Chapter 9
Sam had never been so relieved to get back to his van.
“About the technique,” said Red. “It was developed for people who’re having trouble achieving satisfaction. But in our case, we have the opposite goal: to slow things down.”
“Sounds to me like practice bleeding. Isn’t the whole point to get to where we’re already at?”
“I would like us to focus less on the sex act itself, and more on intimacy. You’ll see what I mean, once we get started.”
Automatically, Sam steered the van in the direction of Ribbon Ridge.
“Where are we going?”
“For a ride.”
“You’re not going to seduce me.”
“Who said anything about seducing you?”
“We both know how it is. You look at me in that certain way, touch me in that certain place, and I’m helpless to resist.”
“Fine. We’ll play it your way. Just hold hands.” Dutifully, he clasped Red’s hand between the seats.
“That’s done. Now what?”
“It doesn’t count while you’re driving.”
“Why not?”
“You have to be able to relax and focus on the sensation.”
* * * *
Only the savviest wine tourists knew about Ribbon Ridge. Traffic was light, even during the daytime. That, plus the view was one of the reasons it had become Sam’s favorite place to take Red.
The sounds of civilization tapered off as they left the town behind. Sam thought of turning on the radio to mitigate the silence, but his right hand was entangled in Red’s and he had to use the left one to drive.
When they reached the road that ran along the ridge top, he made a U-turn to give Red the superior view, then parked along the side of the road. He cut the engine, slid the windows down and leaned around Red to peer out at black, downward sloping land, across familiar vineyards to swaths of pines and the winking lights of farmhouses.
From Army cots, hovels, and five star hotel rooms all over the world, Sam had dreamed about coming back to this place. Only in leaving it had he realized how much he loved this valley…its lush vineyards, its wildflower meadows, its carefully tended farms. But even more than the geography, he loved its people, grounded in the soil, passionate about living close to the land.
Cicadas hummed and clicked in the night air.
After a minute, Red murmured, “Temperature’s perfect.”
“Mm.”
Their voices sounded different, up here. Like they were in their own, private world.
“I like to imagine what people are doing down there. Finishing up their last tasks of the day. Checking on their animals for the night. Winding down.”
“Yeah.”
She inhaled audibly.
“Sniff,” she ordered him.
“Huh?”
“I said sniff.”
After assuring himself that he wasn’t being watched—ridiculous, given their location, not to mention that it was pitch black out—he took a tentative whiff out his own window.
“Smell that?”
“The roses?” Roses planted among the vines acted like canaries in coalmines. Any sign of mildew on the petals, and the growers could react before it spread to the grapes. “Smells good.” Great. Now he was talking about posies.
Red sighed and let her head fall back. “How far would you say we can see from up here?”
His TAC-338A had a range of two thousand feet. That was six hundred ten meters, or 0.379 miles. Multiply that by ten…
“Three point eight miles.”
The moonlight silhouetted her head rising from the headrest.
“That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“Why don’t you just round it off to four?”
“Because that’s not what it is. It’s imperative to approximate distance as accurately as possible.”
“I was just making conversation. It’s not like it’s life or death or anything.”
“Yes, it—”
Get a grip, Owens.
She let it drop, much to his relief. “I’m glad we came up here,” she said, her head falling back again. “It’s nice. Peaceful.”
Without warning, she loosened herself from their chaste handclasp and began slowly, rhythmically sliding the very tips of her fingers up and down between his.
He’d never noticed how much more sensitive the skin was along the inside of his fingers compared to his palm and the back of his hand. It tickled, in a good way.
He found himself relaxing, being lulled into a state of pleasant lethargy. She could do that forever and he wouldn’t mind.
His head fell back in imitation of hers, as his eyes drifted shut.
“Where’d you learn how to do that? On second thought—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He’d have to give the guy a slow, painful death.
She didn’t respond in words, just curled her fingertips around the base of his fingers, sliding her middle one up and down along the ridge between his knuckles.
It was incredible how good something so simple could feel. How sensual. The feeling went up his arm and down his spine, triggering his usual, infallible response.
He shifted in his seat, reaching between his legs with his free hand to give himself more room.
At that, her fingers stilled.
“Don’t stop,” he said thickly.
She resumed stroking the skin between his fingers. He could feel his heart rate increasing, his breathing becoming audible in the still night.
Such a little thing, her fingertips brushing against his hand. How could it have taken over his entire being like this? He opened his eyes to the darkness. No sight, no sound but his breath rushing in and out and the crickets in the background. His entire universe centered on the nerve endings in that slight hollow between the knuckles of his middle and ring fingers and the scent of roses.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Doc…” He squeezed her hand, stopping the tantalizing movement of her fingers and lolled his head to the side.
Her head turned toward his in response, lips parted.
He leaned in to kiss her, and she intercepted his aim with a fingertip to his lips. “Nuh uh. No kissing.”
“I get it. I passed this part of the test.”
“Not yet. We’re just getting started. Do you like holding hands with me?”
He tightened his grip. “Have mercy, Doc. You know I do. Now let’s stop playing games and get to the real deal.”
“Not tonight. It’s not part of the plan.”
“Then when? How long do we have to pretend we’re thirty-year-old virgins?”
“We’re not thirty. Not yet.”
“The stress is accelerating the aging process. Look.” He traced a line along her forehead. “Worry lines.”
“It’s not going to work.”
His head fell against the headrest with a resigned sigh.
Unexpectedly, she reached out and ran her finger along the small scar along his temple. “But I have noticed something there before. What’s that from?”
He rolled his head away slightly. “Nothing.”
Red dropped her hand. After a pause, she said, “I think now would be a good time for you to take me home.”
He thought about that. “Give me a sec.”
He got out and strode a few yards behind the van to clear his head. The crunch of gravel under his feet, the cool breeze on his scalp when he ruffled his hair, took the place of a cold shower. He stood there with his hands on his hips and his head bowed and tried to think about things other than Red’s hand, her mouth, and her body that responded to his touch like a German sports car. Work problems. What he was going to do about his dad. The house and his lifelong deception. Anything to ease the cramped state of affairs south of the border. He blew out a frustrated breath.
A minute later he climbed back into the van and started the engine.
Halfway back to town, Red said, “There’s a romantic comedy at the drive in Friday night. I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”
At least he wouldn’t have to think of things to talk about. And maybe he’d even get to first base.
“I’ll drive,” she added. “That way you can drink some wine.”
Done.
“What time?”
* * * *
“It’s supposed to storm,” called Grandma to Red out the door of the trailer.
“Can’t be too bad,” Red called out her car window as she backed out of the driveway the next day. She couldn’t pass up a Sunday to look for the saltbox. Summer or winter, storms were rare in this part of Oregon. The Chamber of Commerce touted the misty, cool climate as one of the factors in the success of the local wine industry.
She headed west out Meadlowlake Road toward the McGuire Reservoir. She’d been down this road before looking for the house, but even GPS was no help when you didn’t know the address you were looking for.
She drove her trusty old Impala up hills and down, across boulder-strewn streams, through desolate stands of towering Douglas fir, and around switch backs so sharp that one minute she was headed straight south and the next, north.
Twenty minutes into her drive, the light changed. The innocuous white puffs of clouds dotting the western horizon had begun to build.
At a vaguely familiar intersection, she frowned, looking for the rickety old lean-to made out of corrugated metal. There it was, collapsed onto itself, half covered with vines.
All at once, the clouds burst.
Red hadn’t seen another car in miles. Windshield wipers swishing, she sat in the intersection, debating which way to turn. She was pretty sure that the last time she’d come to this crossroads, she’d taken the left. Now she went right.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. Red splashed at a snail’s pace through muddy ruts until she came to a fork.
She idled beneath a dripping canopy of tree branches, biting her lip. It was kind of eerie. Surely, not even her adventurous mom would have driven all the way out here just to pick berries. No one in the world knew where she was. If something happened to her, she might never be found.
That’s when she saw the hand-lettered sign that said “Strawberries. U-pick” half hidden in the weeds.
Her heart leapt. Could this be it? She turned down the narrow road, wincing as branches scratched the sides of her car like fingernails. She was debating putting it in reverse when the sun came out. A little farther on, she came to a clearing.
She stopped and peered out the squeaky clean windshield. There sat a wooden frame house with two stories in the front sloping to one in the back with a chimney in the middle.
The earth steamed. Raindrops sparkled like diamonds on every blade of grass.
But this couldn’t be her saltbox. Moss grew on the roof shingles and ivy climbed the corners.
She pulled up the picture on her phone, comparing it with what lay before her. There was the hill behind the house and the boardwalk along the side leading to the back, enclosed by the Popsicle stick fence.
The house sagged in the comfortable way that an old lady sits, a little tired, but rooted, immovable. The kind of solidity Red had never had, always craved.
The branches of a once-dainty lilac now scraped against the second story windows. What had been a close-cropped yard inside the fence now looked more like pasture, uneven and dotted with clumps of crabgrass.
She got out and walked slowly toward the house. The invigorating smell of pine oil on dry rocks released by the rain and wind filled her nostrils.
This was it.
This was her dream house.
A wave of emptiness overcame her…homesickness for the home she’d never had.
Up against the house, barely noticeable, a small white cross poked up through the weeds. Kneeling, she saw that it was crudely nailed together from wood scraps, as if made by a child. She straightened the crooked cross bar. Odd place to bury a pet—assuming that’s what it was.
She rose, dismissing the cross from her thoughts. Much more intriguing was the late-model pickup truck parked out front.
But even that couldn’t draw her attention for long from the house she had dreamed of, back when she still believed in happily ever afters.
If it was neglected, maybe that meant it was available.
She struggled with the rusty latch on the gate, then strolled through calf-high wet grass, heedless of her sandals becoming soaked.
From the center of the yard she peered up at the sky. She spun in a circle, gathering in the energy of the place, grounding herself in its center.
A wave of self-consciousness swept over her and she stopped cold. What if someone was watching? She scanned the windows, but all she saw were dark rectangles.
Gingerly she approached the front door—only to find that a padlock had been installed on it.
She tried pulling out the shank, but it was in tight.
If no one lived here, then whose truck was that?
Overhead, a blackbird sailed by.
She abandoned the door for the nearest window. The interior was white with brick-red trim. The cupboards were painted a soft, Colonial blue. There was a chandelier with flame-shaped bulbs above a shabby-chic table that would fetch a pretty penny at an antiques store.
From the look of the charred black surround, the fireplace had been well used. Above the mantel hung an old hunting rifle. The faint smell of wood smoke lingered in the air.
She pressed palms and nose to the glass, conjuring up her fantasy family to go along with her dream house: a dad who never left, a mom who didn’t latch on to every man who showed the slightest interest in her.
After a moment, she left the window to search for signs of the strawberry patch. Across the yard she found fruit still growing on untended plants with runners reaching out in spokes like wagon wheels. She bent over and picked a berry, fat and freshly washed in rainwater, and it was as sweet and delicious as she remembered. She went to her car and got a bag to fill with berries. Wouldn’t Grandma be surprised.
She got out her phone and began photographing the house from every possible angle. She couldn’t wait to bring Sam here. Maybe if he saw this place with his own eyes she could make him see what it was about old houses that she loved so much.