
oes, bubba.”
Jack laughed so hard, tears watered his eyes. Maya and Terra turned to us, smiles on their faces, everyone excited and feeling a little silly about the prospect of rare Bourgogne Rouges and beckoning hot tubs under starry skies.
The drive east darkened and the terrain turned mountainous, a piney redolence scenting the air. We were climbing now on twisting roads, guided expertly by Terra who knew the route well—past lovers? I wondered to myself. I was sitting directly behind Maya and with each inhalation of her perfume, memories of old romances disinterred. As we climbed higher into the mountains, Jack jabbed me in the ribs and bumped his shoulder against mine, smiled insinuatingly, and winked suggestively, and all but announced that we were going to have the orgy of a lifetime. Late in the ride, he leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I’m worried about you, Homes.”
I turned to him with a smirk.
“I am,” he said loudly.
“Should we tell them about the boar hunt?”
“Don’t go there, Homes. Don’t go there.” And he pointed a finger at me for emphasis. Then, dropping his voice so that it was barely audible: “This is one of my last nights. I want to go out with a bang, not a whimper.”
“Literally and figuratively,” I said.
Jack grinned.
The Cedar Spa was perched on a ledge in the side of a mountain. Despite being nestled in the deep woods, it commanded a panoramic view of the Santa Ynez Valley.
The moment we climbed out of the Cherokee, we were assaulted by the ringing chirr of legions of crickets. In the sky, when I arched my neck back for a view, stars riddled the blackness, the really dense clusters forming opalescent rivers of luminescence.
Terra and Jack, eager to get a jumpstart on the festivities, disappeared into the office to make the arrangements for the hot tubs while Maya and I remained out front admiring the empyrean in all its amplitude.
“There’s your comet,” I said, pointing out a spot just above the horizon.
“Yeah, you can really see it from up here, can’t you?” she said warmly.
“Beautiful out here,” I added, lowering my head. “Be a good place to write. If you didn’t go mad.”
She lowered her head, smiling. Our faces were close. We shifted awkwardly in place, our shoes crunching on the gravel.
Jack and Terra reeled out of the office, arm in arm, laughing and leaning into each other.
“All right, guys, follow us,” Terra said.
Maya, carrying a canvas tote bag with the La Tâche and who knows what other accoutrements of indulgence, and I followed Jack and Terra down a gently winding gravel path, the two of them giggling like horny teenagers all the way. We came to a small wood-framed cabana and went inside. The tiny, square room contained a twin bed, a working fireplace already lit and crackling romantically, plushy towels and terrycloth robes, and not much else.
Jack and I waited outside to give Terra and Maya privacy to change into their bathing suits. Under the patchwork
A few minutes later, our dream dates joined us. They paused for a moment, striking poses like models on a fashion runway so we could admire their transformation. Maya had changed into a black one-piece suit that elongated her already statuesque figure and celebrated her sinuous curves. Terra sported a red, skimpy bikini, the bottom shaped like a little fig leaf and the top barely concealing her perky breasts. I had to admit, she possessed all the components of one hot, indefatigable, soul-enlightening fuck.
On a small deck table, Maya carefully uncorked the La Tâche and distributed generous dollops of the regal wine into four Riedel Sommeliers glasses she probably reserved for special occasions, while a goosefleshed Terra eased into the hot tub next to Jack. I had an unwelcome image of a Sunday wedding tuxedo waiting in a garment bag a scant ninety miles north. Jesus, get me through this one last night, I thought.
Maya handed us each a glass, then slipped slowly into the hot water next to me. I put my nose into the glass. When I looked around everyone was absorbed in the wine, sniffing and swirling and admiring its pale garnet color.
Jack was the first to weigh in. “Mm. Damn,” he said, smacking his lips, at a loss apparently for an adjectival appraisal.
Then, Terra chimed in: “Yummy.” I liked her response. “So supple and well balanced,” she added, taking some more into her mouth.
Maya turned to me for my assessment. The wine had three distinct acts, like any well-written story. Act one revealed a tart, almost perfumed fruit unlike any Pinot Noir I’d ever tasted. Then, somewhere in the middle, I could detect black truffles and rose petals, almost impossibly harmonized. And, then, act three, it kept calling out caressingly as it went down, like a voice echoing plaintively in a tunnel, while we lamented its absence. In that single glass, the storied terroir of the famous Vosne-Romanée demonstrated why it’s one of the greatest regions for Pinot Noir in all the world.
The wine was so ridiculously ethereal that all I managed was: “It’s really come together beautifully, hasn’t it?”
“Mm hm,” Maya murmured, teasing the La Tâche around in her mouth. “Very little tannin. Good acidic backbone. Still opulent fruit. It’s almost like being in Burgundy.” She looked so lovely rhapsodizing like that. Jack was simply smiling. I was growing rapidly enamored. Here, at the final frontier of impecuniousness and artistic failure, I was drinking one of the finest wines ever made with a woman I could fall deeply for.
The steam rising off the hot water enveloped us in a chlorinated mist. We sipped the Burgundy, exulting in every sip, taking our time and savoring it. Jack had his arm draped around Terra’s naked shoulder and she was
Mercifully, they excused themselves, clambered out of the water, and disappeared inside the cabana. I breaststroked over to the opposite side of the hot tub, rolled over on my back in the languid manner of a seal, and faced Maya through the steam. I felt more comfortable looking directly at her than being shoulder-to-shoulder with her. “It was really incredibly generous of you to open this bottle,” I said.
She smiled. “My pleasure. I wanted to drink it with someone I knew would appreciate it.”
“I’ll put you on my ’82 Latour list.”
“Thank you.” She splashed some water at me. “When’re you going to drink it? I’m serious. I heard it’s past its prime.”
“Soon. When the moment’s really right.” I stared into the dark tunnels of her eyes and she stared back.
From the cabana we heard Terra shriek, then break into convulsive laughter, closely followed by Jack’s heavy guffawing. From the sounds that escaped out of there, I had a pornographic picture in my head of Terra bent over and Jack crimsoning her bottom with lusty spanks. Or maybe
I realized I’d been staring toward the cabana as though I could actually see the carnal scene inside. When I looked back at the hot tub all I found was Maya’s empty wineglass on the deck. A moment later, she rose up out of the water in between my legs, her wet hair clinging to her face, and her eyes looming unnaturally large and luminous with desire. Before I could get my bearings she brought her lips to mine in an assertive shift of her abundant body and kissed me passionately, her tongue plunged deeply into my mouth as if seeking a toehold on a crumbling precipice. She must have sensed a moment of hesitation—God knows I had so many reservations, what with Jack rewiring some poor woman’s heart to self-immolate and my being complicit in the act—because she brushed her lips across my ear and whispered, “Don’t you want me?”
“Yeah,” I said through my ambivalence, wondering if I should tell her everything before things went any further.
“Because I want you,” she said, kissing my ear, then my cheek, then my mouth.
I didn’t say anything in response. A joke about wine and failed erections came to mind—though funny, it seemed inappropriate. A whispered endearment didn’t seem right either, so I just stayed quiet and let her have her way with me. She was a forceful woman who clearly knew what she wanted and even if I had wanted to play coy I’m not sure it wou
ld have stopped her.
After a few minutes of sensual kissing, she slid a hand down into my trunks. My cock quickly stiffened in her exploratory grasp, and my heart hammered wildly when she murmured, “Get up on the edge.”
She coaxed me up out of the water. I leveraged myself
“God,” I cried out loud as her mouth lingered on me.
After a while, Maya abandoned my cock and slithered slowly up my body, tracing her tongue along my sternum, until she reached my face. We kissed a little bit longer until she announced, “We need a room of our own, baby.”
I waited, powerless, still erect, and possibly falling in love, while Maya—now swaddled in a white terrycloth robe—walked over to the main office, vanishing wraithlike into the darkness. When she came back, she simply and silently took me by the hand and led me a short way down a gravel path to another, identical, cabana.
Inside, there was a fire hissing and spitting. The ’90 Jayer Richebourg she had tempted me with at Terra’s three nights before stood uncorked on the table.
“Maya,” I said. “This is just all so incredible.”
“Shh,” she said, putting an index finger to her lips. “It’s my treat.”
She deftly uncorked the Richebourg, poured two glasses, and handed one to me. We sat down next to each other on the small bed and tasted. It was another remarkable expression of Burgundy’s viniferous splendors, different in subtle ways from the La Tâche, perhaps more powerful and explosive, definitely more voluptuous.
We shared tasting notes for a moment, but our passions quickly flared up again, heightened now by the wine and the romantic ambiance. Maya took my glass away and placed it with hers on the end table. She turned and smiled. The upward light of the fire made her look even more beautiful, if that was possible. I smiled back and she moved toward me, falling on me and pushing me down to the mattress. She maneuvered herself on top of me and with deft hands quickly removed her bathing suit. All the while her mouth was firmly planted on mine in a tight, heart-stopping kiss. Her warm skin felt sumptuous against mine and I let myself completely go.
“Are you clean?” she whispered, pulling away far enough to look into my eyes.
