Page 27 of Love on the Vine
It had always been a dream of mine to restore an old car like this. When I’d found it in Bordeaux last year, the engine was shot, the leather cracked from too many hours in the sun, and the paint scratched and dull. Now the seats had been redone in a rich caramel leather, buttery soft, and the exterior gleamed like a new polished stone. I hadn’t taken anyone out in it yet, and it was thrilling to finally get to share it with someone else.
As we coasted down the switchback road the warm breeze blew over us, sending long tendrils of Olivia’s hair around her face. “Now, I know why the women in old movies always wore a scarf around their hair.”
“Do you want me to put the roof up?” I asked, sliding my sunglasses on.
“No way. I don’t mind being windblown.”
“All right, Elizabeth Taylor,” I teased. Jin was right; with her dark hair and electric blue eyes, she had the same coloring as Elizabeth Taylor, but she reminded me of someone else. “Actually, you’re more of a Gene Tierney.”
“Oh, please. I wish,” she laughed.
“You know her?”
“Yeah,The Ghost and Mrs. Muiris one of my favorite films.”
“That’s not something I would have suspected for someone your age.”
She glared at me, no doubt annoyed that I’d brought up her age again. But I needed to keep reminding myself of it. “She’s not exactly of your generation either, grandpa.”
“Touché.” I downshifted, and her eyes slid down to my hand on the gearshift where they stayed, riveted. If she only knew where I’d been imagining putting my hand that morning. “So you like old movies?”
“Do I ever. Nothing makes me happier than a night in with TCM followed by a nice bubble bath and a good book.” I tried not to imagine her in the tub, her perfect tits peeking through the bubbles. “I must sound pretty boring. I’ve just never been much for late nights at nightclubs.”
“No, I was the same way,” I said as I navigated another sharp turn. “So who is this friend of yours?”
“Callie—my best friend. We met my freshman year in Ann Arbor. She was already a senior, and she had a Books and Cooks club that I joined. We hit it off right away—probably because we were the only people in the club.” She chuckled. “And then we lived together for a couple years.”
“What’s a Books and Cooks club?” I asked.
“We invented recipes inspired by the books that we read. In our case, they were mostly romances.” A dot of pink stained her cheeks. “So we had a large choice of eras and themes to experiment with.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” I tried to imagine making something inspired by Philip K. Dick, but he would have preferred food in pill form.
“We started with historicals. There are lots of cookbooks from the 1800s—all sorts of puddings and meat in aspic. But, let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Alexis Soyer’s spotted dick.” I threw her a confused look and she smiled. “It’s a dessert made with suet, currants, and cinnamon. You steam itin cheesecloth, and when it’s nice and warm and gooey, slather it with hot custard. The ultimate comfort food.”
She sighed as if imagining it right now on her tongue. “Medieval cookery was fun, though a bit too meat heavy for my taste.” She grimaced. “Callie went through aGreek Tycoonphase and makes a mean spanakopita. Then things got a bit more experimental when we got to alien romance.”
“Alien romance? That’s a thing?” I laughed and she blushed again.
“Oh, yeah. So is monster romance. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She shook her head and stared out at the scenery.
“So how are things going with Jin?” I asked as I turned down the gravel path that led to the vineyards of Domaine de la Ruche.
“He’s got a different teaching style than you, but I’ve learned a lot.” She answered just as I pulled up to the small stone house at the end of the road where a tiny man dressed head to toe in khaki stood squinting at us. He probably heard us coming down the road. Despite his advanced age, his ears were sharp.
“Ah vous voilà enfin!” he yelled as I stepped out of the car.
I hadn’t visitedLe Père Reynaud, as the people in Moustiers referred to him, since I’d been back in town this summer. He was slightly more bent over now, and with only a thin tuft of white hair on his head, resembled a plucked parakeet. His dark eyes and impish grin told me he wasn’t holding a grudge though. And if he were, I knew he’d forgive me once he realized I’d brought someone for him to practice his English with.
His eyes darted to Olivia, and I realized too late that if I intended to put a stop to any rumors about us, bringing her here was not the best idea. Reynaud was a notorious gossip.
“Mademoiselle.” He winked at me, and I pretended not to notice.
“Olivia, this is Monsieur Reynaud. He’s the winemaker here at La Ruche.”
“Ah, no French? Only English?” Reynaud asked as Olivia bent to give him two cheek kisses. He gripped her arms and studied her. “There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip!”
When Olivia’s baffled eyes met mine, I explained, “He’s a Shakespeare fan. He has a quote for every occasion.”
