obviously known something I didn’t. The kohl crumbled and smudged, and made me look as if I’d caught my head in a chimney. I wiped till only a suggestion of smoke clung to the base of my lashes. After the red from rubbing had faded, I stuffed a fresh pack of cigarettes into my purse, put my sandals on, and was off.
“I’m glad you decided to come casual. I meant to tell you to,” Brad said at his front door, where he met me a minute later. He was done up in a white shirt and striped tie, navy blazer and fawn trousers himself, and looked about as casual as an engraved invitation to the White House.
My senses were assaulted on all sides as I went into the dimly lit cottage. Strange discordant music issued from the stereo. There was a wail of violins carrying the melody, enriched below by breathy woodwinds, and the throb of drums. It was an insinuating rhythm that obtruded on the ear. An infernal racket might be a clearer description. The spicy aroma of meat simmering in herbs and wine wafted on the air, mingling with the music, but the greatest assault was on the eyes.
I had seen this cottage myself two days ago. It had been a dump, like my own. What had he done to it, to make it look like a seraglio? The embroidered throw covering the sofa vaguely suggested India. On it were tossed a dozen or so gold-tasseled cushions, reeking of Persia. Candlelight hid the atrocities of chipped, cheap furniture, and glowed on a table that belonged in Maxim’s. Across the room, candlelight twinkled on crystal and silver and a floral centerpiece. All nice and casual.
Brad politely ignored my gawking. “Sit down and make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. I sat, and looked at a coffee table covered with a lace cloth, on which rested a lovely crystal ashtray, a silver box holding cigarettes, and a matching silver table lighter. There were also a bottle of wine and two footed glasses.
"I’ve opened the wine to breathe,” he mentioned.
‘We wouldn’t want it to suffocate.”
He displayed his flashing smile in appreciation of this humor and settled on the sofa beside me to pour the wine.
“Go ahead and smoke if you want,” he offered. “It dulls the palate, but when I invite company, I try to make them comfortable. I noticed you smoke, so I put out the accoutrements.”
“Thank you.” He kindly averted his eyes when I opened my purse to rummage amidst the welter of wallet, keys, comb, and Kleenex for my cigarettes, but as soon as I got one out, he had the lighter flaming under my nose.
This done, he turned his attention to the wine. “Pineau des Charentes,” he said, lifting the bottle. “An interesting aperitif wine. This one is Château de Beaulon.” He poured the ruby liquid into glasses and handed me one.
I repeated, “Thank you,” and sipped, while my mind ran over clever things to say. “Very nice,” I said cleverly. Nice! The word had been condemned for its dullness since the nineteenth century.
“Fruitier than the white Pineau des Charentes. I thought you might like it before dinner. Supple, aromatic,” he added, sniffing the bouquet before drinking.
“The rascal of the vineyard. It’s quite sweet.” I understood a dry wine was more sophisticated.
“The fermentation is muted by the brandy that’s added, so it keeps its sweetness. Accidentally discovered in the fifteen hundreds in France, when a worker added brandy to the wine by mistake and hid the cask. Years later it was discovered, and this fortified wine was born. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but accident is the sire. Wonderful clarity,” he informed me, holding his glass to the candle.
What I knew about wine would fit in a shot glass. I could only retaliate with words. “I guess you’re an oenophile, are you not?”
“As the man said, I don’t know much about wine, but I know what I like.”
The ensuing monologue revealed that he did, in fact, know a great deal about wine—more than I cared to