Now it was ending as it had started, a little more each time. . . .
I felt her hand on my shoulder as I was leaving the supermarket with a bag of groceries. I knew it was her and I turned and there was no one there. Seconds later, she hailed me from across the parking lot. I went over and said hello, asked her if she were still working at the software place where she’d been. She said that she wasn’t. I recalled that she was wearing a small silver pentagram on a chain about her neck. It could easily-and more likely should-have been hanging down inside her blouse. But of course I wouldn’t have seen it then, and her body language indicated that she wanted me to see it. So I ignored it while we exchanged a few generalities, and she turned me down on dinner and a movie, though I asked after several nights.
“What are you doing now?” I inquired.
“I’m studying a lot.”
“What?”
“Oh, just-different things. I’ll surprise you one of these days.”
Again, I didn’t bite, though an over-friendly Irish setter approached us about then. She placed her hand on its head and said, “Sit!” and it did.
It became still as a statue at her side, and remained when we left later. For all I know, there’s a dog skeleton still crouched there, near the cart return area, like a piece of modern sculpture.
It didn’t really seem that important at the time. But in retrospect, I wondered. . . .
We had ridden that day, Vinta and I. Seeing my growing exasperation of the morning, she must have felt a break was in order. She was right. Following a light lunch, when she made the suggestion that we take a ride about the estate, I agreed readily. I had wanted a little more time in which to think before continuing our cross-examination and discourse game. And the weather was good, the countryside attractive.
We made our way along a curling hail through arbors, which led at length into the northern hills from where we were afforded long views across the rugged and cross-hatched land down to the sun-filled sea. The sky was full of winds and wisps of cloud, passing birds. . . . Vinta seemed to have no special destination in mind, which was all right with me. As we rode, I recalled a visit to a Napa Valley winery, and the next time we drew rein to rest the horses I asked her, “Do you bottle the wine here at the estate? Or is that done in town? Or in Amber?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I thought you grew up here.”
“I never paid attention.”
I bit back a remark about patrician attitudes. Unless she were joking, I couldn’t see how she’d fail to know something like that.
She caught my expression, though, and added immediately, “We’ve done it various ways at various times. I’ve been living in town for several years now. I’m not sure where the principal bottling has been done recently.”
Nice save, because I couldn’t fault it. I hadn’t intended my question as any sort of trap, but I felt as if I had just touched on something. Possibly from the fact that she didn’t let it go at that. She went on to say that they shipped large casks all over the place and often sold them in that fashion. On the other hand, there were smaller customers who wanted the product bottled. . . . I stopped listening after a time. On the one hand, I could see it, coming horn a vintner’s daughter. On the other, it was all stuff I could have made up myself on the spot. There was no way for me to check on any of it. I got the feeling that she was trying to snow me, to cover something. But I couldn’t figure what.
“Thanks,” I said when she paused for breath, and she gave me a strange look but took the hint and did not continue.
“You have to speak English,” I said in that language, “if the things you told me earlier are true.”