Up there on the hillside they were alone with the sound of roosting birds and crickets chirruping in the grass. They sat down, and Jack took out the bottle.
“One of ours,” he said proudly, showing her the label. “A particularly good 1984 Chardonnay.”
Angelica laid out the glasses and Jack uncorked the bottle and poured. They sat in silence a moment, savoring the taste. Angelica felt the chill all the way down into her belly, followed by the pleasant lightness in her head. She felt the cramp slacken in her stomach and took a deep, satisfied breath.
“So what do you think, Sage?”
“Just as I expected: delicious,” she replied truthfully.
He was pleased, holding up his glass triumphantly. “It’s not bad. Not bad at all.”
She took another sip. In the distance the gold had darkened to a deep red, as if a giant furnace blazed just beyond the hills. Gray clouds hung heavy in the white sky; the valley was swathed in a shadow of dusky pink.
“I love it here, Sage. It fills me up inside in a way that nothing else can. I suppose I feel close to nature. Close to heaven.”
She took his hand, feeling a sense of melancholy wash over her. “Why is it that beauty makes us think of heaven?”
“Perhaps it reminds us that the beauty of nature far exceeds anything that human beings are capable of creating. It makes us feel small and insignificant and in awe of a Higher Power.”
“Or perhaps it connects with the divine inside us, so on some deeper, unconscious level we feel part of it all. Maybe it simply triggers a long forgotten memory of where we all come from and for a moment we are gripped by a yearning to return home.”
“Whatever the reason, it makes us sad.”
“Because it’s so fleeting.”
“Like life.”
She frowned, reminded suddenly of the cancer that had brought him so close to death. “Which is why we have to live in the moment,” she said, smiling at him gently. “I’m living in the moment right now, Jack. I’m not thinking of yesterday or dreaming of tomorrow. Right now I’m here on the hillside with you, among the birds and crickets, and I couldn’t be happier.”
Jack took her wineglass and placed it on the grass with his, then drew her into his arms to kiss her. She lay against him and closed her eyes, relishing the sensation of his rough chin and warm lips. The spicy scent of his skin blended with the lime of his cologne—a smell that was becoming familiar to her. She fantasized that they were married, living in this stunning country, drinking their own wine, watching the sunset every evening and never growing tired of each other.
Finally, the furnace died away, leaving the gray clouds to hang snugly over the hills like blankets. It was twilight when they walked back down the hill. The magic was over, and Angelica was left with the unsettling prospect of meeting Anna. They climbed back into the car and drove down the hill into Franschhoek.
“So what am I to expect?” she asked, staring ahead at the little flies caught in the headlights.
“She’ll love you. You’re just her type.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.” She glanced at him, but he didn’t reply. “So are your children going to be there, too?”
“No, only Lucy, our youngest. Sophie and Elizabeth are staying with friends in Cape Town.”
Angelica began to bite the skin around her thumbnail. “I feel guilty, coming into your family like a cuckoo.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t feel guilty, Sage.”
“I do. I mean, I’m going to meet your fifteen-year-old daughter. She’ll shake hands and smile, not knowing that I’ve been sleeping with her father. It’s so deceitful. It’s not what I wanted.”
“It’s not what I would choose, either. There’s a lot about my life that I wouldn’t choose. But there it is.”
She glanced at him and noticed his jaw tense. His anxiety made her feel a lot better. That was the first time he had implied that things weren’t all well with Anna. But how could they be? she reflected. For if he were blissfully married, would he have room in his heart to fall in love with her? If she were blissfully married, would she have fallen in love with him? She gazed out the open window and tried tossing her fears into the darkness.
“Here we are.”
He turned the car into the driveway, a long, straight dust track overhung with an avenue of towering camphor trees. Ahead, the lights of the house blazed into the semidarkness.
“Home sweet home,” she said, bracing herself.
The house was a pretty whitewashed building constructed in the mid eighteenth century in the Dutch style, with dark green shutters and gables sealing the pitched roof at both ends. In the middle, above the front door, an elaborate gable framing the upper-story window was the house’s main feature. Big terra-cotta pots stood against the wall planted with what looked like fruit trees. Dogs began to bark as the car drew up in front.