Chapter 3

Dinner was interrupted before it began. Diego stopped by with an update on the foal and two problems that needed decisions at my level. Diego has virtually a free hand in running the ranch, but he always defers to me when big money is involved. After the update Cheryl complained when I asked for her help, but she shut up carried the food to the table when I informed her that we'd have to check on the foal right after dinner, and then again just before bedtime.

I had to run some numbers on a spreadsheet before we ate, although that required less than a minute after I called it up. Afterward I found Cheryl standing beside the dining room table, frowning at the bottle of Beaujolais held in one hand while the fingernails of the other slowly scratched the back of her leg just inside the edge of her khaki shorts.

"Bad vintage?" I asked as I quickly scanned the table to see if anything was missing. Nothing was. She didn't want any delays getting back to the foal.

I'd startled her. Surprise turned to sullenness. "You drink this? Don't you have any Boone's Farm?"

"Boone's Farm?"

She flared at me. "What's the big deal with me having a little wine? It's not like I get drunk on it, you know! We all have a glass—just one—when I do a sleepover at ... well, when one of my friends has a sleepover party. You're just like Mom!"

I smiled and said, "The birth certificate is still in my office if you want to check it."

"What?" Anger turned back into the sullen attitude when she connected. "Oh. Yeah. Well, you don't want me to..."

I took the bottle from her hand, interrupting her. "How do you know what I don't want? You haven't asked, and I haven't said."

The look relaxed for a second while she thought, then returned. "Well, you acted like you didn't want me to have any wine."

"You need to work on your body language interpretation skills. I acted like I couldn't imagine you drinking Boone's Farm. That's like the Pepsi Cola of wines. Have you ever sampled a good Beaujolais like this?"

The nose wrinkled. Translation: Eeew! "That's a red wine. Red wines taste like vinegar."

"They do? What color is Boone's Farm? No, wait! I don't want to know." I was afraid she'd say it was green or mauve or puce. Whatever color that last one is. "You're a brunette," I said as opened the china cabinet. "Brunettes look like bulldogs and are as dumb as retarded cows."

"WHAT?"

I removed another wine glass before giving her a puzzled look over my shoulder. "You judge all red wines by one you apparently tried, unless you inherited your mother's habit of pronouncing judgment on things without any first-hand knowledge whatsoever. Okay. I judge all brunettes by one I knew: Carla Tenny. Isn't that fair?"

"Well..." she drawled as I closed the cabinet door. The sullen look turned blank when she saw me holding the other glass. "I guess not."

"See? Some brunettes are quite beautiful and can be brilliant when they take the time to think."

She watched in silence as I opened the bottle and sniffed the cork, but her eyes reflected the activity behind them. She was taking the time to think.

I poured a taste of the Beaujolais and sipped it. "Nicely full and fruity," I said.

Her eyes rolled up like she was trying to look at her own eyebrows, and she sighed. "I suppose that's another fag thing? Wine snobbery?"

"That's refreshing! You used a term you learned from your dad, not your mom."

That was good enough for a return to silent anger.

I ignored the look. "No, it's not snobbery. Anybody who has a sense of smell and taste can appreciate the difference between a bad wine and a good one. You don't have to concern yourself with silly things like whether the grapes were picked before or after lunch on Tuesday. You merely determine how good the wine itself is." I poured a little in the bottom of the second glass and held it out to her. "Smell the bouquet first. Don't gulp it, sip it. Notice the different tastes and the fruitiness? It's fruity without being sweet. It's not vinegary and it's not as dry as some reds."

Her hands didn't move. "Eeew."

"Have I lied to you yet?"

She had to think for a few seconds. "I guess you haven't. Not that I can tell."

"Then try it. If you don't like it you may have something else."

At first I thought she was going to pinch her nose shut when she took a sip. The brown arched wings over her eyes lifted in amazement. "Oh! That's not so bad."

I nodded. "For most people, reds are more of an acquired taste than the whites, though I've seen some white wine that was far worse than vinegar. It's best to start out with something like this and gradually learn to appreciate the dryer reds." I tilted the bottle into her glass. "You get one glassful, so make it last. You've indicated that you can drink responsibly. I'm not about to allow you to change that while you're here."

"Whatever." She turned to her chair.

"Wait a second," I said as I filled my glass. Then: "I propose a toast."

She tried to look at her eyebrows again. "The food's getting cold."

"Hey, you'll have to do this when you're an adult, and it's embarrassing to do it wrong in public. Would you rather have me or your mom teach you how to do it properly?" I knew Mandy wouldn't let Marek teach her because he'd not meet her standards.

I won by a landslide vote.

"No, correction: two toasts. Okay. Anybody can slam glasses together, but it's considered bad form to slosh your drink over somebody's expensive tux or shatter a glass and splatter it everywhere. You hold your wineglass this way, you lift it so, you repeat the initial part of the toast, we lightly touch the rims afterward so that the crystal rings, and we sip. We always sip a small amount because at most social functions we have no idea how many windbags we'll have to endure, and it's also bad form to run out of beverage before the blowhards run out of blather."

That was good enough for a smile.

"See, I've told you two toasts, but most gasbags won't do that. And, of course, there's always some other gasbag who wants to propose more toasts to grab the spotlight for herself. Okay?"

She grinned like she thought I meant Mandy. "Okay."

"To the success of your visit. May we both have such a good time that none of your mother's intentions come to pass." I pulled my glass back as hers moved forward. "First you say, 'To the success of my visit.' Well, say it."

"To the success of my visit." She sounded like she meant it but didn't actually expect it to happen.

After we clinked and sipped, I said, "To Cheryl's Blaze." I tried not to grin at the sudden startled, then pleased, look on my niece's face. "May she remain healthy and strong, and may she have the beauty, grace, and legs of her namesake."

Startled struck again, but she got the first three words out and managed the movements smoothly.

"Let us be seated, my dear. Our Chateaubriand grows cold."

After she'd tasted everything she rested an elbow on the table and waved the fork at me like a backscratcher. "Are all queers good cooks like you?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, but I doubt it. Are all women good cooks like your mother?" Despite her many flaws, Mandy was the best cook in the family, a fact she wouldn't let you forget, and it's not easy to outdo our mother, even when Mom's having a bad day.

Cheryl retreated back into thoughtful silence. The girl had already accomplished more introspection in one day than she'd done the entire previous month. She might revert back to original form after she returned home, but for a brief period she would be someone Marek and Mandy would not recognize.

She wasn't pleased with having to help with clean-up afterward, what with her being my guest and all. I reminded her that she was family, not a guest, and that on a working ranch, everyone worked.

The sullen attitude disappeared when we headed out the door to check on Blaze. I was pleased that I didn't have to remind her to greet Buena Vista first. I gave her a section of the apple I'd brought and told her to give it to the mare. She attempted to hold the end in her fingertips. I had her hold it in her flat palm and warned her that the horse's lips might tickle when she took it. I also explained that Buena Vista wouldn't bite her.

She flinched at the touch, but she didn't drop the apple section. I gave her other sections until it was gone and then said she could greet the little filly. She squealed and cooed and petted the little animal.

Buena Vista watched for a moment and then turned her soft brown eyes to me. Sometimes I know exactly what a horse is thinking. Her face said it all in unequivocal words: "Kids. They're worth the trouble."

I never argue with a horse when she's right.

Cheryl was reluctant to leave, but she didn't argue when I reminded her that newborn infants need their rest if they are to remain healthy. I showed her around the other buildings. She was still too awed by the foal to be properly resentful. We looked at the stables, checked the horses in them, and then toured the shop, tool sheds, and other barns.

"And this building is the bunkhouse, where the workers sometimes stay."

She was two steps ahead of me. She turned and walked backward. "Sometimes?"

"Yes. There's nobody here but us now. They all have families and go home at night, but in emergencies or really bad weather most usually stay here." I walked to the door as I spoke and punched the lock code. "They can usually make it through snow on their own horses, but sometimes it's better for them and their horses to bunk here."