TEN Basement
JEROME
I’m taking a chance on the choices I’ve made for us today. Making assumptions about people without ever diving deeper to learn more about who they are isn’t a solid policy for the long term. I’m willing to swim to whatever depths needed to better understand Sadie. But I suppose I could look at today as a means to improve how well we mesh.
As research.
We start by aiming for the basement. I know, I know. Not the most logical locale to impress a woman, but this chalet just so happens to have a wine cellar down there. Based on how upscale this getaway of hers is, I’m making an educated guess that her family is not only wealthy but has fine tastes. The kind of tastes that mean I can play sommelier.
Even if I’m not much of a drinker myself.
I could be wrong about this. But why would this place carry a fully stocked wine cellar otherwise? It’s conceivable that it’s been installed for guests only, but I’ve scrolled through the variety and expense of that wine. It’s some of the best available. So, I’m putting my money—or Sadie’s—on this meaning something to her.
And if I’m wrong, I have a backup. I don’t believe in doing anything without a plan B. I even have some extra items in my pocket that could assist me in a best-case scenario. But only the winds decide to blow my way.
“I’d like to blindfold you to make this into a surprise, but only if you trust me.” Sadie may not believe we have enough of a background together to extend that trust, but every couple has to start somewhere.
She scrutinizes me with an upraised eyebrow as if she can read everything she needs to know on my features.
“On the following conditions.” An edge of sternness enters her tone. “No pranking me, no tripping me, and no abandoning me.”
Damn. What kind of cold-hearted bastards has she been with?
“I promise.”
“And if I say stop, you have to stop.”
“That’s a given.”
Chin high, she sends me an assessing stare for a couple of beats. “All right. Go ahead.”
First, I remove the scarf I’m wearing from around my neck, a lightweight cashmere in a pale green. “Close your eyes,” I instruct her. Then, with firm but gentle touches, I place the material over her shut lids. “See anything?”
I wave my hand in front of her.
She shakes her head. “Not a thing.”
“Take my hand.”
Guiding her down that lowest staircase winds up being more of an adventure than I’d thought. Unlike the main stairs, this one doesn’t have carpet on it, so if she took a tumble, the results could be catastrophic. I basically treat her like an already cracked eggshell every step of the way.
Once there—after blowing out a private sigh of relief—I whip off the scarf with a flourish. Showmanship has to count for something, am I right?
Also, I’m not gonna lie. I’m borrowing this from a film I did a few years ago that took place in a fake winery and ended in a free-for-all orgy over some wine barrels. I’d played one of the connoisseurs taking a tour. What went down might’ve been filthy, but the set itself had a certain classiness to it, one I’m trying to recreate.
“Have a seat.” I gesture toward the patio set I brought in here from outside specifically for this. Sadie may consider borrowing this table and chairs to be borderline forbidden since I left the building to retrieve them, but I’m rolling with it. “Here’s a selection of cheeses and oyster crackers to cleanse your palette. And I thought I’d start us off with these.”
I’ve chosen five bottles of wine to begin with. No sense wheeling out the whole kit and kaboodle if she doesn’t like this.
I monitor every move she makes, hoping for signs of approval. She selects a couple cubes of cheddar and a handful of the small round crackers. I next place before her the handwritten list I created for her reactions—a rating of one through five with five being the best—and hand over a sharpened pencil I found in a drawer upstairs.
I open the fifth bottle since it’ll need to breathe, then circle back to the first, pouring her a small portion. Engaging all my skills at reading people, I attempt to determine how she’s feeling, but I’m sorely disappointed.
Not only does her expression not change as she tastes each variety—and that’s with them flowing from a sweet white to a dry red—she doesn’t say or write anything, either.
Yet, I’m not about to throw in the towel this early. Instead, I prompt her.
“Care to rate them?”
“Not unless you partake.”
I didn’t foresee that, though maybe I should’ve.
“I maintain a two-drink maximum, but I suppose a few sips of these shouldn’t hurt.”
“Why do you have a two-drink max? Don’t most people party with a two-drink minimum?”
“Many do, yes.”
“But not you?”
I weigh how much would be wise to tell her. My family’s dirty laundry isn’t something I like to parade around, but if I have to, I have to.
“Rather not tempt fate since my gene pool consists of a druggie mom who left right after I was born and an alcoholic dad. That’s why I keep myself locked down and never, ever guzzle enough hooch to get myself fucked up.”
Sadie stares at me without blinking for a full minute. I stare back. And not to be rude or aggressive about anything, but because I don’t apologize for my choices. Or for my family. I love my dad. He did his best as a single father, working all day and keeping his drunkenness confined to the evenings. If I had homework questions, I knew to ask them as soon as he got home if I wanted answers that were coherent.
My mother now... that’s another story. I grew up without knowing why she left or where she might be. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still among the living.
Nor do I care to know.
Sometimes it’s best to swerve around that shadow on the pavement when you’re pretty sure it’s a pothole.
Sadie is the one who breaks eye contact first when she picks up her pencil and sedately rates each vintage with barely legible, deliberate strokes. If writing something out is that difficult for her, it’s no wonder she hesitated. Not that she ever mentions her injuries. She hasn’t complained about her situation, but she hasn’t explained it, either.
I’ll keep letting her lead on that.
She rates a mellow, buttery merlot as a four out of five. It’s her highest.
“Care for more of wine number three?”
“Do you have more varieties to tempt my taste buds?”
She lowers her lashes when she inquires about this. Allows them to flutter over her cheeks enticingly as she peers back over at me. It’s not an overt flirtation, but it’s something I won’t ignore.
“I do.”
Rinsing out her glass at a miniature-sized sink behind me, I return it to Sadie along with five new choices. None of those receives over a four, either, but one of them ties. A cabernet sauvignon. “Would you like a glass of the merlot or the cabernet sauvignon?”
She evaluates the bottles, then hands me her glass. “You tell me. What’s your opinion?”
Dutifully, I taste both, finding each rich and full-bodied. But the first one appeals to me more.
“If it were up to me, I’d take the merlot.”
“Wine me up, then.”
I sock the rest of the bottles away, watching out of the corner of my eye as she sips at it. Then, I put on my best swagger, leaning over her. “Care to find out what part two of this magnificent evening entails?”
“That depends.” Another lowering of those lashes. “Are you going to blindfold me again?”
Does she want me to blindfold her again?
“Not yet, but let’s just say doing so later is very much on the table.” I’m rewarded for this purred sentiment with the creeping up of her lips at each corner. Not enough to be considered a smile, but it’s a more accessible expression than she typically wears.
It’s why I’m cautiously optimistic as we hike out of the basement, me carrying her glass. So far, so good.