Kisses Sweeter Than Wine

by Heather Heyford

  Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”

  He felt her palm in the center of his back. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry about you. Let’s talk about this some more. Tonight?”

  Sam nodded, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. “I’ll give you a call after work.”

  * * * *

  After work, Red grabbed a coffee and sat down to study George Owens’s chart.

  Alzheimer’s was a cruel disease that affected not only the patient’s life but the lives of those around him. It was notoriously difficult to pin down. Symptoms varied wildly among patients. Some presented with simple, mild cognitive impairment—memory and olfactory problems that never progressed any further and sometimes, even resolved. Others experienced problems with word-finding skills, vision, and impaired reasoning or judgment.

  However, diagnosis was always a bit up in the air, as the plaques and tangles in the brain that were proof of the disease process were only discernible after death, during autopsy.

  Hope was on the horizon in the form of biomarkers that could detect early changes in cerebrospinal fluid and blood, but they were a long way from being part of the typical GP’s bag of tricks.

  In the meantime, physicians conducted tests to rule out underlying medical conditions responsible for the mental symptoms. So hard was it to pinpoint that the diagnosis was split into two categories: “possible Alzheimer’s dementia,” when dementia may be due to another medical condition, and, when no other cause can be found, “probable Alzheimer’s dementia.”

  In George’s case, all they had to fall back on was subjective analysis like interviewing people close to him and batteries of psychological tests.

  That’s where Red came in.

  She had been putting off George’s diagnosis until she calmed down. Now she clicked on George’s chart and began reading where she’d left off, before their initial appointment.

  The chart acted as a trigger that brought her anger flooding back.

  If only Sam had confided in her about the incident that had instigated him carting his father off to Woodcrest, maybe she could have helped them both sooner.

  But that wasn’t what she and Sam were about then. Up until that day on Ribbon Ridge when she first made her demands, all they had was sex. Sam never talked about his family.

  To be fair, she didn’t, either. Not because she was hiding old wounds. Just the opposite. Whatever her childhood wounds were, she’d told herself they were healed. They weren’t wounds at all any more at all, just scars that faded more with every passing year.

  But Manolo confronting her about the play list reminded her of Grandma’s scoldings for putting clients ahead of meals.

  Maybe the real reason she couldn’t turn away a client was because that would deprive her of yet another chance to fix something, and she so wanted to fix everything.

  Her thoughts went back to that day she took Sam to the saltbox. The charred fireplace surround. The big, ugly propane tank. By then she had laid out her demands. He knew she wanted more. She had even asked Sam specifically what that tank was for. There couldn’t have been a better opportunity for him to open up.

  Her heart softened. Manolo was right. Sam just wasn’t ready.

  She sighed and went back to the chart, but all she could see was Sam standing in the Woodcrest parking lot.

  “It’s all in your hands,” he’d said. “You can’t let him go back there.”

  Whatever Sam’s demands, they were irrelevant when it came to making a diagnosis. The same went for any personal feelings she had for Sam or the house. Her first obligation was to her patient.

  After carefully weighing her findings, she consulted with Dr. Mowbray by phone.

  Only then did she begin typing her opinion into the record. The minute she sealed George’s fate with her electronic signature, Sam called.

  “Still want to go out?”

  She felt like a weight had been lifted from her.

  “Do I ever.”

  Chapter 30

  Red snapped her laptop shut with a click, eased out of her flats, and hopped up to answer Sam’s knock, still wedging a foot into the heels she kept under her desk.

  “My reception area looks nice. A little elf must have tidied up in here when I wasn’t looking.”

  “Had to. You’re about as organized as three chickens in a shoebox.”

  Sam sounded like his normal self. She smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “All set?”

  “All set. Where are we going?”

  “Thought we might run down to Serendipity.”

  “I would love that.” They stepped out into the warm August evening arm in arm, to the envious glance of a woman walking alone on the other side of the street.

  Red snuggled into Sam’s side. Earlier that afternoon, he’d said he wanted them to be together. That he’d always wanted that. Whatever their problems, that was topmost in her mind. For now, it felt good enough just to be with him. To be in the present.

  They held hands all the way to McMinnville.

  “Serendipity donates a percentage of sales to a local non-profit every Tuesday.”

  “Underneath all that sarcasm, you are a nice man, Captain Owens.”

  “You wanted ice cream. Figured it’s about time.”

  A little while later, Red carried her bowl of vanilla bean outside to a tiny sidewalk table on the corner of Third and Evans.

  “I don’t want to ruin the mood. But I’m sure you’re anxious to know what’s going to happen with your dad. Do you want me to tell you?”

  “Nope,” Sam replied, folding his arms on the table, watching her dig in. “I want one more night knowing he’s secure at Woodcrest. Don’t know how many more nights like that I’ll have.”

  “We won’t talk about him, then. But I do have something to get off my chest.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I haven’t been very empathetic with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Expecting you to open up on demand about all the things you’ve been holding back for so long.”

  “Yeah. Well. I guess I needed a nudge in the right direction.”

  “What I gave you was more than a nudge. It was more like a decree.

  “And something else. The Sensate Focus Technique. I’m not your therapist. It was wrong of me to go there.”

  “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I didn’t realize I was taking advantage of you.”

  “You weren’t. I used sex as a tool.”

  “Hey, I’m not picky. I’ll take it any way I can get it.”

  “Stop kidding. I’m serious. Say you’ll forgive me.”

  Sam tilted his head, his steady gaze on her mouth. “Forgive what? I can’t concentrate when you do that thing with your spoon.”

  “What thing?”

  He took her utensil from her. “This thing.” He deposited a small mountain of ice cream into his mouth, withdrawing a smooth lump half the size of the original.

  Red felt her trademark flush climbing her neck. “It’s just ice cream.” All around them, people were eating it.

  “Your turn,” he said. He scooped up another bite and aimed for her mouth.

  He was finally feeding her ice cream, and now she was overcome with self-consciousness.

  By rights, the spoon belonged to her. She reached for it, but he was faster. “Uh uh. Put your hand down.”

  Lowering her hand to the table, she glanced around McMinnville’s busiest street corner at the other tables crowding the sidewalk. “Sam. People are watching.”

  “Watching, are they? You didn’t seem to mind that when—”

  “When what?”

  “Never mind. You wanted to be fed. Now open up.”<
br />
  Her lips parted a little.

  “Wider.”

  She did as she was told, bracing a palm against the table’s edge.

  “Hands in your lap. That’s better. Now. Look at me.”

  The metal was cold on her tongue. Under Sam’s scrutiny, she closed her mouth on it, melting the mound until it slipped easily off the spoon’s bowl. The cold cream contrasted with the warmth growing in her lower belly.

  “If I’d known how much fun this was, I’d have started spoon feeding you a long time ago,” Sam teased, lazily swirling the dessert. “Maybe there’s something to that sensate focus thing after all.”

  Red blushed even harder. How could something as simple as eating ice cream make her feel so dirty?

  He held out another spoonful, and Red took it in her mouth, silently cursing herself for having ever mentioned SFT.

  He held out the biggest bite yet.

  She laughed. “That’s too big.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  He prompted her lips with the spoon.

  The crush had already started at some vineyards. A couple of field hands in muddy boots, hoodies, and backward facing ball caps rounded the corner, brushing close by Red’s chair just as Sam withdrew the spoon from her mouth.

  She heard one of the men mutter something in passing, followed by coarse laughter.

  “Jealous,” translated Sam, wiping her face with a scratchy paper napkin.

  Cheeks burning, she ducked her chin.

  “Chin up. Last bite.”

  He seared her with his eyes as she closed her mouth on the spoon again. “Your lips conform to the shape of whatever I put between them,” he mused. “Did you know that?”

  She struggled to come up with something witty to say to prove she wasn’t aroused to distraction, that is, if he gave her the chance. But just as the spoon clattered unceremoniously into the empty bowl, he sat back with easy grace. “If you don’t like being in public, Doc, then we should think of somewhere private to go.”

  He was maddening. How could he be so cool? So controlled?

  “My place is out. Grandma’s binge-watching a Dancing with the Stars marathon.”

  “Wouldn’t want to interrupt her TV program with a granddaughter who makes enough noise to wake the whole trailer park.” He grinned.

  “There’s your place,” she said wantonly.

  “Eh. Too dismal.”

  “Really? I thought you didn’t see how…”

  “What? How dreary it is in there?”

  “Not dreary…”

  “No need to humor me. That place is gloomier than a back alley in Seattle on a January night.”

  “I thought you didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.”

  “Got bigger problems to worry about than décor.”

  “So you’re not wedded to the idea of living there.”

  “Hell, no.” He perked up. “I got an idea. Let’s see if we can get into that B&B.”

  “Chehalem Ridge?”

  Sam was already looking up the number.

  He hung up a moment later. “We got the High Desert Suite. King-sized bed, private balcony overlooking the vineyard. Annnnd…ready for this?” He lifted a brow. “Two-person Jacuzzi.” He made like he was surfing with his upper body.

  Red felt a slow smile blossom. One thing about Sam—he never failed to entertain.

  She hadn’t forgotten about her dream house, in spite of the boulder-sized roadblocks that had been thrown in her way. But maybe Sam was right about living in the present. Tonight, she wanted to bask in being that woman who had just been fed ice cream by a handsome, amber-eyed man.

  “I just hope those walls are sound-proof. Word reaches Clarkston that Dr. Sophia McDonald got kicked out of a B&B, who knows what effect a bombshell like that’d have on next year’s race for best therapist?”

  “Sam.”

  * * * *

  The morning sun flooded the windows of the High Desert Suite.

  Red was snuggled into Sam’s shoulder, snoring softly.

  The previous night played through his head. They had taken full advantage of the Jacuzzi. And compared with what they were used to, the king-sized bed they lay in was: like making love on a cloud.

  Red stretched her arms above her head on a yawn.

  Sam stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “Hey. You awake?”

  “Mm.”

  “I’m ready.”

  She flipped away from him onto her stomach. “Not again. Not yet.”

  “Not that.” He rolled her back over. “To hear what you decided about my Dad.”

  She rubbed her eyes and gathered her thoughts. After a minute she said, “I consulted with Dr. Mowbray about your father’s responses to the battery of psychological tests.”

  “And?” He lay still, holding his breath.

  “Based on the available data, we agree: your father likely has a progressive dementia.”

  Her head rolled toward him, gauging his reaction.

  “Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s, maybe it isn’t. Regardless, we concur that it would be best for him and those around him if he had round the clock supervision.”

  Sam’s eyes closed on an exhale.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That this was exactly what I wanted.”

  “I didn’t do it to pacify you.”

  “I know. I’m also... sad.”

  “You’re bound to be. No one would wish this diagnosis on anybody, let alone his own father.”

  After a pause, she asked, “Now what?”

  Along with the confusing blend of relief and sadness came a sense of freedom. Instead of keeping his thoughts to himself the way he used to, he opened up.

  “He’s in a safe place. Now that he’s going to be a permanent resident of Woodcrest I’m thinking the next step is to get a power of attorney. After that, if you still want to buy the house...” But the staccato pounding of his heart wouldn’t let him finish.

  Red shot straight up in bed. “Really?”

  He kissed her hand, hoping she didn’t notice how much he trembled. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now I just want to lie here and hold you. Go back to sleep if you want.”

  “Sleep, now? I couldn’t possibly!”

  “Sshh. We’ll talk about it later.”

  She finally lay back down and rolled over and he began to caress her back.

  “Mm. Feels good.”

  It wasn’t long until her breathing evened.

  Chapter 31

  Outside the judge’s chambers, Gary Russo shook Sam’s hand. The judge’s decision signaled a new beginning. With guardianship over his father’s affairs, he was finally free to do whatever he wished with the property.

  A week had passed since the night at the Chehalem bed and breakfast, a glorious week in which Sam and Red spent every free moment together. In public, at Poppy’s Café, the bar at his consortium, the Radish Rose, and in private in his modest bedroom, it didn’t matter. There was no more hiding his feelings for Dr. Red McDonald.

  Sam still harbored considerable anxiety. But while the house was still legally in limbo, he could ignore it.

  But now, on the drive back to Clarkston, there was no more ignoring it. His anxiety grew and grew until he felt like it filled the whole van.

  In a stab at normalcy, he called Keval to see how things were going at the consortium.

  “Quiet,” said Keval. “Now that the website’s running smoothly, we’re getting orders at a regular pace.”

  “I’m headed in soon,” said Sam.

  When he arrived, his pulse ratcheted sky-high when he found Red in the reception area talking to Keval, looking more beautiful than ever.

  “Surprise!” she said, holding two brown bags aloft. “I brought us lunch.”


  He nodded. “C’mon back.”

  She followed him to his office, chattering nonstop about paint colors, furnishings and gardening ideas.

  * * * *

  Red had spent the past week telling anyone who would listen about the saltbox. She’d stocked up on glossy decorating magazines and begun feverishly pinning pictures to her house board on the internet. She couldn’t wait to finally claim the house and start transforming it.

  “No clients?” asked Sam.

  Red deposited his brown bag in front of him and started unfolding the top of her own. “I had a cancellation, so I thought I’d get us some soup. Now, before you get too excited, it’s not homemade,” she said, carefully withdrawing a takeaway container and a spoon and setting it down on his desk in front of him. “But once I have my very own kitchen, look out, because I’m planning on cooking up a…”

  Ignoring his bag, Sam picked up a pencil and beat out a staccato tempo on the desk.

  “Sam? Is something wrong?”

  He met her eyes for the first time since he’d arrived.

  “Where were you this morning?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

  * * * *

  Sam’s first instinct was to lie. It would be so easy. He was in and out of the consortium all the time. There was any number of places where he could have legitimately been. Crisscrossing the county, visiting his growers and vintners was part of his job.

  But he didn’t want to be the old Sam anymore, the Sam with dirty socks stuffing his chest cavity like bread in a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “I just came from the courthouse.”

  Her face lit up with hope. “And? Did you get it? Did you get the power of attorney?”

  He swallowed and scratched his ear, putting off the inevitable. Out in the reception area, Keval still answered tourists’ phone calls. Annoying ads still popped up on his computer screen.

  “I changed my mind about the house.”

  Red’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean, you changed your mind?”

  “I can’t sell it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I made that offer to you in a moment of weakness.”

  She stared hard at him. “Is that what you call our beautiful night together? A moment of weakness?”