PURSUIT: A Novel – 8.2: Wine

Old Towne, Kansas – Wednesday Afternoon, March 8, 1989

“A thousand eyes behold her, the dance flowing seamlessly,” Jerry sang as he opened the wooden door of the college town grocery. The bell sounded, the same old-time announcement over the past fifty years that a new customer had arrived. When the grocery passed to the founder’s son in the early 70’s, he led the trend to stock local grass-fed beef, iced flown-in fish, and fresh organic produce. Jerry preferred to shop here not only for its convenience, but he could taste the difference. He considered himself a grill connoisseur. Rather than taking a girl to an elegant restaurant and drop a hundred bucks on an epicurean meal and fine wine, he preferred to impress his date with his culinary skills, although his wine selection needed refinement.

After seeing Christina perform her dance finale, Jerry was soaring on dopamine, the “feel-good” chemical that motivates one to seek pleasure. He was aroused to invite her for a candlelit, gourmet dinner. But first, he wanted to experience what he had in mind. He pictured the setting on the terrace of his second story flat. The brick enclosure provided a private area to sunbathe, stargaze, or to host an intimate, romantic evening. He had developed finesse for prepping a meal in the kitchen with his date as casual conversation flowed and wine was poured and sipped as he chopped herbs and sliced vegetables, and then to the terrace to grill the entire course and finish just as the sun set over Old Towne.

Tonight, he wanted to try something novel and taste the culinary confection before serving a dinner on a hoped-for date with Christina. He scanned the magazine rack looking for his go-to for grilling recipes—Grillmeister. The Sicilian-Style Swordfish with its tomato-olive salsa sounded light and delicious. He made his rounds through the grocery as the planked floor creaked from millions of footsteps over the past half-century. Fresh, aromatic herbs—pungent cilantro and the sweet smell of dill—inspired him to spice up the salsa and the enticing flavor of rosemary with notes of pine, mint, and ginger would accent the grilled swordfish steak. He added them to the hand basket that contained tomato, yellow onion, red bell pepper, celery, and parsley. He stopped by the ceramic jars and ladled green, Sicilian olives and then headed for the fresh seafood counter. He saw swordfish the last time he bought river sockeye salmon—its dark, reddish-orange flesh had brightly contrasted with the paler pink steaks of the ocean bearing fish—and hoped the selection would look appealing today. He was in luck. A slab of the silver fish, its sword attached for authenticity, gutted and ready to slice into fillets, eyed him from its cushion of ice. Yes, it’s fresh, its eye looks alive.

Last stop was coffee beans. He was completely out and it would be another long night tackling the English comp paper. He bee-lined to his favorite, an Italian roast, certified organic with a dark, robust flavor and aroma.

 He paced toward the checkout with all the ingredients found and passed the wall of fine wines from California, Australia, France, and Italy. He stopped and considered. He was not having wine tonight, rarely did unless he was dining with someone, and too expensive for a college budget. Even this dinner was over his weekly limit, but he was flying high with a newness of heart, a feeling that started after the lightning experience and intensified since he had met the ballerina. For a moment, he wondered if he would be as enthralled with her if she were not a ballerina. Her graceful movements, combined with her athleticism perfectly expressed the lyrics that enraptured his thoughts. 

He chimed these words to the wine bottles as the second verse spontaneously rolled off his tongue. “A thousand eyes behold her, the dance flowing seamlessly, orchestral backdrop, a rhythm on which to float.” He smiled contently while looking at the wine labels. “Ahhh, it’s back, my heart filled with poetry.” It’s been a long time since I’ve felt poetic. He picked up a bottle to read its description and his mind traced back to the last time he’d felt lyrically romantic.

A memory flashed upon his mind to a scene at the airport where he and Laurie walked to the boarding gate, two high school lovebirds inseparable with their arms around each other’s waist. She was his last true romance, one that he felt was destined for marriage. He chuckled and thought how naïve he was at eighteen with a cowboy’s heart that sought its next adventure. But his mind dug deeper into a memory that he had buried to stave off the pain of the detour in love that followed her departure. He saw himself as he kissed her for the last time, a lingering kiss, soft and delicate, sensitive nerves ignited as two lips brushed together, one that he felt for several minutes afterward.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered as their lips parted. He opened his eyes just as hers did, and they gazed into each other’s soul searching for answers, broken only by her father coaxing her to board the plane. “Last call, Laurie, save one for when you return.”

He looked to me with a reassuring smile as a tear crested her eyelash.

Snapped out of the memory with a shake of his head, he replaced the wine bottle back on the shelf. Whew, it’s been a long time since I thought of that one.

He stood back and scanned the wine bottles. “Too many to choose from and I don’t know where to start,” he said as he walked to the California section. He slowly paced the aisle and scanned the labels’ graphics for something to pop at him.

“Like this pic,” he said as he selected a bottle of red, Ménage à Trois. “Naaa, don’t want to give her the wrong idea. Not like that anyway.” He chuckled as he replaced the bottle.

“Hmmm.” He pondered as he moved into the selections from Down Under. “Layer Cake. Hmmm. Naaa, too suggestive. Sheesh! My mind’s in the gutter. Why’s that? She truly is a refined girl.”

“Okay, now we’re getting serious . . . Italia!” he said with pomp, unaware that he was overly dramatic as though he had a glass or two. He stood back a bit to better take in his options. His eyes focused on her name.

“Santa Cristina?” Not believing that there was such a bottle. “What’s the chance of this?” He pulled it off the shelf to examine it carefully. “Hands down, this is the one,” talking as he walked and examined the label to digest the moment. “From my vineyard to yours . . . Christina.” He tenderly set the bottle in the basket and headed to the checkout. No more decisions, this was serendipity.

At the wooden counter, a thick plank of solid oak worn with dents, he placed his selections. No conveyer belt, no bar code scanner, no credit card reader, just the simple cash register, and that’s all it took — cash. The savings from low overhead, bulk items rather than packaged, no surcharge for credit card payments, and “bring your own bags and bag it” was passed on to Old Towne residents who preferred the purity of organic foods. Simplicity had its benefits.

The young man next to him looked familiar, but he could not recall where he had seen him. Groceries bagged, the guy looked up and immediately recognized Jerry. “Hey bro, good to see ya,” he said as he gave give Jerry a high-five.

“Hey . . . Nate, right?” Jerry said, not sure if he correctly remembered his name.

“Yep. Outrageous dance and amped music last Sunday. You fell in for a brill performance by the dance team. Celebrated St. Paddy with an Irish jig and a twist of ballet thrown in. Christina and Eva are dag spanky. They come up with this stuff I’ve never seen before.” Jerry nodded in agreement as Nate continued with the zap of a triple shot espresso buzz.

“Hey, don’t miss their next performance. It’s Easter Sunday. Sure to be an eye-popper. Get there early. Christina’s become a campus icon. She’s starring in Swan Lake. I read that KU has a dag spanky choreographer.  He’s directing student talent to produce his voguish style of this classic. He plucked Christina to be the prima ballerina. Hey, good to see you, bro.” Nate gave him a thumbs-up as he grabbed his bags and headed out.

The barrage of information that Nate divulged stunned Jerry. It was like a puzzle, each piece adding to the picture, and right now, he only had the borders.

“Forty-nine, fifty-two,” the cashier said, bringing him back to the reality that good food and fine wine were expensive.

“Bologna sandwiches all next week. I better enjoy this,” he said to soothe the financial stab. He typically did not spend this much unless he was entertaining a girl.

With a bounce in his step, he walked to his flat daydreaming of Christina. He abruptly stopped at the coffee shop window. He stared at the empty table in the corner where he first met . . . the ballerina. The thought came back to him, this time, a bit hauntingly. Would you be enthralled with her if she weren’t a ballerina? Jerry shook the thought from his mind. Tonight, he would grill a gourmet meal and hopefully break through the block of writing his “self-destiny” paper for the English comp class he hated.

Famished as he bounded up the limestone stairs to the alcove that led up to his flat, the door to the owner’s residence opened. A gray sentry dog yapped at him, a bark that would make anyone jump, even if it was only from a French poodle.

Peace burst like a balloon, a premonition of his evening.

v v v

Copyright 2017  © Jeff Cambridge

Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge, a writer of transformational fiction with characters that tell life-changing stories.

This is a pre-published scene.

To read the scenes sequentially, begin with

“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”

Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Simply check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at bycambridge@gmail.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.