Just Like That

by Karin Kallmaker

  “This is Nate’s. I don’t know what it’s really called,” Syrah added hastily, “but it’s run by Nate. Doesn’t matter who’s behind the bar, the tag says Nate.”

  Toni liked it immediately. The bar was long, worn but well-polished, and the ceiling was strung closely with hundreds of glass prisms. The low light shimmered as if supplied by candles. Banked behind the bar was a wide variety of spirits. A clatter at the far end promised a kitchen of some kind and she quickly identified the aroma of French fries and possibly fried cod. “This is perfect.”

  “They make a great Reuben or grilled cheese, and the fish and chips are good if you’re in the mood. That’s the whole menu by the way. There was a foray into cheese sticks a few years back, but it didn’t sit well with the regulars.”

  “Would that include you?” Toni gently pressed her hand to Syrah’s back as they followed the bartender’s gesture toward a booth.

  “No, afraid not. I’ve just been here on the occasional late night, when everything else is closed.” Syrah slid into the booth with a relieved sigh. “This is just what I needed, too. Sometimes living where you work can be a little stifling.”

  It had taken a great effort not to run her hand up Syrah’s spine in time to the slow, silky jazz that oozed from the speakers. “Why did you go to Europe? You were away for, what, four years?”

  Syrah’s expression shuttered. “How did you know that?”

  “Your father told me.” She knew Syrah was a good dancer, but the kind of dancing Toni couldn’t seem to stop thinking about wasn’t upright.

  Syrah eased into a slight smile. “I didn’t want to be an Ardani. I was certain there was more to life than that, and more to wine-making than the way we did it. So I went to France, primarily, and apprenticed in several places.”

  “Did you get what you wanted out of it?”

  “You ask very probing questions.”

  “Sorry.” The arrival of the bartender startled Toni but she recovered quickly. “Tennessee whiskey, neat.”

  “Daniels or Dickel?” The bartender—Nate, the nametag said—swiped the table in front of them with a towel that had at one time been white.

  “Dickel. And a glass of ginger ale.” She nodded at Syrah.

  “A mudslide, heavy on the mud.”

  The bartender grunted and walked off, leaving Toni to remark, “A milkshake in a place like this?”

  “It’s more than a milkshake,” Syrah chided. “It’s got alcohol in it.”

  “It’s grownup chocolate milk, frozen.”

  Syrah sat back against the cushion. “Did I criticize you for choosing a distillate of corn mash? One could argue it’s a grownup breakfast cereal.”

  “Works for me.” Toni tried to relax but found herself leaning on the table so she could better see Syrah’s expression. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “About?”

  “Europe. Did you get what you wanted out of it?”

  “Yes and no. I learned a lot about wine. When I got home I was more of an Ardani than ever.”

  “Was that so bad?”

  “It only seemed so for a while. I wasn’t ready to come home but I am very glad that I did.”

  The drinks arrived and they both ordered fish and chips.

  Syrah hoisted her tall, frosted glass. “To business, successfully concluded.”

  Toni nodded and raised her glass as well. “We’ve bought some time today.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Syrah said after a long sip from her glass, “that you say we.”

  “Does that bother you? I don’t usually.” She generally kept her boundaries much, much cleaner than that.

  Syrah shrugged. “Why make an exception for us?”

  “I think…” She had another sip of whiskey and let it warm her throat before she went on. “I think it’s because your father always puts it that way. And I like him. I like him a lot.”

  Her expression softening, Syrah said quietly, “Dad is special. Sometimes he’s in a world so far above ours that it’s frustrating, but he is a patient teacher, a kind man. And a good father.” She frowned at her drink. “This is going right to my head.”

  Toni felt much the same about her whiskey. “My father spoke highly of yours. Did you know your dad introduced my parents to each other?”

  “No, nobody told me that.” She pushed her drink away and reached for the glass of water. “I’ll go slow. After Saturday night I don’t want any repeats. I was blotto.”

  Toni didn’t agree with her, not aloud at least. In spite of Caroline’s criticism, she knew there were times when agreeing with the truth was a bad idea. “I was so hot I thought I’d have heat stroke. Missy didn’t give me a chance to change.”

  “Oh, I thought you were into suffering.”

  “The beer saved me from heatstroke.”

  “I should have stuck with beer. I like Missy, by the way. As my dad likes to say, she’d make a good grape.”

  Toni’s heartfelt laugh turned heads. “That is priceless—and perfect. A sparkling white, it suits her.”

  “Fruity only in the aroma, then warm at the first taste.”

  “Sounds like Missy.” Toni wondered how Syrah would describe her as wine. Acidic, likely.

  Syrah was having another long sip from her drink, and the way she licked her lips free of the foam made Toni hide a smile. It was a milkshake no matter how much Irish cream was in it, and if Syrah had been in pigtails the picture of a child enjoying her treat would have been complete. “Are you like a Syrah grape?”

  “Syrah with a Y or Sirah with an I?”

  “I did wonder what the difference was.” She’d been trying to pay attention, and Internet searches had helped, but the more she learned the more it was obvious that years of study would be necessary to become even modestly conversant about grapes and winemaking. That, or personal tutoring, but it really wasn’t grapes that were uppermost in Toni’s mind.

  Syrah gazed into her mudslide as she answered Toni’s question. “Petite Sirah and Syrah are both Rhone valley grapes, but they’re otherwise not related. In Europe the petites are generally out of favor—they’re small and tart, usually, though some argue those are really Durifs. Our petites, though, aren’t Durifs and they can act as good agents mixed carefully with less complicated reds. Our Petite Sirahs can be really dark and they have a long-lasting peak.”

  Toni nodded as if she was following all of it—mostly she thought she understood. “And Syrah with a Y?”

  Syrah colored slightly. “Well, I think as a youth, I was spicy, but I never thought smoky worked.”

  Oh, Toni thought, but it did. Smoky—it was exceedingly apt. “And now that you’re, what, thirty?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Ancient.”

  “I’m not a child,” Syrah said sharply.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that you were.” Note to self, Toni thought, avoid that particular sore spot. “Thirty-something can hardly be called your maturity, however.”

  Syrah gave her a suspicious look. “No, I suppose not. But I don’t think I’m silky violet and rose petals, either. That always sounds funereal to me.”

  Smoky, silky violet and rose…Toni was buying every word. “What’s the mature Syrah like, then?”

  “Blackberries, pepper and enduring complexities.”

  Sounds fun, Toni thought. “We could all aspire to that. At least the enduring part.”

  “My mom died when I was little, but my father says I resemble her.”

  Thinking of Anthony’s broad, regular features, Toni said, “I do like your father, but it’s true. You don’t resemble him, except the smile.”

  “I asked him once how he managed to get my mom to marry him and he said it was his smile and willingness to lie through his teeth if necessary.”

  Toni was again startled by another bartender and she leaned back to let Nate—a woman this time—put two steaming plates of fish and fries down on the table. Two bowls of coleslaw quickly followed and Toni didn’t
hesitate to grab the ketchup.

  “This is a long way from Tavern on the Green,” she said without thinking.

  “Go there often?” Syrah smoothed the rough surface of the table with one hand.

  “I used to. I was dating someone who valued that kind of experience on a regular basis.” She hadn’t meant to go into her past.

  “Did you value that experience on a regular basis?”

  “At times. Sometimes a hot dog from a street vendor can be better. I got away from that for a while, that’s all.” Too much whiskey, too fast, Toni thought. If she told Syrah all her secrets she’d be a goner.

  Syrah broke open a piece of the cod and dunked it in the tartar sauce. “We’ve got fried, fried, mayo, mayo.” She nodded at the coleslaw. “Cabbage. There is cabbage.”

  “You’re spoiling my meal, mentioning vegetables.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been leaning on Bennett the last month or so. Dad’s cholesterol keeps creeping up. It’s like talking to a wall.”

  “I can imagine. Still, olive oil and wine are supposed to be good for us, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, in moderation. Not with a pound of cheese and cream.” Syrah finished blowing on the hot fish and took a tentative bite. “On the other hand, this is perfect comfort food.”

  “Are you in need of comfort?” A physical jolt surged through Toni at the thought of putting her arms around Syrah, even just to comfort her.

  “Isn’t everybody?” She swallowed and gazed at Toni for a still moment, then broke the mood by reaching for her drink. “Sometimes comfort can be all we need.”

  Toni flushed as she realized Syrah was staring again at the bruises Caroline had left on her arm. She hadn’t even felt them at the time, but she was well aware of exactly when they had happened. It hadn’t been about anything so simple as comfort. “Sometimes.”

  Syrah looked away and Toni realized she had given the wrong impression and there was nothing she could say to fix it. It was between Caroline and her, and Syrah wasn’t…didn’t figure into that. Except, of course, she did. What Syrah thought of her mattered deeply at that moment, and there was no way to explain what Caroline meant to her without sounding like the cad she was. She ought not to have let Caroline get that close, that involved. She’d known better. She’d like to think she’d been drunk, but that didn’t even explain it. How could she explain that she’d felt so detached from Caroline’s passion that part of her hadn’t really felt anything at all had happened?

  They ate in silence for a while and Toni couldn’t tell what Syrah was thinking. The black and gold eyes were lowered, focused on her food, while the shimmering light on her hair made Toni want to feel it filling her hands. The sweater Syrah wore molded strong but softly rounded shoulders that Toni suspected could shiver in responsive delight.

  “Cabernet Sauvignon, but first growth.”

  Toni arched an eyebrow and swallowed quickly. “Pardon me?”

  “If you were a grape.”

  “Oh. Is that good, first growth?”

  “In France it is.”

  Toni wanted in the worst way to ask about here as opposed to France, but any answer Syrah might give scared her. “I know that means a dark red wine—but your complexion is darker than mine.”

  “It’s the inside of a grape that matters more.”

  “Am I that dark? On the inside?”

  “Complicated.”

  That word again. “I really don’t think I’m complicated at all. My rules are very simple.”

  Syrah nearly looked as if she’d ask for a list, but a new Nate arrived to ask if they’d like another drink. Toni shook her head— she wanted another but it would be highly unwise. Syrah also declined but asked for more water. A noisy group entered and they were silent until the bar quieted down a little.

  “So, when are you going back to New York?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to stay another week at least, mostly because Missy got the pool cleaned and working again and I can’t believe what she’s doing with the wallpaper.” Her eyes were saying more, she could feel it.

  Syrah abruptly wouldn’t look at her. “Can you be away from work so long?”

  “I’m not the least bit away from work. My cell phone is a tyrant.”

  “I noticed you’re on it a lot.”

  “Irons in the fire—a lot of them. Mostly it’s colleagues doing their own contracts and wanting ideas or advice from me. Honestly, I had forgotten I was still listed as a receivership analyst with the Delaware Court. One of the lenders requested me as I’d worked on a deal before.”

  “Oh.” Syrah sipped the last of her mudslide. “How does that all work? I mean—forgive me for being tactless about it, but who pays you?”

  “It’s not tactless. How do you know if you don’t ask? The court, if I take a fee.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  She shrugged, not wanting to talk about it in depth. “Sometimes I don’t. It depends on the deal. The court is of course paid by the corporation in question and my fee can sometimes make or break the numbers.” Shut up, she told herself. Don’t let her know that you can be soft. It’s a losing hand.

  Syrah wanted to ask, it was plain in her eyes. Toni wouldn’t let herself say that she had no intention of profiting at all from Ardani. She was too involved, and was caring about things having nothing to do with money, which meant she was not serving her clients’ best interests.

  They gazed at each other for far too long and finally Toni could not hold back a shivering gasp. Never in her life had she felt so examined and so known by another woman. “What?”

  “Nothing that we can talk about, I suppose.”

  “No, not really.”

  Original Nate stopped at their table. “Dessert for you ladies?”

  Toni waited to see what Syrah wanted before she, too, shook her head. “Not tonight.” She handed over a credit card and Nate toddled off with their dishes. “This was good, thank you. Just what I needed.”

  “Comfort food?”

  “Yes, and interesting company.”

  “Interesting? I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.”

  “It was meant that way.”

  Syrah’s smile with tight. “I was wondering if interesting was like the Chinese curse, may you live in interesting times.”

  “I can promise you I will probably think of people as grapes for the rest of my life.” She signed the check, thanked Nate and they got up to leave.

  To her surprise the temperature outside had dropped significantly. Syrah shivered.

  “I don’t even have a coat to offer you,” Toni said.

  “It’s okay. It’s good for me—stressing the vine.”

  Toni opened Syrah’s door. “Wouldn’t that be bad for you?”

  Syrah answered once Toni had the car safely backed out of the parking space. “Stressed vines are stronger and bear smaller, more intense fruit. Weather extremes and too little water are the most common stressors. I think it applies to people. A little discomfort makes us appreciate things that feel good. Like a hot bath.”

  Toni’s thighs clenched at the idea of slipping into a bathtub of hot, soapy water with Syrah. “I will confess, I thought you picked the grapes, stomped them and put the juice in bottles. Later, you open the bottle and drink.”

  Syrah laughed. “That can turn out something drinkable, but actually, at a minimum, you have to dilute the juice with water. Some vintners can stop there if the grapes are just right.”

  Hoping she remembered the return trip, Toni angled for the highway on-ramp, but Syrah touched her arm.

  “We can avoid the traffic if you keep going.”

  The country roads were dark, but Toni didn’t mind going slow. There were a few other cars out and the lights of the occasional home, set back from the road, flickered in the distance.

  “Our land is on the right, now.” Syrah’s voice, soft and tender, sent a shiver up Toni’s spine.

  “I read the surveyor’s description, but it had n
o sense of scale to me. Maybe I’m too city-bred to know what five hundred acres here and two hundred acres there really means.”

  “If you turn here and promise to drive slow, we can go through the back way.”

  “I promise. Thank you for trusting me after this afternoon.”

  Her voice was even softer. “I’ll get the gate.”

  Toni didn’t know what to do with the ache she felt as she watched Syrah move in the glow of the headlights. She briefly struggled with the lock, then the gate swung open and Toni had the bizarre feeling she was being given entrance to Syrah’s world in a way she’d never get walking in through the front door.

  She rolled down the windows to let the night in and moments later Syrah slipped into the passenger seat again, bringing with her the damp, heady scent of cologne and earth.

  “We won’t get lost, will we?”

  “I know the way. I thought we had some patchy fog, given how damp it is, but the sky is clear.”

  “I can’t tell you the last time I saw a clear night sky and took the time to notice it.”

  They drove slowly along the packed dirt road, saying nothing. Toni thought Syrah ought to be able to hear her pounding heart. It’s not a good idea, none of this is smart, she tried to tell herself. This was foolish in a way that was different from being foolish with Caroline. This is going to hurt both of us.

  Syrah made a little noise, then said, “If you stop here, we can stargaze. The moon is just rising, so visibility is good. I know a few constellations.”

  Dumb, this was dumb, but the voice telling Toni so was helpless to stop her hands from switching off the ignition and turning off the lights.

  They got out of the car and for a few minutes, while Syrah pointed heavenward, they were on opposite sides.

  “The small one with red tones, see that? Just to the left is a cluster. That’s the Pleiades.”

  “I don’t see the red star.”

  They met in the front of the car and leaned their heads together so Toni could sight along Syrah’s finger. “There. It’s very small, but tinged in red. Next to the larger blue one.”