by Diana Stone
“Not too much these days. Mom and Dad put in the counter after a trip to Italy. The cooking stopped after my dad died. He was amazing in the kitchen,” he fondly remembers. “But now we can use it for mead making. As you see, I have our supplies all over it,” he says with eager anticipation, pointing to everything on the counter.
Today we vote to make tangerine mead. This is a lot of fun. I’m sampling his older batches and of course, giving my opinion. I also taste a few spoonfuls of wildflower honey he bought from the local bee farmer. It’s delicious. I’d like to go honey tasting one day.
We spend the next 2 hours laughing and having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. Eric is light-hearted, but not a goof-ball. He’s intelligent and can figure out the future alcohol content of the mead. It was only later I saw the hydrometer already had it marked. Oh well, I know he’s smart. He’s recounting stories of growing up in this house. He used to ride all over the hills with his friends and their horses. What a great childhood. He’s a really decent guy.
He has his own mead making process, so I just stand around trying to look helpful. It’s pretty easy with all this room. It starts with filtered water, then we dollop in three pounds of honey. For this recipe, he likes the orange blossom the best. You can also use the mixed foreign stuff since is cheaper, but the quality sucks. He has done quite a few experiments and made many batches.
“You know, you’re not exactly who I thought you were when we first met. I know you’re great with people, but you’re also pretty brainy,” I’m brave enough to advise him in my slightly inebriated state.
“You thought I was a dumb yokel?” he laughs.
“Well, no.” How do I put this? “Usually, people who have a lot of people skills don’t have as many marbles in the intelligence pile. You have a pretty even amount of marbles in your piles.”
“I haven’t heard it put that way before. I guess it’s true when you think about it.”
We finish the first step of combining the ingredients. There’s nothing to it, just mix, and let nature do the rest. I’m trying to lend a hand in the clean-up process. But he knows where everything goes, so I have little to do. While rummaging around in the fridge, he asks what I’d like to eat. I’m easy, I tell him. Then I remember that I don’t care much for meat, nor seafood. I guess I’m not too easy. In the end, he pulls out chicken breasts, barbecues them, and shreds them into a salad. I get to help by crunching the tortilla chips by hand. Then he adds corn, cilantro, olives, and dressing. And viola, it becomes Mexican chicken salad. How does anyone keep all this ready to eat in the fridge? I have a peek inside and see that it’s completely jammed with natural whole food, real ingredients, and fruits and vegetables. Very impressive.
“You have an amazing amount of food in the fridge. Are you sure you live here alone?”
“I go through it pretty fast, but if there’s anything I don’t eat, I toss it outside and it’s gone in the morning. What with the quail, coyotes and everyone else, there’s never anything left,” he explains.
Carrying our massive bowls of salad out to the patio table, we sit in companionable silence, watching as the evening sky turns to shades of pink and purple. A slight, cool breeze stirs the leaves as peace settles in for the night.
Our conversation is flowing light and easy. It swings around to the vortex, so I explain more about what I know. That leads to my story of meeting Jack at his winery and getting thrown out with Pickett. Then I continue with my rattlesnake escapade, which leads back to the vortex and my insight that Jack may be my soul-mate. I’m honest about what I feel, except for our night in bed.
“It’s what the deep-me wants. But I think there must be free-will involved since Jack doesn’t seem to be on the same path as I am.
“You’re hung up on Jack,” he doesn’t sound pleased.
“Well, he has some pretty good qualities, and did save me from the rattlesnakes,” I’d better switch to a safer topic. “So you had insight when you smelled the sage?
“Yes, pretty strong,” he is silent for a moment. “I saw us as very good friends. We’ll have to see if that comes true.”
“It sure feels like it. I’m really enjoying myself.” I didn’t have the guts to say anything else, I don’t want to lead him on. I wonder if he feels we’re more than just friends. I’m still waiting for Jack, so I’m not going to start too many fires burning at once. I’m going to wait for the best because I’ve learned not to settle. In the past, I haven’t put that into practice; I intend to this time.
“I’d better not overstay my welcome if I want to be invited back,” I stand with my dish and glass in hand.
“That isn’t a problem, you’re always welcome. You saved Calypso, you can come over as often as you like.”
“Great, once a week for mead making?” It’s sort of a joke… or not.
“Sounds good. Oh, one other thing. Calypso has recovered so well, I’ll be taking him on the Wine Country 25 mile ride, but we’ll go at his pace. Would you be interested in crewing for me? I know it’s an imposition, but you know horses and could give me a second opinion if he looks tired.”
“That sounds fun. I need to pay it forward because my mother and friends crewed for me. The snacks and juice for me, a bucket of water for my horse. This way I can join the fun and avoid the fatigue of the ride.” And it will get me into the world and stop me moping about Jack.
“Great, thanks very much. It’s the Saturday after next.”
“In keeping with the new blossoming me, is there a Friday night BBQ or dance?”
“I think there’s something, I’ll check on it. What’s this about the new you?”
“I guess we never got around to talking about my past, only yours. I’ll give you the whole story at our next mead making fest.”
“I can’t wait, are there any skeletons in the closet you plan on telling me about?” he asks with enthusiasm.
“I’m a good girl, I’ve only had a few adventures.” I’m a boring good girl. That’s why he divorced me, and I moved to the wine country.
29
Planning a Date
The following week goes smoothly with the riders. No one falls off, no screaming children. All good. Eric trailers in twice, though he can’t stay afterward. He has work to do with his business. I still don’t know what he does. It hasn’t come up, but I’ll have to find out. Though it really doesn’t matter, since I’m not considering him for boyfriend status.
I’ve been using Bunny to lead the afternoon rides, and she’s taken a liking to Calypso. That’s somewhat unusual, being that he’s gray. Most horses don’t like grays. I’ve noticed they smell different when they sweat. But a good horse is a good horse. I have never turned down a good gray, or one with too much white on his face or legs. It’s hard enough to find a good horse without being neurotic over color.
Jack texted me twice. Right, only twice this entire week. It’s a little frustrating. Well, more than frustrating. This was the first one: “Hey gorgeous, just checking in. I’m back in town and very busy. Want to get together with you soon.”
I replied: “Hi handsome. I’ve had a great week. Been making mead, riding and having fun…”
I’m being very careful about not chasing him. I’m also trying to make it sound like I’m having a blast without him. Don’t you want to join in? Come on buddy, join in.
He texted today: “Glad you’re having fun, you deserve it.” What the devil? He’s either obtuse, not interested or, or what? I know I’m still hung up on him. I hate it. It’s not because I slept with him. I was interested before that. He’s back in town, very busy, and nothing is happening. Am I missing something?
I love riding my horses and leading rides through the vineyards and hills. I love talking to the riders and sometimes hearing some of the drama in their lives. I mostly lose myself in my job. At night, while lying in bed, my mind starts whirling again. It’s analyzing the Jack situation. I have to give it a little more time because the guy is amazing. He wrest
led a rattlesnake for me—that shows how brave he is. I hope it means he’s more than just fond of me. So what about me? I think I’m a good catch. I’m feminine, in an outdoorsy sort of way. I think he’s interested when we actually spend time together, though that seems hard to do. If he were really intrigued, wouldn’t he make more time for me? I don’t know. But he first has to divorce his wife. That’s the tough part. I’ll wait for him... as long as it isn’t a waste of time.
Fine, I’ll show him, I’ll have fun without him. Tonight I’m going to the next mead making session at Eric’s. I’m leaving about half an hour early to give me time to get a pastry at Monica’s. I don’t want to arrive empty-handed when he is so generous with his cooking.
Her place is busy as usual. There is a short period when her store is empty. We have time to say a few words while I peruse the selection in the showcases. By now there isn’t much left. Ah, a marzipan pastry. That will work. I love marzipan. She wraps it for me and slips it into one of her lovely bags.
An idea occurs to me, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“I have no time to see anyone except for the delivery man. I should probably get a life and start dating, but it’s easier to keep working and ignore the passing of time.”
“Do you know Eric Paxton?” I have a plan.
“Eric, yes. He’s a nice guy, good looking too. He’s an inventor of sorts.”
“Inventor?” What does she know that I don’t? I’m out of the loop.
“Right, I heard he made a bundle on some kind of medical device that holds the trachea open after a tracheostomy.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, he’s a friend, and I think he needs to meet a nice girl. Would you like to double date if I can set it up with Jack? I’m having a hell of a time corralling him. Maybe it would be easier if we were all together.” It sounds like a good idea to me.
“That sounds okay, just keep it local so I can keep to my work schedule. I’m late to bed and extremely early to rise,” she admits.
“Your schedule would kill me. I’ll ask Eric tonight; I’m on my way there. We’re making mead once a week. It’s fun, and I get to sample his other meads that are in various stages of fermentation.”
“Well, have fun tonight. Let me know when, and I’ll make it work,” she smiles, then gets back to organizing rows of pastries.
Good, now I can match up two friends, and have a great excuse to call Jack for a casual get-together. In fact, I’ll call him right now. I’ll skip the text and go for the old-fashioned person to person call, or I’ll at least leave a perky message. I have to be perky, as I have to clear out my mental baggage from my ex. He told me I wasn’t perky.
He’s answering, turn on the perk. “Hi Jack, it’s Jessica. We haven’t spoken in ages, do you have a minute?”
“Hey Jess, sure what’s going on?”
“I wonder if you’d like to get together for dinner. When would be a good night?” I use the sales technique similar to asking if Tuesday would work, or if Thursday is better.
“Tuesday works for me. I’ll pick you up at 6 and take you to Il Toscana in Santa Barbara,” he says. “There’s my other line, see you Tuesday,” he clicks off.
I didn’t manage to tell him it’s a double date. I wonder if he’ll care. Also, Santa Barbara isn’t local. Darn it. I don’t want to call back and change it. I’m lucky he agreed to the date at all.
I send a quick text to Monica letting her know I have Jack on board, but it’s in Santa Barbara. Then I drive off to make mead at the top of the hill.
* * *
I start up Eric’s long driveway and notice I’m about ten minutes early. I’ll hang out at the barn, or if he’s busy, I’ll look at the view. I’m in love with the wide open spaces in this section of the valley.
As I sweep up to the top my eyes behold a vision. Eric, walking back from the barn. He’s brushing hay off himself and he isn’t wearing a shirt. Normally, shirtless men make me feel a little sick.
He is a picture of beautiful masculinity! His chest and shoulder muscles are honed and oh-so-fine. He has a golden tan on his lean belly. His jeans are riding enticingly low on his hips and he’s wearing cowboy boots. I’ve never seen a real man look this good. His skin is wet with sweat, and speckled with the bits of hay he’s trying to brush off. He looks up, waves, and strides toward the truck… a ground covering stride, an athletic stride.
“Hi, I’m early. I stopped by to pick up dessert at Monica’s,” I hold up the bag.
“Monica’s, you’ll spoil me,” he runs his hands through his hair pulling it back from his face. “Let me get a quick shower. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”
It’s interesting, I never noticed Eric was so hot. Whew, he really is. I’ll think about this later, I can’t let this distract me from my quest with Jack.
I park the truck, grab the pastry, and head inside. I’m glad he likes Monica’s. Perhaps this will work. This is perfect, I’m getting my friends together, and Jack is going along with it. Ah, life is good. It just takes a little thought and everything falls into place. I feel satisfied with the events.
I casually tour the living area. Without anyone watching me peruse, I always like to see what kind of person inhabits the house. He has a couple of family photos with his mother. That must be his dad, a good looking older man with a happy smile, his arms around his wife and son. That’s really sweet, I wonder if they were as happy as they look? There are also framed photos of horses long gone. Horses who took a piece of your heart when they moved on. I get a little teary looking at the horses. I’ve had a few of my own who left too soon. What an emotional testament to the man. The fact that he framed these pictures, that says a lot about him.
I move to his book collection in the wall unit. Volumes dedicated to business, romance—that’s interesting, veterinary care for horses, cooking, landscaping and umpteen other types of reading. I could sit for months looking through these interesting books. One for each mood. He also has a self-help section. I wonder if these are his. What man is into self-help? This conflicts with the body image of the guy I saw a few minutes ago. He’s a hunk and into self-help? Let’s see what kind of help he thinks he needs, I have to make it quick, since his books may be private.
Some are about insight and energy healing, chakras and all that stuff. They’re well-thumbed through with notes scratched on the pages. Meditation books have the same thing. I’ll think about this later. I hadn’t planned on prying to this extent. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen and look innocent.
He appears in the hallway with wet hair that looks like he gave his head a shake, instead of a blow dry. He’s wearing a softly faded t-shirt and jeans. And bare feet, and what nice looking bare feet. Oh, what is he doing to my emotions? I’m here as a friend and to make mead I remind myself… twice. I think I’ll forever remember him walking barefoot across the Mexican Saltillo-tile floor.
Tonight’s mead making begins with our flavor selection. The flavor we choose depends on what he has in the refrigerator. He’s leaning on the open fridge door looking at the contents. “Let’s see, our options are raspberry, apple, or grapefruit. We can go weird with lettuce, carrot or something else?” he inquires with a grin but holds up the raspberry container.
“Let’s go with tasty raspberry and leave the weird flavors until we’re experts.”
He shows me where he keeps the fermentation bucket and funnels, yeasts, all the goodies we’ll need for the process. He has several bins-drawers under the insanely huge island all within ready reach. The mead process is similar to last time. From selecting the yeast he thinks will go best with the berries, to proofing it in warm, but not too warm water. It’s pretty easy, since I’ve done it before. This time I know where things go, so I can be more help.
He points to a cabinet and tells me to have a look. I head over and find lots of his home-brew all neatly labeled with the dates of creation. I admit I’m stunned. He doesn’t look neurotically tidy, but this is well presented.
“I used to have the messy, hap-hazard method. But mead takes time to develop. I had no idea if it tasted awful because of lack of fermentation time, or because I did something wrong.”
“Oh good, I was afraid you were one of those people who line up their cans in a perfect row.” That’s a relief, he isn’t neurotic.
“Have a look in the pantry,” he steps over to the double doors and opens them to reveal a mostly tidy cabinet, but by no means perfect. “See, I’m normal.” He moves back to the fridge, “As far as dinner is concerned, would you like an omelet?” He stands in the open door, scanning for options.
“An omelet sounds great, what sort of good things do you have?” I ask, a little suggestively.
“I have a lot of good things, but do you mean for dinner?” he lightly jokes, digging around, opening the drawers and moving things aside. “I can throw in lots of stuff like mushrooms and onions, spinach, blue cheese. Is there anything else you want to add?”
“You have it all.”
He piles his arms with the ingredients, like Rachel Ray in her cooking show. He’s really cute this way. He tells me to have a seat, so I can gaze at his wondrous cooking skills. I comply and enjoy a gorgeous man cooking a delicious meal.
It’s a bit chilly out on the patio this evening. It seems to be threatening rain. I hope it does, we sure need some moisture. It’s so dry around here. As I’m wishing, it starts to sprinkle. Water from heaven!
“It’s raining!” I feel like a parched woman in the desert. I dash to the open patio door.
He comes to stand beside me. We both watch the beauty of the driveway turning from dusty gray to wet black. The smell is wonderfully wet-earth. More flows from the sky as we stand here.
Unexpectedly, he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward him. He releases me a few moments later. Was that due to the emotion of the rain, or was it a tentative test to see how I’d react to body contact. Either way, I’m fine with it, I find him attractive, and we’re getting to be friends. I am not going to back him off even though I have a date planned with Jack.
