Sour Grapes, page 17
“Should I bring anything?” I asked.
Lucia offered me a rare, lopsided grin. “Got any more popcorn?”
A few loads of laundry later, and I was nearly out the farmhouse’s front door with a packet of microwave popcorn secured in my purse. I paused my hurried exit, however, when my cellphone rang. For a second I considered it might be Lucia, calling off movie night, until I realized she didn’t have my number. I stood in the front entrance and dug through my purse to find the jangling phone. My friend Lily’s name and number lit up my cellphone screen. We hadn’t spoken much since I’d rejected her continued pleas that I come to San Francisco Pride.
In my defense, however, work was really starting to pick up on the vineyard. With veraison probably only a few days away, we continued to trim and tie back the vineyard canopy. Guest traffic had similarly increased on the property as vacation season came upon us and the area bloomed more vibrantly than in the weeks before.
“Hey,” I breathed into the receiver. “What’s up?” I pressed the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I searched through my purse for my elusive car keys.
“Nothing—just calling to check in,” my friend replied. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“Things are good,” I said without going into much detail. “At least better than when I first got here.”
“Feeling a little less like a fish out of water?”
“I’m definitely not swimming laps,” I said, going along with her analogy, “but I’m not drowning anymore.”
“That’s good to hear,” Lily approved. “Want to check out the local talent in Guerneville tonight? Or I could come to you?” she offered. “I still need a private tour of your new digs.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “I’m sorry, Lil. I would, but I already have plans tonight.”
“Don’t apologize. That’s good!” she eagerly approved. “I’m glad you’re getting out.”
“Yeah,” I concurred. “Lucia invited me over to watch a movie.”
I idly ran my thumbnail across a deep groove in the worn doorframe. I didn’t want to make a big deal about the evening, but I was kind of feeling like the most popular girl in school had asked me to hang out with her.
“Lucia,” Lily echoed the name. “As in Lucia from your work? The same Lucia who hates your guts and resents that you bought the vineyard?”
I winced at the description. “That would be the one.”
“That doesn’t sound like she hates your guts,” my friend observed.
“No. Not anymore,” I admitted. “I don’t want to jinx it, but we’re actually getting along pretty well these days.”
“How well?” Lily pressed. “Like, is this a date?”
“Absolutely not,” I immediately rejected.
“How do you know?”
“There’s nothing happening,” I denied. “It’s just a movie at her dad’s house. She was probably feeling sorry for me, and it’s a pity invite,” I reflected. “I don’t know why, but I’m so awkward around her. She probably thinks I’m an idiot; I fall all over myself and make such stupid mistakes.”
“Because you’re crushing on her?” Lily guessed.
“I am not!” I practically squeaked.
“You’re not a nun, June. You’re allowed to crush on pretty girls. Hot, brooding, mysterious girls,” she unnecessarily added.
I swallowed. “But Alex—.”
“Isn’t here anymore,” Lily gently interrupted my protest. “And you know she would want you to be happy, Junie.”
“It’s too soon,” I dismissed out of hand. Her suggestion that this was a date was ridiculous anyway. Lucia barely tolerated me.
“There’s no timetable for grief, sweetie.”
After a promise that we would hang out soon, I hung up with Lily and hustled outside to my parked car. Lucia had asked me to drop by around 8:00 p.m. that night, and I didn’t want to be late for something that was definitely not a date.
I had mountain lions on my mind when I drove to the house Lucia shared with her father and her aunt. I was able-bodied, and the distance between the two homes was minimal, but I had no desire to meet up with a wild animal either coming to or from Lucia’s house that night. Concerns of being mauled by a wild animal competed for attention with my curiosity about what had led to Lucia inviting me over in the first place. Did she feel sorry for me, relegated to eating microwave popcorn in the vineyard office in my free time? Was she actually starting to warm up to me? Would this be the start of a friendship beyond working hours? I didn’t want to overanalyze the unexpected invitation, but it was in my nature to overthink things to death.
A pleasant wood-burning scent filled the air as I climbed out of my parked car. A thin plume of grey smoke drifted out of the Santigos’ chimney. I climbed the three steps to the welcoming, wrap-around porch and knocked on the solid wooden door.
The front door flung open with Lucia on the other side.
“Hey,” she greeted.
“Hey,” I returned, a little taken aback by how quickly she’d answered the door. The immediacy made me wonder if Lucia had been waiting, watching out the front-facing windows, for my arrival. Lily’s phone call had made me a little late, but not so late that she would have worried I’d flaked on our plans.
Her gaze perceptively scanned down my body. “No dinosaurs tonight?”
Her quip brought a smile to my lips, my nerves momentarily forgotten. I’d worn skinny jeans and a loose sweater—relaxed, but definitely not pajamas. “No. The dinosaurs are back in their packing box where they belong.”
Like myself, Lucia had changed out of her work clothes, but her chosen outfit was curiously similar to what she typically wore on the vineyard each day. The denim shirt had been exchanged for a dark blue button-up flannel shirt whose sleeves she’d rolled up to her elbows. Her black skinny jeans were a little more fitted than the denim she usually wore to work. She looked good, I decided. Comfortable. Confident.
“Too bad,” Lucia mused. She opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
The temperatures had started to dip outside with the late hour, but it was cozy inside of the Santiago home. Despite the summer month on the calendar, Napa County nights could get cold; a fire crackled in the living room’s open fireplace, filling the air with its warm and welcoming aroma.
The house was eerily quiet with the exception of the burning fire. “Where’s Rolando and Clara tonight?” I asked.
“My dad is playing poker with a group of old timers,” she said. “A bunch of winemakers from the region get together every month.”
“And your aunt?”
“I told her I had someone coming over tonight, so she’s making herself scarce.”
I hummed at the admission. I found it curious she hadn’t simply told her aunt that I was coming over, but rather someone. I didn’t know how to feel about it. Did she not want her family to know we were hanging out? Was there some kind of unwritten rule in the wine world about employees and vineyard owners not hanging out?
“Do you want something to drink?” Lucia offered. Her question stopped my insecure musings.
I’d contemplated bringing a bottle of wine with me, but I assumed that anything I brought over would be inferior to whatever Lucia was used to drinking.
“I don’t know,” I said, following her back to the kitchen. “Have anything that’ll blow my nose off?”
Lucia’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “The nose on the wine will blow your wig off,” she corrected.
“Why do you all talk like that?” I wondered aloud. “All of those made up words like ‘mouthfeel’ and ‘bouquet.’ It makes us mere mortals feel bad.”
“You didn’t have industry jargon where you used to work?” She tilted her head to the side. “What were you doing before this?”
She looked like she hadn’t considered the question before.
“Sitting behind a desk in a San Francisco high rise.”
“Let me guess.” Lucia tapped her fingers to her lips. The action brought my attention to her mouth. She had a wide mouth, with not overly plump lips, but her lower lip was noticeably more full than her upper lip. It made her appear as if she was constantly pouting. “Something in the non-profit world.”
Her guess was curious. “What makes you say that?”
“You seem like the do-gooder type,” she shrugged. She opened up a cabinet door and pulled out two wine glasses. “Like you believe that people naturally want to do what’s right.”
“I suppose that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called,” I decided. “But no. I didn’t work for a non-profit. I did marketing for a big advertising firm. I was the creative director, in fact.” I let myself brag a little.
“Huh,” she clucked. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
My insecurities prickled. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. It seems like a cut-throat, competitive world. But maybe that’s just in the movies.”
“I’m not … I’m not normally so weak,” my voice wobbled.
Lucia grimaced. “Shit. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sure you were terrific at what you did. You’re, like, really creative,” she said in earnest. “I can tell.”
I cleared my throat and swallowed down a wave of complicated emotions. “So, what pairs well with popcorn?”
Lucia looked relieved by the change in subject. “Chardonnay or pinot grigio—something buttery.”
I leaned against the kitchen island while Lucia busied herself with the popcorn and finding a big enough bowl. “Why do we only make cabs?” I wondered aloud.
“Because we only grow cabernet grapes?” she countered.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but we replant new vines every year. Why not diversify?”
“You’re thinking like a hedge-fund investor,” she said with a shake of her head. “We do one thing very well. In fact, I’d argue we do it better than anyone else in the valley. Besides,” she continued, “white wines are easy. They’re for bridal showers and girls’ only weekends.”
“And microwave popcorn,” I added.
My words pulled a rare smile to Lucia’s lips. “That, too.”
A strange sensation tickled down my spine at the sight of Lucia’s toothy grin. It started in the center of my back and traveled down my tailbone.
“I’ll have to set up a vertical tasting for you one of these days,” she offered. “You try the same kind of wine, like a cabernet sauvignon, but from multiple vintages.”
“Vintages,” I echoed. “That means different harvest years, right?”
“Look at you,” Lucia seemed to tease. “You’re starting to sound like one of us.”
I didn’t think I would ever feel totally at ease or like I belonged in this world, but I didn’t want to sour Lucia’s good mood with my lingering discomfort.
We left the kitchen with our glasses of chardonnay and an oversized bowl of freshly popped microwave popcorn. Rolando’s living room was large, but cozy. A patterned area rug covered much of the dark wood flooring. A crocheted afghan hung off the back of a cloth upholstered couch. Decorative lamps sat atop end tables and threw light into the otherwise darkened room. The fire in the fireplace continued to appealingly pop and crackle. I spied a series of framed photographs set up on the mantle. My curiosity compelled me to take a closer look, but I’d only been invited over for a movie, not a window into Lucia Santiago’s life.
I set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table and occupied the couch while Lucia grabbed multiple remotes and fiddled with the television’s settings.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” she asked. “A comedy? Action? Romance?”
Was that a line? I wondered.
“I’m not picky,” I said.
“Horror?” she seemed to challenge. “Or will that give you nightmares for weeks?”
“I can handle it if you can,” I tossed back.
One of my first dates with Alex had been to a foreign film at a small independent movie theater close to campus. I’d been surprised when she’d proposed going to a film with subtitles. I learned later in our relationship that the choice had been purposeful; she’d wanted me to believe that she was sophisticated and cultured. Her humble upbringing had long been a source of discomfort for her. Having grown up in rural Iowa, she navigated the West Coast with a chip on her shoulder. She wanted people to find her impressive. As an adult she sought out the latest technology, the fanciest finishes, the highest level of luxury. Part of her decision to purchase a vineyard, despite neither of us having any previous experience or even interest in viticulture, was probably rooted in that inferiority complex.
Lucia queued up a movie and sat in a recliner on one side of the room instead of the vacant spot beside me on the couch. The distance between us brought a frown to my face. The couch was big enough for at least three people. She had been the one to invite me over; did she not feel comfortable sitting next to me? I’d thought we were beyond all of that.
“You’re not going to make me eat this popcorn all by myself, are you?” I didn’t exactly pout, but I made my disapproval apparent.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” she sputtered out an apology. “Yeah, I’ll have some.”
She hopped up from the recliner, and for a moment I thought she might return to the kitchen to get a separate bowl for herself. But instead of evenly dividing the popcorn between us, she flopped down next to me on the couch. She’d gone from sitting on the other side of the room to sitting so close that her thigh periodically pressed against mine. The distance between us had made me uncomfortable, but her extreme and sudden proximity was similarly alarming. I tried to put a little more space between us, but the stiff armrest to my side made that nearly impossible.
Lucia grabbed the popcorn bowl and set it in her lap. She used her hand like a skill crane to collect an overly large handful of popcorn before shoving the buttery snack into her mouth. Most of the popcorn made it to her mouth, but a few scattered pieces tumbled down the front of her shirt.
Not thinking, I plucked one of the runaway pieces from her chest and popped it into my mouth.
Lucia paused her aggressive snacking long enough to stare. “There’s plenty in the bowl.”
I felt the slight blush of embarrassment color my cheeks. I mumbled out a weak excuse. “I didn’t want the butter to stain your shirt.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she returned. She brushed her hands down the front of her shirt, dislodging any remaining popped kernels. “It won’t be laundry day again for a while.”
“Your aunt really banned you from doing laundry at home?” I mused.
Lucia nodded and grabbed another handful of popcorn. “Apparently my clothes get too dirty for her washing machine or something. So she makes me take them into town to ruin the Laundromat’s machines instead.”
I watched her inelegantly shovel another pile of popcorn into her mouth.
“I can’t imagine why she’d ever think that,” I slyly replied.
Lucia shot a quick look in my direction. “Are you teasing me, Jefa?”
I held up my hands and smiled. “I would never.”
She licked at her lips, now covered in salt and butter from the popcorn. It made me wonder if she ate everything with such enthusiasm. I pressed my thighs together as an unexpected heat radiated from my core. I prayed that the movement went unnoticed.
Lucia started the movie, but I missed the film’s title and opening credits. I’d become too distracted by the oblivious woman sitting too close to me for anything playing across the TV screen to register with me. With the pretense of needing to sit close enough so we could both reach the popcorn, Lucia’s thigh remained pressed against mine. The pressure varied from a solid presence to barely there; each time she shifted on the couch, causing her leg to move slightly away from mine, I found myself missing the press of her body.
Lucia sat with one arm cradled around the oversized popcorn bowl as if holding onto a swaddled infant. She no longer shoveled handfuls of popcorn into her open mouth. She plucked individual pieces from the top of the pile. When she lifted the popcorn close enough to her mouth, her tongue popped out to receive the snack from her fingertips. Her tongue undulated, almost coaxing each popcorn piece into her mouth. From time to time she flicked the tip of her tongue against her fingertips, erasing any buttery or salty residue.
“You should really watch this part.”
I blinked hard, suddenly aware of how long I’d been staring at her fingers, tongue, and mouth. I returned my attention to the television. “Am I missing out on important plot points?” I deflected. “Will I be lost later in the movie?”
“No,” she countered, “but if you don’t get each character’s backstory, you won’t care when they inevitably die.”
I sat up a little straighter. “I didn’t realize there were rules.”
“Horror films are nothing but rules.”
“I thought these movies were just blonde chicks running away from masked guys with chainsaws.”
“Oh, it’s a very sophisticated genre.” Lucia tossed a few more popped kernels into her mouth. “This chick dies first.”
“Spoilers!” I protested.
“It’s not spoilers,” she insisted. “The useless, sexually promiscuous girl always dies first.”
“Oh, right. Your rules.”
“They’re not my rules,” she rejected. “Everybody knows you don’t have sex in a scary movie unless you want to die.”
“Who makes these movies?” I scoffed. “The purity police?”
I blindly reached for a handful of popcorn, determined to pay more attention to the developing action on the TV rather than the curious woman who sat with her thigh pressed against mine. My fingers sifted through the buttery, popped kernels, but then bumped against a new texture, something solid and warm.
Lucia jerked her hand out of the popcorn bowl, nearly spilling its contents. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
I hated this teenaged awkwardness that made us so stiff and uncomfortable around each other. If my friend Lily had been sitting next to me, she would have been draped across me without issue or apology. But Lucia and I weren’t friends who had known each other since college. I didn’t know what to label us. I had been emphatic with Lily about this not being a date, but sitting on this couch brought me back to my teenaged years and darkened movie theaters when I could only focus on the person seated beside me.
