“I think, sir, that this bottle is the first of a new batch only recently arrived.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
Gerald nods, bows. “I believe the main course is ready, sir.”
A wave of the hand, a dismissal.
I am puzzled. Overwhelmed. Estate in Mallorca? Exclusive reserves of a thousand, unlabeled bottles of wine? An entire building in the heart of Manhattan?
“Where is Mallorca, Caleb?”
“It’s an island in the Mediterranean Sea owned by Spain. I—or rather my family—owns a vineyard there, among other places.”
Family? It’s hard to think of this man as having a family. Sisters, brothers? Parents?
Gerald appears with a large plate in each hand. Salmon, pinkish-orange, surrounded by grilled vegetables—cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, green bean sprouts—and thick, lumpy mashed potatoes topped by a melting pat of butter.
I have yet to taste the wine, which is ruby in color, the shade of freshly spilled blood. I put the glass to my nose and inhale; the scent is earthy, ripe, pungent, powerful. I try a sip. I have to suppress the urge to cough, to spit it out. I swallow, school my features into the blank mask. I do not like this, not at all. Dry, rolling over my tongue with a dozen shades of decadent flavor.
“Don’t like that wine as much, I take it?”
I shake my head. “It’s . . . so different.”
“Different good, or different bad?”
I am in dangerous and unfamiliar territory. I shrug. “Not like the Pinot Grigio.”
A noise in the back of the throat. A laugh, perhaps. If I didn’t know better. “You don’t like it. You can say so, if that is the case.”
I demurely slide the goblet away from me an inch or two. “I would prefer some ice water, I think.”
“More of the Pinot, perhaps?” My goblet is tugged closer to the other side of the table.
I shrug, trying not to appear too eager. “That would be wonderful, Caleb. Thank you.”
A single finger lifted off the tabletop, a turn of the head. Subtle gestures, made with the knowledge that they will be noticed. Gerald appears, bending close. “Sir?”
“The lady does not find the red suitable to her palate, I’m afraid. She’ll have more of the Pinot Grigio. I’ll finish this myself, I suppose. No sense wasting it.”
“Immediately, sir.” Gerald hustles into the shadows and is gone for only a few moments before returning with a single glass of the white wine.
I was expecting more of the uncorking ritual and find myself slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see it again. So strange, so lovely, like the waltz of a gourmand. No matter. I drink the wine and enjoy it. Feel it in my blood, buzzing warmly in my skull.
The salmon, of course, is very good. Light, flavorful, pleasurable.
Nothing is said during the course of the meal. The only sound is the quartet playing softly from the shadows, the clink of forks. At long last, both plates are pushed away, and I follow example by covering what I didn’t finish with my napkin. Gerald removes the plates, vanishes, and reappears with two plates, each of which contains a single small bowl, in which is... I do not know what it is.
“Chef Jean-Luc offers Flan Almendra, a traditional Spanish dessert for sir and madam, to finish the evening.”
“Thank you, Gerald. That will be all.”
“Of course, sir. And may I just say what an extraordinary pleasure it was to serve you this evening.” Gerald bows deeply and then departs.
Flan turns out to be somewhere between pudding and pie, with a crunchy almond crust. I eat it slowly, savoring it, forcing myself to be demure, a lady, and not devour it as I would wish to, were such barbaric behavior allowed.
Through it all, my brain is whirring. A single question, burning: Why? Why? Why?
I dare not ask.
