Season of Change(68)

                “Let me give you this peace offering before we have to call the fire department in Cloverdale.” Christine thrust a bottle of wine into his chest and took over the situation, calmly explaining to the girls why it was important to set the timer every time they left something in the oven or on the stove. She took an oven mitt, put it on, and lifted the loaf of garlic bread over the sink. “Here’s how you salvage the bread.” She scraped off the black, burned parts with a knife.

                “I’d throw it away.” Slade set the wine on the counter and rummaged in a drawer for a corkscrew.

                “Spoken like a man who’d rather drive through somewhere than salvage his meal.” She finished scraping. “See? Almost perfect.” She put the bread back on the baking sheet. It looked battered but edible. She glanced around the kitchen. “What else are we having?”

                “The meat!” Slade ran out the back door, down the steps, and into the small backyard.

                The tri-tip was sizzling and only a little blackened on one side. He shut off the grill, put the meat on a plate, and brought it inside to rest.

                Christine poured the wine. It was one of hers from Ippolito Cellars. A deep red Zinfandel. She handed him a glass. “There are days when life gets to me and my mouth filter goes on the fritz. And then there are days when nothing goes right and you just have to start over. I’m afraid both describe my day. I’m sorry. My grandmother was being her usual meddlesome, yet good-natured self and I cracked. I know you mean well with the girls. It’s just...” She swirled her wine gracefully. “It’s so easy to take things for granted when your parents make a good living and give you things. Before you know it, you end up in the middle of nowhere with a hundred boxes of designer shoes you’ll never wear.”

                He hadn’t played out his gifting scenario in those terms before. “And a feathered dress in your closet you only wore once.”

                “Touché.”

                “Did I catch an apology in there somewhere?” Slade didn’t want to admit how relieved he was to hear it.

                “Yes. Let’s make a toast.” She raised her glass. “To burned toast and apologies.”

                Slade studied the burned loaf of garlic bread. Christine wasn’t one to throw something out just because it was burned around the edges.

                “Yes, even burned toast can be fixed.” Her blue eyes sparkled. At him.

                He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had sparkled at him.

                They clinked glasses and drank. The red wine coated his mouth with dry, subtle hits of something fruity. Slade was no wine connoisseur, but he was willing to learn with something that tasted this good.

                Grace dug in the refrigerator. She came out with a juice container. Faith got down two more wineglasses. Grace poured. They clinked glasses and drank, giggling. Their golden baby bracelets glinted in the light.

                “What flavors should I be tasting in here?” Slade tried to swirl his wine as Christine had done without spilling. His wine sloshed dangerously close to the lip of the glass.

                “Do you want the layman’s terms or the wine-snob terms?”

                “Both?”

                She took a sip and closed her eyes. “If I was writing a wine review or back label copy, I’d say that it opens with aromas of bright raspberry, followed by the taste of dried berries and plums, with a hint of pepper in the finish.”