Last of the Vintage Page 3

  She was a bombshell.

  Honey-blonde hair, large green eyes, a perfect hourglass figure, and an innate poise that, all combined, made innocent bystanders stop their conversations and simply watch her walk by. Samantha had never been comfortable with any of it. She did not like attention.

  But she had those crushing student loans. So she applied for the job. And of course, she got it. Within a week, she was the most watched weather forecaster of all the networks. She knew why, and it wasn’t because she was more accurate than anyone else, which of course she was. The only satisfaction that she got from it was that she hoped her stupid ex-boyfriend saw her and regretted breaking up with her. Probably not.

  Samantha had made a promise to herself that she would stay on television for only one year to pay off her loans. Meanwhile, she would start graduate coursework at the nearby state university. Then she would transfer to one of the more well-known programs to begin the path toward a research position.

  That had been three years ago. That same summer, she had met Jeremy. They went through a whirlwind romance and before she knew it, she was married. Samantha wouldn’t allow herself to believe that it was a rebound relationship.

  “Are you getting tired of the weather girl gig?” Jeremy asked, taking a few of the glasses from her.

  Samantha’s thoughts were jerked into the present. “Stop calling it that!” she spat out, then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t so much that she disliked being called a weather girl, it was just that the entire ‘gig’ as Jeremy referred to it, was exactly the opposite of what she wanted to do with her life. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I mean, it’s just not the career I had dreamed of.”

  “But it’s good pay while you’re in school,” Jeremy said. “And while I’m trying to get this master somm certification.”

  Back to that. Somehow every conversation went back to him and his master level certification as a sommelier. Samantha knew it was a big step in his career. The level was highly coveted, and few had reached it. It would open doors for him to work literally around the world. But did Samantha want to go through those doors with him?

  “Yeah,” she said while loading the dishwasher. “It’s good pay.” They were silent as they cleaned up the kitchen, then both went to their respective rooms to study. Jeremy had already forgotten the conversation. Samantha couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  #

  He walked slowly down the dark street, stumbling occasionally on the icy sidewalk. He’d forgotten his gloves, so his hands were shoved into this pockets to protect them from the freezing blasts of air that whistled between the buildings. Every few feet he slipped, and his hands would involuntarily come out of his pockets to balance him. He swore softly each time, replacing his hands in the comparative warmth the moment he’d regained his balance.

  When he reached the corner he paused and looked up. Her window. He knew it was her window. He had seen her standing there, looking out, several times. Once he had thought she was looking directly back at him and restrained the urge to wave. Not now. Not yet.

  Did this make him a stalker, the fact that he kept walking down the same street every evening, looking up toward the same window, hoping to see the same person? It wasn’t like he waited outside her door and followed her. Still, what exactly was he doing?

  They had been together for so long. He thought that he wanted to be free, to date other women, to have the options for his life open. That first summer had been fun, but as the days grew colder and he went off to graduate school, he found himself thinking about her. A lot.

  He had buckled down, focused on his work, finished his masters degree. It had been a struggle. He knew he had to see her again. He had to talk to her. He had to get her back.

  He moved to Maine and got a job teaching at the local community college. It wasn’t the high-powered professorship that he had planned, but he didn’t care now. He just wanted Samantha back.

  It had come as a shock to turn on the television one night and see her, delivering the weather forecast. His days now revolved around the evening news. He even recorded her and watched her over and over, long into the evening.

  Portland was a very small city, and it didn’t take long for him to learn more about her. She was married. She had been for three years, since the summer after he had dumped her. “Didn’t take her long,” he thought, not realizing that his face had contorted into a sneer. Had he expected her to pine for him? Of course he had.

  He wasn’t sure what his next move would be. He had a vague idea of them ‘bumping into’ one another, but it seemed too obvious. Why would he be there, after all? Other than general family connections, he really had no reason to even be visiting Portland. He certainly had no reason to be living and working there.

  He pushed the crosswalk signal and, while waiting for it to change, continued to stare up at the window. The light was on, but he couldn’t see anyone. The traffic signal switched and he reluctantly continued across the street, back toward his own apartment.

  Samantha stood behind the curtain. She had been watching him. She knew he was there. She had first seen him several weeks earlier. Her stomach had dropped that first time. She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t him, but that was useless. She knew, without a doubt, that it was.

  The next time she saw him, she made a point of standing in the window, in full view. For the entire time she stood there, willing herself not to look down at him, he stared up at her. Yes, it had to be him.

  Samantha now found herself gripped by an unexplained fear. Every nerve in her body told her that something was wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He should be long gone from her life by now. Why had he suddenly reappeared? What did he want? She tried to calm herself, to convince herself that any interest he had was benign. But she knew him. She knew his obsessive nature. He didn’t give up on something if he wanted it. He was insidious, charming when necessary, forceful when required. Their relationship had been on his terms, always.

  When she thought back, she was glad that it had ended. She just wished that she hadn’t fallen into a marriage so quickly with someone new. She wished she had taken time for herself. But Samantha had always been affected by everyone else. She had grown to be incapable of standing up for herself, or even knowing who, exactly, she was.

  Patrick Spratt trudged back to his small apartment, now shivering from the arctic air. He unwound the scarf from around his neck and scuffed off the bottoms of his boots on the front mat while removing his coat. Reaching down with cold hands, he took the boots off and padded into the living room where he switched on the TV. He went into the kitchen, opened a beer, and came back out. Without even looking at it, he picked up the remote and hit several buttons. Samantha’s face appeared on the screen. The volume was off. He sat in silence, staring at her, drinking his beer, for nearly an hour.

  One can have no smaller

  or greater mastery

  than mastery of oneself.

  ― Leonardo da Vinci

  CHAPTER 3

  Dulcie tried not to fidget. She held her coffee cup firmly in both hands, willing her body to relax. It was silly, really. Why should she be so nervous to see Brendan MacArthur again? What difference did it make? It had been several days since she’d received his message, but she still hadn’t come to terms with a reunion on any level.

  “Ah, there’s my bonnie wee lassie!” a voice with a decided Scottish brogue chimed from behind her. She flinched and spilled the coffee. “And here I am scaring you to bits!” he added.

  Dulcie gently lowered the cup, turned, and smiled. “Brendan, so good to see you,” she said trying, and failing, to keep a more formal tone. “I was lost in thought,” she added by way of an excuse, wiping up coffee from the table with a paper napkin. It was an effective means to avoid what would have been a bear hug from her former boyfriend.

  He settled for sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her sideways toward him for a brief moment. She laughed awkwardly. He eased into the chair o
pposite her.

  “So now that I’ve ruined your drink, I can buy you a proper one as any gentleman would do,” he grinned.

  There was no getting around it. Brendan would be Brendan, a booming, jovial Scotsman with flaming red hair and a personality to match. Dulcie sighed. “Yes, that’d be fine,” she replied somewhat meekly, much to her own disgust.

  Thankfully, he left her alone for a few moments as he went to the counter for more coffee. She finished her clean-up work, sat back in her chair, and once again attempted to relax.

  Brendan returned. “Our waiter has said he will bring cappuccino over immediately, fine man that he is,” Brendan said. Sitting again he looked deep into Dulcie’s eyes. “How is it possible that you’re bonnie eyes are even more beautiful?”

  Dulcie put up her hand to stop him. “Okay, Brendan, as I said before, it is good to see you. But cut the crap. I know you, remember? You want to talk with me for a reason; this isn’t just for old-time’s sake. What brings you here?”

  Brendan MacArthur pretended to look hurt by her accusation but knew he was no match for her when she was serious. He chuckled. “Perceptive, as always. Of course, I did give myself away in my email. I do have a little project I’ve been working on.” The waiter appeared with the coffee. “Ah, excellent! Good man!” Brendan’s brogue was even thicker when he chose to be more ‘authentic.’ He knew how to use it to his advantage. “Nothin’ like a fine brew!” he added, rolling out the R. “Except, a’ course, a wee dram!” He winked at the waiter. He laughed, as Brendan had intended, and went back to the counter.

  Dulcie sipped patiently. She had seen this many times. Brendan needed to wind himself down before he could get to the point.

  “Ahhhh,” he exhaled loudly after a long slurping sip and put down his cup. “So, my darling Dulcie. To be succinct, which I know you appreciate, I have a gift for you. Nay, a gift wrapped in a wee proposition!” He waited for the effect.

  Dulcie continued to drink her coffee serenely.

  “Ah, I see you are not falling for my proposals once again,” he grinned. “Good girl. All right then. Here it is. But first, let me tell you a story.”

  “Oh my God, Brendan! Will you just get on with it?” Although she tried, Dulcie had never been an overly patient person.

  Brendan knew he had her now. He put down his cup and leaned forward. “The year, my lass, is 1869. In the autumn of that year, there was a gale, a terrible gale! The winds swept up over the blue sea and the waves crashed, fierce with anger!”

  Dulcie rolled her eyes. “Water doesn’t get angry Brendan. Do you have a point?”

  He ignored her. “They called it the Saxby Gale! Such a wind did howl that terrible night!”

  Dulcie was shaking her head now. She looked at her watch purposefully.

  “But, I see I have an unappreciative audience.”

  “You’ll have no audience in a minute, Brendan. Get on with it,” Dulcie said.

  “Fine. The long and the short of it. A ship went down off one of your islands out in the bay during the Saxby Gale. Yours truly located it and…” he paused for effect. Dulcie sipped her coffee, unaffected. “… and,” he repeated with emphasis, “along with the standard bits of cargo, we found a case of wine. Still intact. The wine, I mean.”

  Dulcie’s cup hovered in mid-air. She looked intently at Brendan. “What kind?” she asked.

  “Now I have your attention!” he replied, his eyebrows lifting. “It appears to be a Château Lafite Rothschild.”

  Dulcie set her cup down in the saucer carefully and deliberately. “Brendan,” she said, “You know as well as I do that the chances of it being any good are slim. The corks will surely be damaged or crumbling. It’ll be vinegar, or worse yet, seawater will have seeped in.”

  “Not necessarily! You see, Dulcie, I took the bold step of opening a bottle. What you have is, quite simply, something that nears perfection in my humble opinion!”

  “Brendan, you’ve never been humble a day in your life,” Dulcie laughed. “But I’ll admit, it really does sound exciting! Why are you telling me this, however?”

  “Because I’d like to donate a bottle to the museum,” He replied simply. He sat back and waited for his words to sink in.

  Dulcie paused. She toyed with her now empty cup. The implications began to dawn on her. A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild. A bottle of century and a half old Château Lafite Rothschild. A bottle of century and a half old drinkable Château Lafite Rothschild. Her mind was churning with ideas. Then one thought popped into her head and she looked intently across the table at her former boyfriend. “Why?” she asked pointedly.

  Brendan chuckled to himself. He knew Dulcie would get to that question sooner rather than later. He was prepared. “My lass, I would give you the usual guff about supporting a worthy cause and such, but you know me far too well, so I’ll skip that part. What I am hoping for is a certain level of quiet publicity. I have more bottles, most of which have corks as intact as this first one. I plan to auction them. Do you know what the last lot similar to this sold for? Over $200,000. Per bottle.”

  Dulcie was silent. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t determine what, exactly, was bothering her. She needed more information. “Brendan, if I recall correctly, the spoils of a wreck belong to the state that has jurisdiction. If this is off the coast of an island out in the bay, it’s in US waters. Specifically Maine waters. Doesn’t that mean that the State of Maine actually owns this wine?”

  He waved his hand in front of him as if to bat away an annoying fly. “It all depends on circumstances, lass. And who you know,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “However, now that you mention it, I would like to keep this relatively quiet.”

  Dulcie understood. He wanted the knowledge to circulate among a certain level of society, but didn’t want it to be overtly public. That level of society would be exactly the one that she dealt with regularly. The one with money to spare. Typically lots of it. They had a way of avoiding the details of their wealth when it came to the authorities just as Brendan was now doing.

  “All right. Here’s my thought,” she replied. “We’ll hold an ‘intimate gathering’ of a few museum patrons that I happen to know are wine enthusiasts. The evening will ostensibly be to have a private viewing of the new exhibit, but I’ll circulate the rumor to a chosen few that there will be a very special bottle of wine that we would like them all to try.”

  Brendan nodded happily. “Perfect, my love. You are heaven incarnate!” His brogue had become thick again as he spoke.

  “Not so fast, though,” Dulcie continued. “I might want to invite a special guest.”

  Brendan pointed to himself and grinned.

  “Uh, I mean other than you,” Dulcie said. “I have a friend who runs the best wine bar in Portland. She said she just hired a guy who was invited to take the Master Sommelier exam. I want to invite him to come and give his expert opinion.”

  Brendan began to interrupt, looking concerned.

  Dulcie stopped him. “Look, if the wine is as good as you say it is, he’ll help your cause. If it isn’t, you’ll be spared perhaps one or two lawsuits.”

  Brendan was annoyed but nodded. He looked out the window, across the street. This wasn’t going exactly as he had planned. He had forgotten what an adversary Dulcie could be.

  Dulcie knew that she hadn’t completely regained control of the situation, but had at least asserted a small amount of power. That’s what was required with Brendan MacArthur. Now there was an element of surprise over which he had no control. ‘Good,’ Dulcie thought. ‘That gives me some leverage, at least.’

  The concerned look that had flitted into Brendan’s starkly blue eyes was gone in an instant. “Of course, my dear Dulcie. You couldn’t be more correct. I look forward to it!”

  “I’m sure,” Dulcie replied smoothly. She slid her empty cup away from her and reached for her coat on the back of the chair. “I’ll be in touch with the details. I assume you’ll be in town fo
r a week or two?”

  “Why, yes! Such lovely weather you’re enjoying here. How could I leave now?” Brendan replied.

  Dulcie smiled with what she realized was sincerity for the first time since he had arrived at the table. “Yes, not unlike Scotland, Maine has its own special charms in January.”

  Brendan snorted in reply. “You’ve yet to experience those charms while wearing a dry suit in the Atlantic during the winter. I believe I have that one on you, lassie,” he said.

  “That you do,” Dulcie replied. “That you do!”

  #

  Jeremy Plunkett wiped off the bar in front of him as the couple he was about to serve commented loudly on the wines they saw displayed. “Oh that’s just the worst year for that pinot!” the man announced. The young woman giggled and nodded. Jeremy could tell that she had no idea whether he was correct or not.

  “Do you have something in mind or would you like a recommendation?” he asked the couple.

  “Oh, a recommendation, of course!” the man said with a hint of sarcasm.

  Jeremy had seen it before so many times. Someone who had a little knowledge but thought it applied to everything. He turned and picked up the bottle that the man had just maligned. “You are correct that 2011 was indeed a bad year, notably in California’s Russian River Valley. However, this cabernet is from Napa where they thankfully enjoyed a bit of drier, warmer weather late in the season after the rains. I think you’ll find it quite nice. Would you like to try some?” He smiled winningly. The man looked away. The young woman nodded eagerly.

  Jeremy poured while thinking, ‘Don’t mess with me, dude. I’ve pulled all-nighters to learn this stuff. I’ll be way ahead of you every time.’ He wasn’t smug about his knowledge, it was simply a point of fact. He knew more. Period.