Read Online Sweeter Than Wine by Michaela August - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michaela August
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ceiling had
been transformed into an electric chandelier, and a small electric lamp stood on a
night table next to the walnut bedstead.
The bed, plump with goosedown pillows and a quilted comforter, looked like
heaven to a man accustomed to the bedroll of a soldier. "This will do
wonderfully."
"I couldn't make you sleep in a wine barrel," she said, roses blooming in her
cheeks. She backed away, smoothing down the front of her apron, and left him in
possession of his new quarters.
Dropping his valise onto the bed, Siegfried removed his jacket and hung it
precisely in the empty wardrobe. He extracted his shaving kit, then rolled up his
shirtsleeves and walked down the hall to wash his bruised face and hands with
soap and warm water. Drawing a wet comb through his hair, he scowled at the
face in the mirror. He must appear the perfect villain to Bill's pretty little widow. He
would have to work very hard to change her impression of him.
He returned to his bedroom and unpacked his few belongings--underclothes,
socks, some clean shirts, an extra suit cut down from one of Opa Roye's, and two
pairs of work trousers--no, jeans, he corrected himself--that Oma Tati had bought
him from Levi-Strauss.
The last item he took from the valise was a photograph. He set it down on the
night table, and twisted his father's gold signet ring around on his finger as he
studied it. Taken just before the War started, Mother, Father, Tante Hilde, Ernst,
and a painfully young Siegfried sat formally posed among the leafy vines and fat
grape clusters of midsummer. Despite the warm sun, all of them were dressed in
their best dark clothes. He remembered the heavy heat and the naive resentment
he had felt at the prospect of returning to classes in Heidelberg that fall.
Now, of all the people in the portrait, Siegfried and Tante Hilde were the only
survivors. He had a chance for a new life if he could convince Alice to forgo her
plans for an annulment. He would make a new life for himself at Montclair.
As he stored the empty valise in the wardrobe, the divine scent of broiling
meat drifted up the stairs, redolent with the promise of tender brown flesh and rich
drippings. The smell brought a rush of juices to his mouth. Oma Tati's charity
meals had failed to take the edge off his hunger, but here at Montclair, he would
be expected to work for his supper. He could eat his fill with a good
conscience.
After what seemed eternity, he heard Alice's voice calling him to dinner. He
came down before the echoes of her voice died, and was greeted by an angelic
vision: a beautiful woman presiding at a bountiful table. There were platters and
bowls of cooked food, as well as a silver filigree basket with a loaf of sourdough
bread, a ceramic crock mounded with butter, and a crystal decanter of garnet-red
wine.
Alice took in his rapturous expression. "Good. You're hungry. Please sit down
and eat."
He pulled out her chair for her. "This looks delicious," he said. Was he so
transparently famished? He must try not to look too eager.
As she sat, a bit stiffly, he lifted the decanter and filled first her glass, then his
own. The wine had good legs. It might be potent, or sweet. He mustn't drink it too
fast on an empty stomach. He needed a clear head.
He moved to his chair at what he hoped was an unhurried pace, and sat down,
dropping his napkin to his lap with painstaking correctness. He raised his
wineglass to her. "To the hospitality of a generous hostess," he saluted, then took
a sip. Instantly, he regretted it. There was a faint but distinct hint of mercaptan in
the bouquet of the Cabernet Sauvignon, and the finish proved it, bitter and
astringent.
He sniffed the wine incredulously. Montclair Cabernet--mellow flavors of oak
and blackberry, overlaid by a hint of vanilla--sullied by the unmistakable odor of
poultry manure? God, yes. It was definitely there, the most grievous of winemaking
sins. He studied Alice, wondering if she had noticed at all.
She was swirling
been transformed into an electric chandelier, and a small electric lamp stood on a
night table next to the walnut bedstead.
The bed, plump with goosedown pillows and a quilted comforter, looked like
heaven to a man accustomed to the bedroll of a soldier. "This will do
wonderfully."
"I couldn't make you sleep in a wine barrel," she said, roses blooming in her
cheeks. She backed away, smoothing down the front of her apron, and left him in
possession of his new quarters.
Dropping his valise onto the bed, Siegfried removed his jacket and hung it
precisely in the empty wardrobe. He extracted his shaving kit, then rolled up his
shirtsleeves and walked down the hall to wash his bruised face and hands with
soap and warm water. Drawing a wet comb through his hair, he scowled at the
face in the mirror. He must appear the perfect villain to Bill's pretty little widow. He
would have to work very hard to change her impression of him.
He returned to his bedroom and unpacked his few belongings--underclothes,
socks, some clean shirts, an extra suit cut down from one of Opa Roye's, and two
pairs of work trousers--no, jeans, he corrected himself--that Oma Tati had bought
him from Levi-Strauss.
The last item he took from the valise was a photograph. He set it down on the
night table, and twisted his father's gold signet ring around on his finger as he
studied it. Taken just before the War started, Mother, Father, Tante Hilde, Ernst,
and a painfully young Siegfried sat formally posed among the leafy vines and fat
grape clusters of midsummer. Despite the warm sun, all of them were dressed in
their best dark clothes. He remembered the heavy heat and the naive resentment
he had felt at the prospect of returning to classes in Heidelberg that fall.
Now, of all the people in the portrait, Siegfried and Tante Hilde were the only
survivors. He had a chance for a new life if he could convince Alice to forgo her
plans for an annulment. He would make a new life for himself at Montclair.
As he stored the empty valise in the wardrobe, the divine scent of broiling
meat drifted up the stairs, redolent with the promise of tender brown flesh and rich
drippings. The smell brought a rush of juices to his mouth. Oma Tati's charity
meals had failed to take the edge off his hunger, but here at Montclair, he would
be expected to work for his supper. He could eat his fill with a good
conscience.
After what seemed eternity, he heard Alice's voice calling him to dinner. He
came down before the echoes of her voice died, and was greeted by an angelic
vision: a beautiful woman presiding at a bountiful table. There were platters and
bowls of cooked food, as well as a silver filigree basket with a loaf of sourdough
bread, a ceramic crock mounded with butter, and a crystal decanter of garnet-red
wine.
Alice took in his rapturous expression. "Good. You're hungry. Please sit down
and eat."
He pulled out her chair for her. "This looks delicious," he said. Was he so
transparently famished? He must try not to look too eager.
As she sat, a bit stiffly, he lifted the decanter and filled first her glass, then his
own. The wine had good legs. It might be potent, or sweet. He mustn't drink it too
fast on an empty stomach. He needed a clear head.
He moved to his chair at what he hoped was an unhurried pace, and sat down,
dropping his napkin to his lap with painstaking correctness. He raised his
wineglass to her. "To the hospitality of a generous hostess," he saluted, then took
a sip. Instantly, he regretted it. There was a faint but distinct hint of mercaptan in
the bouquet of the Cabernet Sauvignon, and the finish proved it, bitter and
astringent.
He sniffed the wine incredulously. Montclair Cabernet--mellow flavors of oak
and blackberry, overlaid by a hint of vanilla--sullied by the unmistakable odor of
poultry manure? God, yes. It was definitely there, the most grievous of winemaking
sins. He studied Alice, wondering if she had noticed at all.
She was swirling
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