Imola

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  “Do you want some lessons? They come with an overnight stay and some personalized attention.”

  “I’ll have to make a drugstore run on the way home. I’m out of wetsuits.”

  The car decelerated more than necessary for the slight bend in the road.

  Jason noticed her knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “Anything wrong?”

  April stared at the road. “You don’t need condoms.” Her eyes watered.

  Her body language told him to just say okay, but the reporter in him kicked in. “You can’t have kids?”

  Emotion drained from her face. “No. I can’t.”

  “Sorry. You want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  The next few minutes of silence ended with a noticeable acceleration of the BMW.

  April leaned forward in her seat. “We’re around Forestville. Keep an eye out for the Blanchard Family Winery. It’s first on my list.” She glanced at a computer-generated map on the dash. “It should be right around here.”

  They both said, “There,” at the same time as the billboard-sized sign came into view.

  April turned onto the tree-and shrub-lined driveway and buzzed her window down. With a quick turn of her head, she launched a wad of gum from her mouth with a loud ptoo. She raised the window like nothing had happened.

  “You chew a lot of gum.”

  “Halitosis phobia. I’m afraid it’s untreatable. Probably a dopamine receptor problem.” She laughed alone.

  Jason looked up at the rough-wood beams that crisscrossed the tasting room. Although he lived minutes from the wine country, this was his first tasting room experience. And his impression was mixed. Below the ceiling, the place looked like a fancy bar, clean to the point of sterility. But not really his kind of place. The dark plank paneling and crystal chandeliers dripped arrogance and artificial aristocracy, while the open beams and high-pitched roof countered with a sense of landed gentry. Perhaps the difference, heredity, came from the vines themselves. Either way, he felt the all-too-familiar modern reach for the yuppie checkbook.

  Even though those around him swirled, swished, and spat, he gulped his wine in the hopes that April would speed through her sampling routine. No such luck. She was as meticulous as an obsessive-compulsive orb weaver spider, running through a series of facial expressions that would make Marcel Marceau envious. Twenty-five minutes seemed ten times that long, ticked monotonously by a grotesquely ornamented grandfather clock in the corner. The only thing he really liked was the smell, the scent of musky oak casks and in-progress fermentation.

  The scent brought back a memory. He’d experimented with fermentation in his late teens, squeezing some of his mother’s backyard Concord grapes into mason jars and throwing in a little baker’s yeast. The initial smell permeated his bedroom closet, his fabric cologne for a few months of his senior year in high school. He managed to get a little alcohol out of the must, but it was barely palatable, even under the alcohol-any-way-you-could-get-it circumstances. Unfortunately, it had produced little more than a nasty headache.

  Now, well past the magic of the twenty-first year, not much had changed for him. Wine still hadn’t climbed out of the lowest reaches of his alcohol list, and it still gave him a hellacious headache if he drank too much of it. He looked over at April but failed to get her attention. He wished he had some aspirin for a little preventive medication.

  The box wasn’t full, so he didn’t have any trouble carrying it out to the BMW. “So how was it?”

  April tapped the side of the box. “I don’t have a large collection, so you can tell by how much I buy. It has to be really good for me to buy any. The most I’ve ever bought is ten bottles. But usually, I don’t take more than five, like here. With this vintage, I’m prepared to get five from all of the wineries I visit, but I’m hoping for a ten or two before the day is out.”

  With the spoils in the trunk, the BMW hummed into motion with April at the wheel.

  “Their Zinfandel was good. Was that a good vintage?”

  April shrugged. “According to my source, it was so-so. You won’t find the best Zins in the Russian River Valley, although some wineries contract with vineyards from other regions.” She chuckled. “Some fans claim that northern California Zins are like sex: the worst they’d ever had was wonderful. I think the nutty flavor forgives a lot.”

  “How come they didn’t have White Zinfandel?”

  Her look lowered the temperature in the car. “White Zinfandel was marketing genius and enological heresy: fast, mass production of a marginal wine that became trendy with the yuppie crowd. It’s barely aged. Might as well drink flavored malts.”

  The temperature stabilized from the heat radiating from his face. “Where next?”

  “Tedesco Vineyards. If we can find it. Then it’s off to Graton. There’s one winery there I want to taste. Then we loop around to Sebastopol and hit three or four places. That should do it for this afternoon.”

  “That’s a lot of wine sipping. You worried about driving? I can be the designated driver.”

  “No problem. I spit most of what I taste. Only swallow a little bit.”

  He jabbed her in the ribs and laughed. “Pity.”

  She veered so the right wheels left the pavement, bouncing the car. “Your mind goes in the gutter, so does the car.”

  “Better go all the way off-road,” he said. “Wine hits me fast and hard.”

  She glanced at his lap, yanked the wheels back onto the road, and pushed on the accelerator, lurching the car. “Let’s get to the next glass.”

  About a quarter mile and the car slowed. April’s eyes were glued to the road but open wide, moist again. “Jason?”

  His body shifted toward her. “Yes?”

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  He reached over and patted her right thigh.

  A forced smile moved her lips. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t truthful before. I am capable of having children. I just choose not to. I’m on the pill. I’ve lied about it so much it just comes out, like it’s real.”

  “Who would you have to lie to about being able to have kids?”

  No words came through her moving lips.

  Jason sat back in the seat. “If it’s none of my business, don’t worry about it. I’m not ready to have kids yet, either. Maybe I’ll mature enough by the time I hit forty.”

  The sign for Tedesco Vineyards seemed to rescue her, although the relief was brief for Jason. Suddenly, he wanted to sample a few more wines—this time more for the side effects than for the tastes.

  The afternoon dragged on, made more tolerable by April’s curious admission. A half-drunk reporter was still a reporter. And Jason’s skills were still sharp. Only his tact was blunted.

  April grunted as she carried the box toward the back of the BMW.

  “Why don’t you let me carry that for you?”

  “It took five stops to find my ten-bottle Pinot. And you’re not very steady on your feet. For what I paid, I don’t want them dropped.”

  Jason leaned close. “I’m feeling pretty good right now. And I noticed you stopped spitting two wineries ago. This time you asked for a second glass.”

  “I was told that the best would be around Sebastopol, so I made the loop so we’d be here last. The information was accurate. One more stop to go, and I’m told this one is the best of the lot. No spitting that kind of quality.”

  Jason leaned against the passenger door as April rearranged the boxes in the trunk. “I’ll sit the next one out. I’m beyond the point of taste discrimination. You could give me 7-Up and I’d have trouble telling it from champagne.”

  She opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. His second try caught the door handle, and he floppedinto the seat.

  She helped him click his seat belt. “Don’t go to sleep on me, party boy. I’ll want to celebrate my acquisitions.”

  “Some things are beyond mortal control.”

  “Fast and hard, huh?”


  She reached over and cupped his crotch, lightly massaging. “This help?”

  “Heart rate’s up.” He straightened in his seat.

  Her hand returned to the wheel. “Good. One more stop. I have to loop around the town. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  The BMW sped out of the parking lot. His eyes closed two miles down the road.

  “It was my father.” The words were loud.

  Jason jumped. “What? What was your father?” He fisted his eyes.

  “The person I’ve been lying to.”

  It took a minute to play back the previous conversation and regain a mental focus. “Did he pressure you about grandkids?”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  The reporter resurfaced. “You just don’t want kids?”

  Tears welled, this time cresting the levee. “Part of me does.”

  “But part doesn’t. Why not?”

  April pulled the BMW off the road onto a tamped dirt turnout and circled under a large oak tree. She loweredher window and cut the engine. It looked like she was fighting a lip quiver. Her head turned fast, startling him. “I’m afraid.”

  “All women are a little afraid of pregnancy and childbirth. It’s normal.”

  “That’s not my fear.” Her middle fingertips blotted the corners of her eyes. “I had a little brother.”

  Had. A shiver penetrated his torso. “What happened to him?”

  “He was born with a problem.” She looked him in the eyes. “Have you ever heard of microcephaly?”

  He scanned his memory files. “No, but it must have something to do with a small head.”

  “It’s a developmental problem. The head and brain don’t develop properly and, yes, they are undersized. In his case, there were severe mental and physical deficiencies.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  April’s hands shot to her face. “Oh, God.” Sobs accelerated to a bawl.

  Jason unbuckled his seat belt and moved so his arms could surround her. She leaned her head onto his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You don’t have to talk about it if it bothers you.” He hoped she’d go on.

  Her head pulled away. “His name was Harry. Harold. Saying his name brings it all out of the abstract for me. It was so sad. He died when he was only four.”

  He took a chance. “You seem to carry some guilt.”

  “I was young. I didn’t deserve so much responsibility for him. Sometimes he was so cute, but most of the time he fought me. He had seizures and an uncontrollable temper. I guess I was glad when he died.”

  “How old were you when he passed away?”

  A heavy exhalation heaved her shoulders forward. She seemed to relax. “Seven.”

  A green light for him. “Why did you have to take care of him?”

  “My father left us. Mother had to work nights so I could go to school. I didn’t sleep much his last year.”

  A large truck whizzed past and sent a shock wave through April’s open window. A puff of dust followed. She reached to turn the ignition.

  Jason stopped her hand. “Sorry, but I don’t understand. Why would you not want kids? Are you afraid there might be a hereditary problem? Genetic counselors can sort that out.”

  She flopped back in her seat. “That’s part of it.” She reached for the key again.

  Jason flinched but didn’t stop her hand.

  The BMW fired and lurched onto the road.

  Two deep breaths seemed to cleanse April’s mood. “I don’t want to ruin the day any more than I have already. I’m excited about this last winery.”

  “I’ll still sit it out,” Jason said. “Any more wine and I’ll go from sleepy to obnoxious.”

  The headrest cupped his head, but his mind spun too fast to let go. He closed his eyes and hoped the warmth of the late afternoon would do its job.

  A strong jolt shook the car. Jason’s legs shot out, and his toes struck the floorboard. The haze gradually cleared to give him his bearings. He turned in the seat and caught sight of a young man closing the trunk. April slipped the man a bill and skipped toward the driver’s side door.

  She threw open the door and slid into the seat. “You’re awake.”

  “I thought we were having an earthquake.”

  A turn of the key and the BMW matched April’s enthusiasm. “That was the best Pinot I’ve ever had. That thump was a full box, a dozen bottles.” A slight slur stained her speech.

  He squinted at the brightness that emanated from both outside and inside the car. “A new record.”

  “It’s incredible. I’m going to have to hoard some of it. This one’s for special occasions only.”

  Jason tapped the fingertips of his left hand with his right index finger. A frown doubled his squint.

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have a large winecollection.”

  “I don’t.”

  “By my calculations, you bought forty-two bottles of Pinot Noir today. To me, a small collection is around ten bottles.”

  “A small collection is under two hundred. I’m closer to one hundred.”

  “After today?”

  “Yes. My collection isn’t diverse. I concentrate on a few favorites.”

  “Where do you keep them? A second floor condo usually doesn’t come with a cellar.”

  April laughed. “You really don’t know anything about wine, do you?” Her right hand patted his thigh. “There are several storage lockers around town. Temperature controlled. I rent a small room in one not far from home.”

  Jason bobbed his head. “I keep my beer supply in the refrigerated section of Belletini’s Liquor Store. I’d call mine a large collection.” He waited for another laugh, which didn’t come. “What do you do with all that wine? I know you have some with dinner, but it seems a bit much for personal use.”

  “I entertain sometimes.”

  “I can’t remember a single time since I’ve been around.”

  She gave him a long stare, then returned her eyes tothe road. “You don’t come around very often, so how would you know?”

  “You threw parties and didn’t invite me?” He tried to make the hurt sound sincere.

  She shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t think you’d have much fun around some of my colleagues.”

  “Ashamed of me?”

  “Not at all. I work with a lot of pompous asses. You’re too honest to be in a room with them for any length of time, particularly if alcohol is served. These people don’t do well in mixed company. They either talk business all night or they try too hard to be the life of the party. Either way, you’d escape at the first opportunity.”

  “You’re ashamed of them?”

  “Not that, either. I enjoy their company because of our common interests.”

  “So, you’re kind of like your wine collection.”

  Her chuckle was truncated by a frown.

  He settled into the seat and opened his window enough to put a hitch in his inhalations. The day was winding down around him.

  “What kind of reporter are you?”

  Her vacillating mood seemed to take a new form—a matter-of-fact, detached air. Jason pulled his head from the headrest.

  “There’s more to the story,” she said. “Don’t you want to hear it?”

  “Do you want to tell it?”

  “I do this for a living. This time I need to be the patient. If it helps others, it should help me, too.”

  “My fee is a six-pack an hour. And it’ll require multiple sessions.”

  “Deal.” She backed off the accelerator but remained serious. “My father was a religious man. Very devout. My mother wasn’t. She believed in God, but she didn’t have much time for organized religion.”

  “That’s not so unusual. You’re describing my family now, but with the genders reversed.”

  “But my father was LDS. You know. Mormon. He wanted a large family—at least five children.”

&n
bsp; “Are you religious?”

  “Let me get this out. Ask me later.” The car lurched. “My mother was raised Catholic. And she liked to drink wine in the evenings. Not a lot—two or three glasses. Sometimes four. It drove my father nuts. He wanted her to adopt the LDS attitude about alcohol. He wanted her to convert. She wouldn’t.”

  “An age-old conundrum.”

  “When my brother was born—”

  “Harry.”

  She glanced over. “Yes, Harry. When Harry was born, my father blamed my mother. He wouldn’t get off her case. He said the wine did it—created Harry’s problems. She started drinking more and more. That’s when thefights started to get really bad. My father wouldn’t have anything to do with Harry. He said it was her problem. She caused it. It wasn’t his seed but her drinking that did it.”

  “Jerk. Is that when he left?”

  “No. He stayed for almost a year after that. He tried to get her to stop the wine. He wanted more children. But not as long as she was drinking. We had a lot of visits from people from the church. But as soon as they left, she headed for the wine again. My father would get furious. Eventually, he said he’d had enough. I think he divorced her, but she never talked about it.”

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “No. She lived long enough to see me get into medical school. She worked so hard to make sure I could get there, and she didn’t make it long enough for me to pay her back. I think she died a lonely woman. It broke my heart.”

  “I have a feeling she was happy in the end … seeing you get into medical school.”

  The tires let out a muffled squeal as the BMW turned into the driveway of her condo complex and lined up with her garage. She stopped short of the door, which remained closed. “You coming in? I have a party in mind right now, and you’re invited.”

  “Can I take a rain check? Wine always gives me a doozy of a headache, and this one’s just getting started. I think two aspirin and my pillow are the company I need right now. Unless you’re in need of unconscious company. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I should get the wine over to the locker right away. I’ll have to get into some of the good stuff tonight. It’ll be your loss.” She forced her lower lip out into a toddler pout.