by JF Freedman
“Pleasure before business,” Miranda states cheerfully. “Yes, I have the time. All evening, if necessary.”
“Okay, then. Sure.” What the hell—the best massage in the county, why pass that up? And she’s getting paid to boot.
“How’s about a quick tour of the property?” Miranda asks, her face wreathed in a gracious smile. “Sure.”
“I’ll get you something to drink and then we can take a jaunt around.” Miranda is wearing a simple two-hundred-dollar cotton blouse (Kate has seen the blouse at Citti) over custom-cut jeans and cowboy boots (handmade, Kate is sure). Her hair is hanging loose, framing her long, slender neck.
Kate, fresh from her massage (the best she’s ever had, Miranda was right about that) and shower, is also wearing jeans. Calvin Kleins, from Nordstrom’s, on sale. Nike running shoes. A man’s white pocket T. Her version of a chic casual outfit.
“I like your T-shirt,” Miranda compliments her as they walk through the living room.
“Ten dollars at the Gap,” Kate informs her.
“I wish I could wear a shirt like that. I’m a bit too busty, I’m afraid.”
We should all be so unlucky, Kate thinks.
“Is white wine all right? Or I could make you a margarita.”
“White wine’s fine.”
Miranda leads them into the large, farm-style kitchen. Two people, a man and a woman, both young and dressed in kitchen whites, are preparing dinner.
“Ummm. Smells delicious,” Miranda tells them.
“You’ll like it,” the man says, winking at her.
“I’ll bet.”
She uncorks a bottle of wine that’s been chilling in the refrigerator.
“We don’t want to disturb the geniuses at work,” she says to Kate, leading her from the kitchen with bottle, two wineglasses, and ice bucket in hand. “See you later,” she calls back.
“Ready in about an hour,” the woman tells her.
Back in the living room, Miranda pours for each of them. “Cheers,” she offers in toast.
“Cheers.”
They touch glasses, drink.
Kate tastes the first cooling swallow, and her taste buds literally bloom. It’s fantastic, the best wine she’s ever had; the phrase “nectar from the gods” crosses her mind, and not in a hackneyed way. “This is delicious! Is it local?” she asks, thinking of Cecil and his wine, and also trying to sound a little bit knowledgeable.
“French,” Miranda remarks casually. “Le Montrachet. I happened to find a few bottles lying around that I thought should be drunk pretty soon, and it’s always fun to share. Normally we drink California wines, mostly from right here in the county. I prefer them.”
They sit opposite each other in the old chairs, which sag comfortably under their weight.
“Let me be up front with you,” Miranda begins.
Here it comes. “Please do.”
“As I mentioned over the phone, Laura told me that you have been doing some investigative work for her, regarding our ranch foreman’s untimely death in the county jail. And that you are the unnamed source she alluded to in her newspaper editorial,” she adds, looking to Kate for confirmation.
Kate doesn’t reply.
“I know you are; as I also told you, my daughter and I have no secrets from each other. We’re each other’s best friend.”
She waits; Kate keeps mum.
“I’m concerned about those allegations. If Frank Bascomb, who was our ranch foreman for several years, didn’t kill himself, then perhaps there are darker forces at work here than there seem to be on the surface. And if that is true—if there is any truth to that at all …” she hesitates. “Let me put it this way: if there are, I have to be concerned for my family’s welfare, both financially and, even more importantly, physically. Very concerned.”
“I can understand that,” Kate gives her. “I would be, too—if there was any truth to what she wrote.”
“Is there?” Miranda asks forthrightly.
“I’m not in a position to tell you yes or no,” Kate answers, deliberately evasive. Let her keep guessing. “As I said, Laura was my client. It’s up to her to tell you what she wants. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
She’s off the case. She’s finished with it, done. But this isn’t the time to let this woman know that. Not until she finds out what Miranda Sparks knows.
Miranda regards Kate with what appears to be a look of respect. “I can understand that … I guess,” she says. “If I hired a private detective I’d want her to respect confidentiality. Good for you.” She corks the bottle, puts it on ice. “We’ll finish this later,” she promises. “The wine definitely, and perhaps our conversation as well. Let me give you the nickel tour now, before it gets too dark.”
The ranch Jeep is an old classic: canvas top, tiltable windshield. Miranda drives expertly, the hard-sprung vehicle bouncing up rutted dirt paths where clusters of cattle are grazing along the sides of the hills, all the way to the top of the property. She points out various landscapes as they go—the ruins of an old sheepherder’s hut from a century ago, the holding pens for the spring roundup, a natural pond fed by an underground spring. Groves of native oak, pine, other indigenous trees. And acreage by the thousands.
They park on a high flat plateau and get out. To the west the sun is dropping, starting to turn from bright yellow to vermilion and a deep, almost translucent purple.
“God’s country,” Miranda says reverentially.
“It sure is,” Kate agrees.
“I count my blessings every time I come up here,” Miranda goes on, confessionally.
“If it were mine I would, too.”
“Particularly since I lucked into it, by marriage. I hope I never take it for granted. Sometimes I think my family doesn’t truly appreciate everything they have, and how fortunate they are.”
Kate nods in understanding.
“The Native Americans say the land is merely ours to borrow, never to claim ownership,” Miranda continues. “And that we must protect it for those who come after us.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it,” Kate says, taking in the landscape, the vastness of it.
“I try never to forget it.”
They stand in easy silence for a few minutes.
“I hate to tear you away from this,” Miranda says finally. “You can get hypnotized up here. But it’s hard finding your way back in the dark.”
“I appreciate your bringing me up here,” Kate tells her. “Sharing this.”
“You can come back again. It isn’t going anywhere.”
They descend by a different series of dirt paths and roads. Partway down Miranda points to a shooting range.
“My mother-in-law and daughter shoot skeet,” she explains. “Laura is a terrific shot, Olympic-caliber ability. Do you shoot?” she asks.
“Pistols,” Kate answers. “I try to get to the range a couple times a year. I’ve never tried clay pigeons. Too expensive.”
“Have Laura bring you up sometime,” Miranda offers.
Kate shrugs. She and Laura aren’t going to be having a relationship anymore, and knowing someone as a client isn’t the same as having them as a friend.
“I’d take you out myself,” Miranda says, “but guns aren’t my thing.”
“You don’t shoot?”
“I’m not talented in that direction.” She guns the Jeep down the trail.
As they see the house come into view below them, close to the eye but actually at least a mile away, Kate spots a long asphalt strip off to one side, and a large Quonset-style building.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Our landing strip. We fly our own airplanes. It’ll accommodate a good-sized private jet, but nothing commercial. We mainly use the planes for crop-dusting, checking the herd, ranch stuff.”
You could fly a shitload of dope in here, Kate thinks, and no one would be the wiser. She remembers Carl’s admonition: go to school on this family. She makes a mental note to do so
me heavier research than she has, maybe find out if there’s ever been any involvement with drugs here. Frank Bascomb, being the foreman, would have had access to this strip; much of the time he would have been up here without any members of the family present.
“Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” Miranda asks as they reenter the house. “I have to make a trans-Atlantic call to Barcelona, of all places. We’re doing business with a Spanish company, and their president starts his day at six in the morning. You know the drill, you’re a businesswoman yourself, when they want you, you jump.” She explains this to Kate as if they’re on equal footing, business-wise. “I have to fly over there next week,” she adds, “plus Paris and Brussels. Those quick trips, they really wear you out.”
You have my deepest sympathy, lady, Kate thinks. Barcelona. Spain. The stuff that dreams are made of. I’ll be happy to go in your place if you’re too fatigued.
“I have my office in town but I get more real work done out here,” Miranda confides. “There’s no distractions, and total privacy.”
“Must be nice, having a hideaway,” Kate mutters.
“The only way to keep your sanity. Help yourself to more wine,” Miranda calls out as she goes into a small den off the living room. “I won’t be long.”
Kate pulls the cork and pours herself a healthy portion of the delicious stuff, slowly wandering around the room and checking out the art on the walls. Most of it is California impressionist, but there is also a Diebenkorn and a small Monet. She overhears bits of Miranda’s end of the conversation. They’re talking in Spanish. Miranda speaks with an impeccable accent. The dialogue is too fast for Kate’s ear to pick up—her Spanish is rudimentary, what a cop needs to get by in California—but it sounds like it’s about money.
“Eight million firm,” Miranda says abruptly in English, confirming Kate’s surmise. “No más,” she continues, switching back to Spanish again.
Eight million dollars. Kate understands that much. She and Miranda may both be businesswomen, but they operate on radically different levels.
She walks outside. Night has fallen. She sits on the porch under the stars, her feet propped up on the wood-post railing.
This is the life. A person could get used to this.
Miranda comes to the doorway. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes, “couldn’t be helped.” Then gaily she announces: “Dinner is served.”
The table is set for two. A single candle burns in the center. Caesar salads topped with tiny scallops are at each place, and another bottle of Le Montrachet is in the ice bucket. Miranda pours more wine for each of them.
“To new friends,” she toasts.
“I’ll drink to that,” Kate agrees as they touch glasses. She’s already had more wine than she’s used to, but it tastes so good, and there’s plenty of time for her head to clear. If she feels a bit dizzy when she’s driving home, she’ll pull her car to the side of the road and lie out under the stars.
She tastes the first bite of salad. Delicious.
“My compliments to your chef,” she tells Miranda. “Chefs,” she corrects herself.
“On loan from Citronelle. We’re investors in Michel Richard’s restaurants,” she says casually.
Kate’s never been to Citronelle, although she’s certainly heard of it. Maybe Cecil will take her there someday. Or Prince Charming on his fine white horse.
And if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses on the ground so much. The rich are different from you and me, she remembers. Five-star restaurants cater their dinners.
The meal proceeds leisurely. Miranda brings the plates in from the kitchen herself. “We’ll drink a couple of local wines this evening, if you don’t mind,” she says, almost apologetically.
“I don’t mind,” Kate tosses off. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I think our local wines stand up very well to the French ones, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Kate answers.
The shellfish is delicate, flaking on her fork. “Absolutely,” she repeats herself.
She helps Miranda clear the table between courses. The chefs rinse them and stack them in the dishwasher.
The next course is what Kate had smelled when she came in: a baby rack of lamb, slow-roasted. They drink a local pinot noir reserve with it—it’s delicious.
Dessert is last, a killer dark-chocolate cake.
“We’re taking off now,” the male chef tells Miranda. “Everything okay here?”
“Everything is divine, and thank you very much,” she answers.
“Our pleasure. Nice to have met you,” he smiles at Kate.
“Same here. The food is great.” She forks up a second bite as they leave. “I’m going on a fast starting tomorrow,” she confides in Miranda, “the weight I’ll put on from this meal.”
Outside, the chefs load their truck and drive away.
Miranda produces the final wine of the evening. “Château d’Yquem,” she says offhanded. “If you like sauternes, it’s really nice.” She pours off two small glasses.
Kate takes a sip and almost falls out of her chair.
“Jesus!” she exclaims, almost reverentially.
“What?”
“This is the best wine I’ve ever had in my life!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Miranda says.
“Like it? Like it? Lady, you are truly understated.”
Miranda smiles broadly. “I’m playing with you. It’s wonderful, I know that.” She leans towards Kate, touching her hand. “It’s better than sex. Almost,” she belatedly qualifies.
“It’s better than most sex I’ve ever had, I’ll tell you that,” Kate replies.
This is so weird, she thinks. The second thing she thinks is, she is so high. It feels okay, though. Safe. She’s met this woman once before for less than five minutes and they’re talking like they’ve been best of friends for a lifetime. It’s amazing what several bottles of outstanding wine can do for lubricating your inhibitions.
She’s in over her head, she thinks through the fuzz in her brain. Way over her head. This woman didn’t ask her to come up here so they could have massages, drink great wine, and eat incredible food. She wants something from her, something big.
Miranda fills Kate’s glass again.
Or maybe this is normal for this woman. What the hell. She’ll deal with the consequences later.
They stack the last of the dishes in the dishwasher.
“Time to relax,” Miranda says. “Come with me.”
If she relaxes any further she’ll dissolve, Kate thinks, following her hostess outside.
The hot tub is a hundred yards up the hill, in a grove of eucalyptus trees, sheltered from view. Steam seeps from the sides of the thick redwood cover.
“I hope you like it hot,” Miranda says. “I keep it at a hundred and five, so the pores can really open.”
Massage. Great wine. Candlelight gourmet dinner. Hot tub. What’s next, Kate wonders, Tom Cruise?
They lift the lid and lay it on the edge of the platform. A stack of towels is to one side, next to a small Igloo cooler, similar to the one Kate keeps at her secret place. Miranda, completely unself-consciously, strips down, folding her clothes neatly and laying them on the platform.
Kate sits on the warm wood, slowly taking off her shoes and socks.
“You’re not embarrassed about being naked with another woman, are you?” Miranda asks, a bit of tease in her tone.
“No.” Her T-shirt comes over her head. She is, with this woman.
“I hate prissy women. Some of my friends, you’d think they were raised in a convent.” Miranda slips her legs into the tub, up to her knees. “Oh! Hot! Pink skin!” Slowly, she slides down until the water is up to her neck, her eyes closing in bliss.
Kate is modestly turned away from Miranda, her back to the tub. She removes her bra, lays it on top of her shirt. Unfastening her belt, she slides her jeans off, and finally her panties. Then she turns and slides across the wet surface
on her butt.
One foot in. Hot; real hot. This will take getting used to.
Miranda opens her eyes, appraising Kate with a frank stare.
“You have a nice figure,” she declares. “Your legs are great, athletic. You must work out.”
“I walk a lot. Comes with the job.” Is she going to blush? That’s what it feels like. If a man was looking at her like this she’d feel glorious. “So do you,” she adds, feeling like a butterfly pinned on a board. She wants to ease in clear up to her neck, but the water is too damned hot. “Your figure is pretty fantastic,” she tells Miranda. As if the woman didn’t know.
“I work at it. You have to as you age.”
Kate slides in to her knees, to her thighs. Acclimating faster, she keeps descending, her vagina contracting as the steaming water engulfs it, feeling the rush of blood, like the feeling that comes with arousal; then only her head is showing, her breasts are floating upward as almost immediately she feels her nipples starting to prune up.
“Too hot?” Miranda inquires solicitously, her voice slightly slurred in pleasure.
“Just right,” Kate answers. She feels like a soupbone slowly softening in a simmering pot. “Couldn’t be better.”
They sit in silence, hair drifting behind them, bodies floating in the hot watery embrace.
“I know about you,” Miranda says after a while. Her voice is low, almost a whisper.
“You do?” Kate’s voice, too, is low and slow. What does she mean by that?
“You and I are alike.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“We both love sex. We both love men. And we take them when we want them.”
Kate’s eyes pop open. She stares across the tub at Miranda, who is lying serenely against the far wall, eyes cracked in slits. Cat’s eyes, Kate thinks. Stalker’s eyes.
“How do you know that?” This is getting too heavy. She feels her pulse in her neck. “You don’t know me, we’ve never met before.”
“I know myself. And I sense a kindred spirit in you.”
This is true. Kate senses the same thing, it’s undeniable.
“I have a highly developed sixth sense,” Miranda says. “It rarely fails me.
Or is it the wine, the tub, the cumulative totality of the evening? If a man laid on this stylish a seduction she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.
