Jack pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, as if he had been waiting all morning for an opportunity, holding her close and inhaling her scent.
“You smell so good,” he breathed into her neck, and the warmth on her skin made her shiver. “I really love you, Sage.”
He swept her hair off her face and gazed at her features as if committing them to memory. She allowed herself to be enveloped by his giant frame and nestled happily there, his words echoing in her ears and in her heart.
• • •
They rode up into the hills, where low shrubs and bushes, known as fynbos, grew in abundance, pollinated by birds. Jack pointed out the orange-breasted sunbird and the yellow-fronted bee-eater with its yellow wings and bright red throat. The mist had lifted, leaving the way open for the sun to blaze down ferociously. Angelica could feel it on her forearms and through her shirt. The horses walked at a steady pace, and she began to feel confident in the saddle. As they climbed higher a light breeze swept across her face, and she was grateful for its cooling fingers. After a while, they arrived at a small plateau, where a copse of tall pines gave shelter from the sun. They dismounted and led the horses into the shade.
“We’ll set up our picnic here,” he said, lifting down the basket. “Let’s see what old Anxious has prepared for us.”
He laid out a green tartan rug and put the basket in the middle. Angelica sat down and fanned her face with her hat, pushing her sticky hair off her forehead. Jack opened the basket and took out a bottle of wine in a cooler. Anxious had packed a small bucket of ice, smoked salmon, lemon, bread, pâté, and salad. Everything was neatly wrapped and insulated with ice packs.
Hungrily, they tucked into their picnic. The wine was refreshing, mixed with ice, and there was grenadilla juice to quench their thirst.
“So how’s your book going?”
“I’ve come up with a brilliant idea.”
“About the secret of happiness?”
“No. About greasy green Troilers.” She pulled a face. “I don’t think I’m qualified to write about happiness.”
“Sure you are.”
“I love exploring ideas, but I can’t put them into any coherent order. They’re scattered thoughts and arguments, like we’ve been having over the Internet. I’m still searching.”
“Keep a diary. Perhaps you could turn that into a book one day.”
She laughed. “And risk someone’s reading it?”
“Would Olivier really read your diary?”
“No, I don’t think so. But things haven’t been good between us recently, so he might be tempted were he to see it lying around.” She bit into her pâté sandwich. “This is really good.”
“Homemade duck liver pâté.”
“You should sell it.”
“We do, only locally.”
“Quite industrious, aren’t you?”
“We have to be resourceful. It’s not easy at the moment.”
“Maybe you should write the book. You’re much wiser than me.”
“I think we should write it together.”
“Now you’re talking. You can do the serious stuff, and I’ll do the fluffy stuff.”
“You’re not fluffy, Sage.”
“You know what I mean. You’re more intellectual than me.”
“I wouldn’t say that. But we would make a good team, bouncing ideas off each other all the time.”
“Okay, what if we did write a book together, what would we call ourselves?”
He thought about it a moment, chewing on smoked salmon. “D. O. Porch.”
She laughed. “That’s hilarious! What about Fido Porch?”
“Doesn’t quite have the right ring to it.”
“No, you’re right, it doesn’t.”
“Let’s think laterally.”
“I’m rather light-headed, I’m not sure I can think at all.”
“Go on. Wine loosens up the imagination.”
“You think?” She looked doubtful. “Just makes me silly.”
“The sillier the better. We want something that’s eye-catching.”
“Like Marmaduke Picnic?”
“Now you’re on the right lines.”
“Marmalade Pickthistle. Migglethwaite Harp. Humpfink Danwit.”
“Now I see how you get all those crazy names for your characters. A few glasses of wine and you’re at your most creative.” He helped himself to another slice of bread and spread it with pâté. “Tomorrow we’ve asked some friends over from a neighboring vineyard for a braai.”
“What’s a braai?”
“A barbecue.”