Chapter 3

A car engine cut through the riotous morning birdsong and the crunch of his running shoes as they rhythmically displaced gravel. He drifted to the side, slowing until he was essentially jogging in place, dreading the conversation to come. Dreading its pleasantness and bonhomie. Dreading its participants. Dreading it because...

“Morning, Luke. Sleep well?”

Because I’m an asshole.

“Morning, Bill. It took a while to fall asleep, but y’know ... new place, new bed, and I’m definitely overexcited about the job. Or maybe it’s just too quiet out here for a city boy. But the bed’s incredibly comfortable, and I’m sure I’ll be fine tonight.”

And a liar.

“Good, good. Listen, I know you’ve got a kitchen full of food, but why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?”

And a parasite.

“I’d love to. Thanks very much, Bill.”

And still a liar.

“Grab a few bottles on your way over. Anything you want. It’s going to be Vietnamese, I think. Ask Kathryn, she’ll know the details. Anyway, gotta run. We’ll talk later.”

And a coward.

“Don’t buy and sell the whole city before lunch.”

Bill laughed, waving his hand as he disappeared around a corner. The dust boiling in his wake made Luke’s next decision for him. He turned around and ran the other way.

Good morning, Bill. So nice to chat with you, old friend. Thanks for inviting me into your beautiful home and paying me a tremendous amount of money to do what’s pretty much my dream job. Last night I thanked you by having hours of imaginary sex with your wife until I passed out from fluid loss. Have a nice day at work.

He increased his pace, but there was no outrunning his guilt.

Luke surveyed his workstation. It would be his sole daytime companion for the better part of a month and a half, and quite possibly longer. Laptop, chair, step stool, wheeled table, bottle tags, marker, rubber mat, towels, water ... yep, that’s everything. Time to go to work.

Pulling up his custom modification of CellarTracker, he reached for the first bottle in the rack; carefully extracting it, studying the label, and replacing it where he’d found it. He started typing.

“2008 ... Albert Boxler ... Riesling ... Brand ... Alsace...”

Several hours later, he was a quarter of the way through Alsace and deep in the zone when he was interrupted by a discreet cough. Startled, his knuckles depressed a cluster of keys all at once; enough that his laptop beeped in protest. Oops. He looked up.

“Stop working.”

“Huh?”

“It’s one o’clock. Lunchtime was an hour ago.”

“But...”

“Dinner’s at seven. Exactly at seven. Eat lunch now or you won’t be hungry for dinner.”

“But...”

“You know, I think I liked you better when I first met you. Back then you knew words longer than one syllable. You could even speak them out loud and assemble them into complex sentences and cohesive thoughts. Let’s try this again: stop working, come upstairs, and have lunch with me. Better?”

“Uh...”

Clucking with disappointment, she turned around. God in heaven, she looks delectable in those shorts.

“Your employer’s giving you an order, you know.”

“You’re not my employer.”

“Yes I am. It’s a community property state.”

He started to stand, then stopped halfway, feeling feisty. “No it’s not.”

She twisted her head, her rich red waves drifting back and forth as her eyes twinkled. “While that’s true, are you really about to start an argument with a lawyer?”

“That does sound unwise.”

“So are you coming?”

Stand like that for a few more minutes and I might. “Right behind you.” If I can manage it without tripping because I can’t stop staring at your ass...

Luke nibbled at the delicious spread of crudités and saffron-accented aïoli. The vegetables were so extraordinarily fresh and vivid that he wondered if they were local, and aïoli was one of his favorite simple things in the world ... though he had to be careful where and when he ate it. I guess I’m not kissing anyone tonight, nor waking up with anyone tomorrow, so what difference does it make if I stuff my face with raw garlic?

“Did you want wine with lunch?”

“I’m ... not sure.”

“I usually have a glass or three if I’m not doing anything important after lunch, and don’t forget that you have your ‘rations.’ We’re quite serious about that, you know. Open stuff. Part of what you’re doing is clearing cellar space for other things, right? Anyway, unless you’re going to finish bottles the night you open them, you’ll have leftovers, so we can rely on those in the future. Today, let’s just skip it. I don’t want to impede your work until you’re comfortable.”

He nodded absentmindedly, completely missing her unanticipated use of the word “we,” swabbing another dollop of the creamy paste with a broccoli floret and tossing the whole thing into his mouth. The acrid bite of the garlic rose invaded his nasal passages and burned his throat going down. He loved it.

“Luke? Listen to me.”

He frowned. “Haven’t I been? I’m sorry.”

She leaned back, displeased. “Actually, it’s the only thing you have done.” His heart thudded in his chest. He was about to be scolded, and he didn’t like it. Partly because he knew what she was about to say, but mostly because she was right. “Is this how you intend to act at dinner? All week? The entire time you’re here?”

Sighing, he stared at his plate. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to ... how to...” He clenched his fists, searching for the right words ... the safest words ... the truest words ... before realizing, to his dismay, that none of those things were the same.

“You’re going to have to figure it out. Soon.” She looked at the clock on the microwave. “You have about four hours. Five, if you want to skip apéritifs ... though that would be a terrible shame, because we have Vietnamese-style honey-marinated shrimp skewers on the grill, and they go really well with the ‘96 Bollinger Grande Année I’m going to open to celebrate your first day at work.”

Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but smile. She was exerting a mighty effort to lift his spirits, to encourage him out of his melancholy. And, probably because it was coming from her, it was working. “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he replied, managing for the first time in a while to look her in the eyes and almost immediately regretting it. Every time I do I fall more deeply in lust. How can I talk to someone I can’t even look at without wanting to do every single bad thing? How much desire, guilt, and shame can I feel because of a person I barely know? If there’s a limit, I fear I’m nowhere near it.

“Seriously, Luke: what can I do?”

He sighed. “Go back in time, hit me really hard in the head, and stop me from being an idiot?”

“Out of curiosity, just how far back do you think I’ll have to go? Kindergarten? Cradle? Womb?” She’s funny. She’s always funny. Why does she have to be funny on top of everything else?

Folding her arms behind her head — her plain grey t-shirt stretched enticingly across the already prominent breasts he was completely failing to ignore — she studied him like...

... like a lawyer studying its prey. He gulped.

“Look, I think the only way around this is through. Straight through the heart, including every one of the dangerously sharp corners.” She took a deep breath. “I’m flattered. Really, truly flattered. I’m hiding it a lot better than you ... not that it’s exactly difficult ... but I’ll admit, though I’ll thank you to keep this between us, that I do get a certain thrill from being adored so intensely. Especially by someone young, smart, and handsome.” His heart fluttered, his tongue adhered to the roof of his mouth, and his palms began to sweat. I really wish I’d taken her up on that offer of wine.

“I want to stress,” she continued, “that even if I’d been aware you and Bill were already acquainted, and even if I’d grasped that,” she gestured at him with her elbows, “this was going to be so uncomfortable, I still would’ve recommended you. You’re the right person for this job.”

“Since we’re clearing the air, I’m also going to admit something that I probably shouldn’t. I want to say upfront that it doesn’t change the way things are. You understand that, right?” Though he was starting to shake, he nodded. Despite the turbulent emotions clouding his mind, he was fairly certain what she was about to confess. Now it was his turn to be flattered. Flattered and dismissed.

“Right. So ... well, let’s put it this way: if Wendy had kept the bar open for another hour or so, she might have achieved the result she worked so hard to accomplish. And then this would be a lot more complicated.”

Even though he’d guessed correctly — and, to her credit, so had Wendy — it still shattered his mind and sent blood racing to his loins to hear it from her lips. So close. I was so close.

“So,” she said, returning her hands to the table, “can we work with that? Are we good? Can we move forward, preferably with you actually using multisyllabic words? Out loud? In more or less complete sentences?”

Luke doubled over, laughing in an uncontrolled release of his unbearable tension, until he accidentally dipped his noise in the aïoli. This is all too much. How did I ever get myself into this ridiculous situation? This absurd, impossible triangle in which only one side — unfortunately the side about which I care the most — is a vector? And could that analogy be any dorkier?

Scraping the garlicky deliciousness from his nose with a handy slice of red field pepper, he nodded. “We’re good. And I’m sorry. Really. I’ve been trying not to act like a petulant child who didn’t get the toy he wanted for Christmas, and as a result I’ve been acting like a petulant teenager who didn’t get the date he wanted for prom.”

Cocking her head, she fed a morsel of bread into her mouth. As usual, staring at her lips caused a galaxy of naughty images to explode in his increasingly fertile imagination. “Or a petulant twenty-something who rather uncharacteristically went home alone?”

His jaw dropped at the precise moment he’d been about to bite into his pepper, and his face turned as red as its flesh. “Kathryn!”

To his immense surprise, she collapsed in a fit of giggles. He’d never seen her so unreserved, so adorably goofy — in fact, he’d suspected she might not have it in her after years of fighting to be respected on her own terms — and he couldn’t help but join her. Nor could he stop being distracted by her breasts as they bounced and shook inside her t-shirt.

Eventually, her laughter slowed. “I have two more things to say.” Though the words sounded serious, it was clear that she wasn’t, and he relaxed; waiting to sate a growling hunger that was growing more ravenous with every word.

“First: dinner is some sort of fish marinated in what the chef told me to tell you are classic Vietnamese flavors, served with green mango and herbs — cilantro, mint, basil, culantro, some others I don’t remember — over vermicelli. Count on there being fish sauce, fried shallots, roasted peanuts, and so forth. I’m thinking German riesling?”

“You’re thinking correctly. I don’t know exactly what’s available yet, because I haven’t scanned the whole cellar, but probably something a little sweet from the Pfalz. On the other hand, don’t be surprised if I show up with a bottle hidden in a paper bag.”

“Sounds like great fun. You know how much I like blind tasting.” Oh, I know. “Especially when I get to show up cocky young Master Sommeliers.” The way she deliberately, mockingly, overemphasized the word “master” made his loins ache. “Bring at least two, and maybe three; Bill and I usually finish a bottle by ourselves, and you’re not exactly shy about imbibing.” He could only shrug his acknowledgement.

“Second: I’m glad you’re actually speaking to me again, because I want to work with you.”

He dropped a carrot, spattering aïoli all over the table. I’m such a mess. I’d better be more careful with the bottles this afternoon. “You want to do what?”

Her mood took an abrupt turn towards sour, which he found startling and confusing. “I have a lot less to do than I expected I would when we moved here. Sometimes I’m busy ... usually for a week or two at a time, and in fact there’s one of those stretches coming up soon ... but ever since Bill ... oh Luke, I’ll just say it: I’m bored. I know wine decently well for an amateur, as I think you know. I have nothing useful to do at the moment. I’d like to help you. It might make things go faster. And it would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

There was a lot behind her request that she wasn’t revealing, it was clear, but he put that aside for now. Though he could scarcely contain his excitement over her proposal, he managed to tease back for a change. “You know, if this job goes faster, I get paid less.” And I spend less time here with you, which to my mind would be even more dissatisfying. “Can you find a way to slow me down instead?”

Her smile returned. There was enough of a twinkle in her eyes to indicate that she grasped his subtle innuendo. “No can do, sluggard.” She rose with a smile, knowing without him having to say it out loud that his only possible answer was yes. “Come over anytime between five-thirty and six. I’ve already got the Champagne, but the rest is in your hands. Oh ... and when you’re done here, throw some plastic wrap over the aïoli and the veggies and put them in the fridge. Irina’s going to take them home with her. Her daughter loves garlic, and it’s one of the few ways to get her to enthusiastically consume vegetables.”

With a fresh lilt in her step, she bounded down the stairs. He watched her buttocks flex and release as she descended.

Unfortunately, Kathryn, our newfound understanding doesn’t make you any less perfect.

“That was a hell of a meal, and an even better conversation. Luke, I knew you cooked because your dad raves about it all the time, but I didn’t know you knew so much about Vietnamese food.”

“Vietnamese, Thai, and I’m trying to learn Malaysian, though that’s a bit more complicated than I realized when I started. I figure that pretty much everyone who loves to cook can crank out French, Italian, and so forth. People who get into Asian cuisines usually look to Japan or China. I respect all that, and I love eating food from pretty much anywhere, but it’s fun to have something different to offer. Also, a fair bit of Vietnamese and the vast majority of Thai food in this country isn’t anything the people who live there would recognize, so the things I cook are almost entirely unexpected. I love offering someone an experience they’ve never had.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Kathryn was practically beaming at him, but he thought it best to keep his attention on Bill. “Your chef, though ... where’s she from? She obviously knows this food really well.”

“Somewhere in Northern Laos that she doesn’t like to talk about much. First generation refugee. Back when I had the time to do rewarding pro bono work rather than sit in conference rooms and scowl at politicians and CEOs all day, I helped Sevinay navigate her way through the system and into a restaurant job. About three months later, she called everyone who’d helped her and asked if they knew of any better positions, because she was restless and underutilized. That took guts, and it showed ambition. I remembered those calls when we decided to move here, and I tracked her down. I knew I’d be in the city a lot, though if I’d known just how much...” He grunted with displeasure. “Well, anyway, I figured it would be less stress on both of us to hire her, I haven’t regretted it for a second. We sometimes hired chefs when we lived in the city, but none of them ever measured up to Sev. We don’t entertain all that often way out here — it’s easier to rent a private room in the city — but when we do, it’s obvious that a lot of our guests are jealous of how well we eat.”

“You implied that most people don’t know how this food is supposed to taste. How do you measure authenticity?” Kathryn interjected. She’d been reveling in the wine, perhaps a little more than the men, and her mesmerizing green eyes were glossier than usual. Not that Luke minded, though this was no time to get lost in them. Again.

“Technique, balance, and ingredients. For example, a lot of people know what a risotto is supposed to be, and especially how it’s supposed to feel. The creamy texture comes from slowly stirring the right kind of rice in liquid until the starches release, which is what makes it creamy. If you take shortcuts, you don’t get the right texture. If you use the wrong rice, like basmati, it won’t ever work. So to make up for not doing it correctly, some people add cream. And now it’s creamy like risotto’s supposed to be, sure, but it tastes different. You could go a little wilder and use coconut milk instead of cream, and now it’s really different. And then there are the things you add. Onion and mushroom make sense in a risotto, raw tuna and wasabi don’t. It’s not that you couldn’t make a perfectly interesting dish from basmati, raw tuna, wasabi, and coconut milk, but it has nothing to do with risotto anymore. You’ve gotta start by knowing what the basic, authentic dish tastes like and what it’s made from. Then you can play around a bit. But only to a certain point; after which, no matter how much you want to call it risotto, it’s not actually risotto anymore.”

“With Vietnamese, there are fundamental flavor combinations that show up all the time. Not in every single dish, but when they’re there, anyone who knows the cuisine can immediately identify it as Vietnamese. Lime juice, sugar, herbs ... but the right herbs ... fish sauce, chiles, and so forth. It all has to harmonize and balance correctly, which is tricky and takes a lot of practice, but once you’ve tasted it done the right way it starts to make sense. And then you can experiment, just like you can with risotto. The other issue, though, is that here in the States you can only get maybe eighty percent of the way there. So many herbs, fruits, and vegetables in Vietnam just aren’t available here, or they’re only available in one store in LA and another in Philadelphia. The shallots are different. The chickens are different. Maybe most people can’t tell, maybe even I can’t tell, but the prototypical Vietnamese grandmother... she could tell.”

Luke noticed motion in the background and shifted his attention to the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen. The chef had emerged from her workspace, vigorously nodding along.

“Well said. Well said! Mr. Harris, Mrs. Lloyd Maddox, unless you need anything else I’ll be leaving soon.” When she received only negative responses, she fixed her gaze on Luke. “It sounds like you should join me in the kitchen one of these days, Mr. Bronson. I think I could teach you some things.”

Out of respect, Luke stood. “It would be an honor to cook with you, and I’ve absolutely no doubt I could learn a great deal from you, chef. Thank you for an absolutely delicious meal.”

Sevinay dipped her head and slipped back into the kitchen.

“I’ve never seen Sev do anything like that before,” Bill murmured. “You’ve made quite an impression for your first day, son.” He went on to explain that few of their dinner guests had ever managed to draw the reclusive chef from the kitchen, much less get her to engage in a conversation. Kathryn, for her part, was staring at Luke as if suddenly noticing something that had previously eluded her.

Luke shrugged. “I’m here so you can take advantage of my expertise, but I’m always eager to learn new things.”

Slapping him on the arm, Bill announced, “Well, I’m off. I have a contract to look over before I can catch some well-earned shuteye. Luke, I hope you sleep better than you did last night. You might want to change your running schedule, though; I’m usually on the road between 7 and 7:15, and I’m sure you don’t want to be inhaling all that dust.” He turned and disappeared upstairs.

“I guess I hear my chariot outside,” Luke said with a sigh. “Thank you for a lovely meal, and ... the whole day, really.”

Circling the table, Kathryn took his arm and walked him to the door. She seemed pensive, softly inquiring, “You didn’t sleep well last night?”

“No, but it’ll pass.” He could feel her eyes angling towards him, curious and probing, but he was unwilling to return her gaze.

“It’s not the mattress, is it?”

He managed a half-smile. “Heavens no. It’s exactly as comfortable as you promised.” No, the problem is that I keep imagining you sharing it with me. “Don’t worry, once I’m more settled I’m sure I’ll sleep the sleep of the innocent.”

Her snort of derision rendered his face a little redder than it already was. As they reached the door and he put his hand on the ornately carved handle, she sidled around to face him, blocking the entrance. For the first time he realized that they were exactly the same height. She was wearing heels at the bar, which means that she was probably taller than me. How did I not notice?

“Thank you.”

He cocked his head. “For what?”

The gleam in her eyes turned ever so slightly wicked, and he braced for the worst. “For not calling me ‘more beautiful than you ever could have imagined someone being’ during dinner.” He shook his head in amazement, for despite her mild inebriation she’d quoted him verbatim (save for the swapped pronouns). “That would have been so much more awkward than a fifteen minute monologue about the mouthfeel of starch.” He could only bow in defeat as she smirked. Again.

Tonight’s lipstick smudge was considerably larger than the one he’d received at Wendy’s bar, and he let it stay there until he’d worked through a half-dozen anatomically unlikely fantasies, sullying an equal number of tissues along the way.

Luke’s task was fairly simple, albeit divided into discrete halves. The second half — creating and managing a plan to transform Bill and Kathryn’s cellar into something more reflective of their tastes — was where all the fun and creativity awaited.

The other half was considerably more tedious: inventorying, cataloging, and (eventually) reorganizing the existing collection. With the exception of wine still residing in unbroken cases, it meant extracting every single bottle from the racking, recording location, name, vintage, appellation, cépage, and other identifying information in the software, then replacing the bottle freshly adorned with an identifying tag. Once that was done, the entire cellar would be rearranged to prepare for new additions; a mindless physical task to which he was not looking forward.

Despite my anxiety, it really will be nice to have some help during this stage. The problem is that the “help” is a woman by whom I’m desperately, hopelessly enraptured. If she’s here every day, all day, sitting right next to me...

He groaned, stripping off his sweaty running clothes and warming up the shower.

I feel like I keep making dangerous choices, daring myself to be stronger at each turn. But every man has a breaking point, and it would be so very easy for her to shatter mine.

“I’m ready, boss!”

Maintaining rigid control over his otherwise neutral expression, he raised an eyebrow.

She put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flickered downward. “Yoga pants?” That they clung to her enticing curves like a second skin he unsuccessfully tried to ignore.

“It’s cold in there.”

“Do you even do yoga?”

“I’ve tried. It’s so boring, though that’s probably more my fault than yoga’s. But I like the clothes. Look, let me have this one super-girly thing, okay? Next week, I promise that I’ll ruin someone’s life with an indifferent stroke of the pen, after which I’ll dissect live baby animals while smoking a cigar.”

Despite himself, he broke down laughing. “Baby animals?”

“It was the worst thing I could think of on short notice,” she admitted with a sheepish grin.

“OK, fine. But what about the hat?”

“What’s wrong with the hat?”

“Why do you need a hat in an enclosed wine cellar?”

“Because it goes with the outfit? One super-girly thing, Lucas Bronson!”

Shaking his head, he muttered, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

One tooth-grating Velcro separation later, the hat was gone and her untamed red mane was free of its confinement. Just where she’d put it all, he couldn’t imagine, He also couldn’t help but stare, entranced.

“Better? You’re sure it won’t get in the way?”

“Even if it does, I promise I’ll find it more than motivating enough to make it worthwhile.”

Squinting as if to assess the earnestness of his compliment, she urged, “So when do we get started?”

Kathryn picked up his rhythm with ease. After a few minutes of instruction and half hour or so of increasing efficiency, she also learned when it was okay to chat and when he required silence to concentrate.

“What’s the rubber mat for?”

The bottle he was holding fell from his hand. Gasping, she leapt for it ... and missed, watching helplessly as it fell to the ground. And bounced, once, before coming to rest on the mat.

“Ah, I see. Clever.”

“The first time you shatter someone’s thousand-dollar bottle of rare Burgundy, you’ll invest in a mat, too. L120, please.”

She pulled the the next bottle from the rack, replacing the one he’d dropped as he typed. “Did you really?”

“I really did. That job ending up costing me more money than I made. But I finished it anyway, because I felt obligated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“L121. It was my fault, and I paid the price.”

“Do you really like my hair that much?”

Interesting non sequitur. “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“I don’t. Like my hair, I mean.”

This time, the bottle that slipped from his hand wasn’t any sort of demonstration. He ignored it, hearing it thud against the mat while he looked at her in bafflement. “You don’t?”

“It’s too much. It leads to all sorts of assumptions that I’d rather not deal with, or at least not all the time. And it’s a pain in the ass to take care of. I’ve wanted to cut it off for ages ... I even did it once, back in college ... but I’m the only person I’ve ever known who hasn’t vociferously argued for me to keep it the way it is.”

Catching himself just before he acted on the urge to reach out and stroke his fingers through her not-quite-curls, Luke decided on a personal appeal. “I’ve never seen lovelier hair, so I’m afraid I’m going to join that chorus. Yes, I suppose it makes one think things ... but if I may be blunt, Kathryn, you’re rather overburdened with such signifiers. A haircut alone isn’t going solve that problem.”

She stared at him thoughtfully as he retrieved the fallen bottle and finished its entry.

“Thank you.”

“L122. And you’re welcome. But obviously I’m far from the only person to tell you how magical your hair is.”

“You weren’t just talking about my hair. But it’s ... nice ... to hear such kind words from new people. Aside from strange men in wine bars, I mean. For some reason they feel more honest.”

They worked in near-silence for a little while — he called out coordinates, she stopped interjecting — until he decided to break the impasse.

“If you don’t do yoga, what do you do to keep fit?”

Her silence continued for such a long time that he paused to look at her. She was blushing.

“Can you keep a terrible secret?”

What’s she going to tell me? If the answer’s sex, I may have to slit my wrists right here and now. “Sure, of course.”

“I ... don’t. Not really. But if people knew, they’d hate me. So I tell them I swim. Which I do, but not nearly as often as, for example, you run. Every once in a while I use the gym, but that’s even more boring than yoga. Even less often, I play tennis. God, I’ve become such a cliché, haven’t I? ‘Idle housewife swims, plays tennis.’ Maybe I should take up gardening. Or golf. Actually, those skorts are pretty cute...”

“Incredible. And you’re right: I would’ve thought it impossible, but now even I hate you just a little bit.” She’s not only perfect, she’s perfect by nature’s indelible design. I’m starting to think she’s not actually real, and this is all some terribly unfulfilling dream. I’m going to wake up alone in my apartment with a mess in my boxers, cuddling an empty bottle of Bas-Armagnac and angrily raging at the inequity of the universe. He typed some more ... and then, without looking up, asked, “By the way, I’d forgotten that you mentioned a gym.” Because I was too busy drooling over you. “I don’t want to wander aimlessly around your house looking for the door to the basement, so can you show me where it is? If I’m still allowed to use it, that is.”