An Independent Woman (16 page)

Eloise smiled knowingly at Barbara.

Seated next to Barbara, Philip leaned over and whispered, “Don't they ever talk about anything but wine?”

“Of course—politics and books and art. Except that Adam is so furious at Reagan that Ellie is trying to keep the conversation local,” Barbara whispered back.

“What on earth are you whispering about?” Freddie wanted to know.

“Freddie!” his mother said, and to Philip, “Please forgive him. He has no manners. Have you been to the Valley before, Mr. Carter?”

“Please—Philip.”

Reynold Couer, a young Frenchman, was trying desperately to follow the conversation and sipping warily at the Navarra. He was a guest of Freddie's who had come to California on what he called an investigatory visit. Barbara, whose French was excellent, the result of living there for more than a year, explained that the dark sauce on the chicken was chocolate without sweetening.

“It's a famous old sauce of the Aztec people”—and the language breakthrough led to a conversation in French that all joined in except for Adam, who had no French to speak of. Eloise promptly invited Couer to stay for the wedding, but he made his apologies. Freddie explained that he was flying to New York the next day to visit the wineries in the Genesee Valley. Adam managed to follow that, and in English snorted his contempt for New York—grown wine, and that led to a discussion of the new Australian wine that had just made its appearance in California. “Their white is all right, but their red…” And thus it went on and on.

Outside after dinner, in the cool night air, Barbara apologized to Philip. “At least,” she said, “it made young Reynold feel at home.”

“They're wonderfully warm people,” Philip admitted, “but I felt out of it.”

“But wine does play a large part in religion, doesn't it?”

“I suppose so. But Unitarians don't have communion. I mean, we do drink wine. We have nothing against it, you understand.”

“Of course, Philip. It's a beautiful night, isn't it?”

“Just perfect.”

“Even with all the boring wine talk?”

“Even with all the wine talk—absolutely. And it gave me a chance to use my French.”

“And your French is excellent. Where did you learn?”

“School, college—but you speak it like a native.”

She took his arm. “Do you want to know my whole history, Philip?” The sound of a piano came from the house behind them. “That's Freddie. He's so gifted, and it all dribbles away. That's the Italian Concerto; I've heard him play it a dozen times. He calls it his meditation. Do you want to go inside and listen?”

“I'd rather be out here with you.”

The winding brick paths from house to house were lit. At the bunkhouse, a group of winery workers sat and smoked and talked softly in Spanish.

“Do you meditate?” she asked him.

“Yes. I began when I was a priest.”

“Do you believe in God?”

It took so long for him to answer that Barbara thought that he had not heard her question, or if he had heard it, had chosen not to answer. But then Philip said, “Most of the time, yes. I don't have an unshaken faith.”

“I have no religion,” she said. “When I go into Grace Church for a funeral or a wedding, the place smells dry and musty and old and forbidding. I smell the money my grandfather put into its building. He was a wicked old man who was determined to buy his place in heaven. My first lover died in the Spanish Civil War. My first husband was killed in Israel in 1948. A man I loved was murdered in El Salvador. We've had our own holocaust, and I can understand what the great Holocaust meant. The only time I felt a sense of something you call religion was when I walked out of the rain into your church.”

His reply was unexpected. “I think you're deeply religious,” he said.

“Oh no, Philip.” She shivered. “It's getting cold. I'm tired.”

“So am I.”

She peered at her watch in the dim light. “It's after ten. Shall we turn in?”

“If you wish. Don't we have to go inside first and tell them?”

“No. I'm family, and they know you're with me. The rooms are made up, and you'll find a razor and pajamas and a robe in yours, and Eloise provided clean socks and underwear.”

“You're teasing me. You make me feel like a stodgy, impossible old man.”

Smiling, Barbara agreed. “Yes, you're rather impossible.”

“I try. I did agree to come here and spend the night.”

“And be bored to death with wine talk.”

“Oh no, no, absolutely not,” he protested. “As a matter of fact, it was enlightening. I know absolutely nothing about wine. At Saint Mary's, when I was assistant pastor, I was responsible for the wine for communion. I used to buy Manischewitz, a sort of interfaith gesture on my part.”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Why not? It's very sweet and everyone liked it.”

“I'm sure they did. But please, please never mention this to Adam.”

“Why? He's half Jewish. I should think he would appreciate it as a gesture. And once or twice I bought an old Israeli wine—I believe it's called Malaga. I felt that a wine out of Israeli grapes would enhance the Eucharist.”

“Oh, my dear, bless you.”

“You're teasing me again,” Philip said, frowning.

“I am, and I promise never to tease you again unless I must. Let's not talk about wine.”

In the guesthouse, the two rooms Eloise had prepared opened off the entry hall. The small stone cottage was plain and unadorned. Each guest room was furnished more or less alike—a double bed, wicker furniture, prints on the wall, a rag rug, and an adjoining bath. Before he went into his room, Philip grasped her by her shoulders and said, “I would like to kiss you.”

She made no reply, and he kissed her on the lips.

“Good night, dear Barbara.” He opened the door to his room. “I'm glad I came here with you. It was good.”

She smiled. “Good night, Philip.”

In her room, Barbara asked herself,
How, oh how do I pick them? There must be a reason. It's my fate, my destiny. Philip would say it's my karma, whatever karma is. I should have known when he sent me that letter. Well, Barbara, faint heart never won fair love
.

She stripped down, put on a shower cap and showered, and then rubbed her hair with a towel, combed it out, and brushed it. Eloise had laid out toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, comb, and an assortment of small perfume bottles—with a warning that Barbara was to take the room to the right. She chose a perfume at random and used a few tiny drops; she was not crazy about perfume. There was a freshly washed cotton nightgown on the bed, and for a few minutes she studied it thoughtfully. Putting it on, she looked at herself in the mirror. “Oh, what the hell!” she said, and pulled it off and wrapped herself in the cotton flannel robe that hung in the bathroom. Then she slipped out of the robe and regarded herself in the mirror.
Not bad
, she thought. Her breasts were small and firm, her hips and legs not too different from what they were twenty years ago. Sighing, she pulled on the cotton nightgown, which fell to her knees and was hardly fitted, but rather tentlike, to cover Eloise's abundant bosom. She nodded and shrugged.
Even Everest is climbed in stages, and to seduce a man who refuses to seduce you is not easy—and
then the thought of seduction in terms of herself and Philip Carter made her burst out laughing. Then she pulled herself together, donned the robe over her nightgown, left her room, knocked at the door of Philip's room, and entered. Clad in a pair of Adam's pajamas, he was sitting up in bed and reading, his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“I thought I'd peek in and see whether everything is well. You're very handsome in pajamas. What are you reading?”

“
Guide to California Wines.
” He held up the book for her to see.

“Well, that is a surprise.”

“Found it on the bookshelf. There are also two books by Zane Grey,
Finnegans Wake
, and
Just So Stories.
A nice balance.”

“That's Eloise.” Barbara seated herself at the foot of his bed. “Do you like reading aloud?”

“That's part of my discipline. Yes, I rather enjoy it.”

“Then read to me,” Barbara said. “I don't have my reading glasses. They're in the car.”

“About wine?”

“Yes. Why not? Though I'd have thought you'd choose
Finnegans Wake.
”

“I don't like it.”

“Neither do I. Let's hear about wine.”

“If you insist.” And picking up the book, he said, “I chose Cabernet, since that's Adam's favorite”; and reading, “‘The finest Cabernet Sauvignons are produced from considerably more than the legal minimum of fifty-one percent of grapes of that name, as the wine will not stand much blending without loss of character. The best have a deep ruby color, an expansive bouquet, and a remarkable flavor, easy to recognize and appreciate. When young they possess a dryness and aromatic pungency that smooth out with age to a rich mellowness. A common mistake is to serve them at a temperature cooler than the average room. At room temperature their inherent tartness will dissolve—'”

“Philip,” she interrupted, “take off your glasses.”

He raised a brow. “I can't read without them.”

“I know. I don't want you to read.”

“I thought you did?”

“No, Philip, I didn't come in here to have you read to me. I came in here because I think I love you and I've decided to seduce you. I am well aware that women of my age don't seduce anyone much, but what the hell! Being nearly seventy doesn't seem to stop me from loving a man, and I have the crazy notion that you are very fond of me.”

“I am,” he said.

“Good. Now put down the book and take off your glasses, and turn off that light.”

Like a small boy caught in some egregious act, he followed her instructions, saying lamely, “Barbara, I don't wear the pajama bottoms.”

“That's nice”—slipping out of her robe and crawling under the covers next to him.

J
UDITH HOPE LIVED IN A SMALL WHITE HOUSE
in Pacific Heights, and when she opened the door for Freddie, he realized that the entire first floor was a single room, backed by a curling iron staircase to a balcony. The windows were doors, floor to ceiling, and the room; paved in white vinyl blocks, was flooded with sunlight. The furniture was Mexican, the fine laminated wood and wicker that can be found in Guadalajara and nowhere else. She was dressed and waiting for him, and she nodded, smiled slightly, and held out her hand. She wore a long white pleated skirt, a white silk shirt, and a pale gray cape, buckled at her throat.

“Welcome, Mr. Vintner. You're right on time.”

“I try,” Freddie said. “You look absolutely beautiful. If I am permitted to call you Judith, might you call me Fred?” He had rehearsed. He had been rehearsing things he would say all the distance from Napa.

“My friends call me Judy. How about Freddie, and that will be a pact of peace between us.”

“Thank you, Judy.” His hand on her arm was a light touch, since she wore a cape. When they were in his car, he asked her where they were going.

“Russian Hill—it's an apartment house. I'll direct you.”

Sitting next to her, he sorted out the conversation he had rehearsed:

“Why did you agree to see me again?” he began.

“Were you surprised?”

“Yes, I was,” he admitted.

“Well, Freddie, I was touched by your letter, and I'm free, black, and well over twenty-one. I don't have a boyfriend at this moment—and by the way, are you married?”

“I told you I was not.”

“So you did, but you told me other things, too.”

“I was divorced. I have a child, a little boy of four. He lives with his mother.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, in answer to your question—you're very good-looking, you're tall enough, and you dress well. Perhaps you're also intelligent. We'll see.”

“I hope so,” he said, with a sense of futility.

“And I haven't ever dated a white man before. Consider it an experiment.”

He had been put down gently but deftly, and now he decided that his sins were forgiven. He would not try to match her wit or irony, but neither would he be subdued by it.

“Who are your friends—I mean, the people to whose home we're going?”

“That's Larry and Jane Cutler. It's their apartment. There'll be eight or ten couples—two doctors, the Browns; she was a nurse but when he began to make some money, she went on to medical school. Jerry Delrio—you met him that first night at the Fairmont—the jazz pianist, and his wife, Dotty, and the Gershons and Kier Dumas—and I suppose others that I've not met. You'll see.”

He considered telling her the story of Barbara and the black man who had broken into her apartment, but he thought better of it. And then they were there, in front of an elegant apartment house on Russian Hill, with a doorman who took Freddie's car and the ten-dollar bill that he pressed into his hand; and then up the elevator and into a crowded living room with a broad picture window that overlooked San Francisco Bay and the sky, bathed in the colors of the sunset; and men and women were kissing and embracing Judith Hope, well-dressed men and women to whom he was being introduced—and Freddie realized that he was the only white man in the room, and that this was the first time in his life that he had ever been in a room as the only white man present.

A woman put a drink into his hand. “It's gin and tonic—but you can have Scotch, if you prefer, or white wine.”

“No, thank you. This is fine.”

He stood awkwardly alone for a long moment, and then a man came to him and said, “Did I hear Judy call you Frederick Lavette?”