Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [89]
“Thanks a lot.” Lindsay cast a speculative look toward Bridget’s spring green dress. “I should have been in green. You should have been in apricot.”
“Neither one of you should be in green or apricot,” observed Paul. “And you’re both too beautiful—and smart—to let a spoiled twenty-three-year-old tell you how to dress.”
“And too old,” agreed Bridget unhappily.
“We’re billing her for these dresses,” Lindsay said. “My hips look huge.”
Paul said, “I almost forgot why I came up. Company’s downstairs. That fellow Dominic.”
Lindsay looked quickly interested, and Paul did not fail to notice.
“He’s talking to Lori,” he added casually. “He asked about you, Lindsay. So for God’s sake don’t wear that dress downstairs.”
She scowled at him. “Okay, very cute. Now get back to work before I rent out your room.”
He left the room with a speculative grin on his face.
“What you have to understand about wine,” Dominic was saying to Lori, “is that it’s more alchemy than science, and it always has been. That’s the magic of it. When you hear a vinophile use words like precocious and impudent or dark and brooding, or when they start going off with all sorts of flowery terms to describe the flavors, the tendency is to think they’re just being pretentious. But wine is a living thing, and that’s not just a metaphor. Every wine has its own character, its own personality. It takes on the taste and the texture of the very soil in which it was birthed. That’s what you have to understand, Lori, if you want to make wine. The magic.”
A big worktable had been set up in the grand parlor, which was crowded with cardboard boxes, cellophane-wrapped baskets, piles of white satin bows, and stacks of tablecloths. Every immovable surface was lined with tulle-wrapped candles, beribboned champagne glasses, and little net bags of birdseed that the guests would toss over the bride and groom in lieu of rice. Dominic sat at the table across from Lori, his tone earnest and his eyes alive with quiet passion, and while he spoke his fingers worked with equal passion on forming a large apricot satin bow. Lindsay watching from the doorway felt a smile start deep in her belly and spread, inexorably to her lips, where it grew so big it actually hurt her face.
Lori, who was so entranced by his words that her own bow lay forgotten and unfinished on the table in front of her, saw Lindsay first. “Aunt Lindsay!” she exclaimed.
Dominic immediately leapt to his feet and turned, stumbling a little over his chair, his completed bow clutched to his chest.
Lori’s face was alight with excitement as she continued, oblivious, “Did you know Dominic went to Cornell? Just like I plan to! He got his doctorate there. And his father was the vigneron at Chateau Ellyson, which was the most prestigious winery in France before the war! He said he would be my mentor.”
Dominic held up the bow with a self deprecating smile. “And I can make bows.”
“So I see.” Lindsay came into the room and took the bow from him, pretending to inspect it. “Very nice. Do you work on commission?”
When he smiled at her, Lindsay was glad she had changed into jeans and a T-shirt before coming down. He said, “Lori was telling me about her plans. I was telling her she’s missing out on the true soul of wine making if she doesn’t spend some time in France.”
“Actually” Lindsay said, “the real history of modern wine making can be traced to ancient Greece.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “As can everything else, in theory.”
Cici appeared behind them. “Lori, sweetie, I know you’re busy, but I need you for a sec.” Then, “Hi, Dominic. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I just stopped in to say hello, and got drafted.” He handed the bow to Lindsay. “But I think my job here is done.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Lindsay said, and he looked mildly surprised, and pleased, as they left.
Lori struggled to get her crutches under her. “You know, Mom, getting from one place to the other is a little bit complicated for me. Couldn’t you get someone