Cackle(10)

The ceiling is vaulted; there are exposed beams. It’s all very rustic. The walls are lined with shelves, and there are two round tables in the center of the store. One has a few bottles of wine on it, the other different types of liquor. There is a little note card in front of each bottle. I walk over to the wine table, ready to pick my poison. As I walk, the thick floor planks squeal beneath my feet.

I pick up a note card. Chianti. It’s earthy. Notes of tobacco, of red fruit.

I know nothing about wine except how to drink it.

“You don’t want that.”

The voice comes from behind me. I’m not startled by it because it’s a lovely voice. The tone of it. It’s an instant balm.

I turn around.

The floorboards wail under my weight, but when she walks, they make no sound at all.

She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Easily.

Dark waves cascade down to her waist. So much hair, thick and shiny. How does it shine like that? It’s like her hair is emitting its own light.

She has big almond eyes, an ethereal hazel, like two pools of amber. She has long black lashes and her eyebrows are epic, full and lush, steeply arched. I want to touch them.

Her cheekbones are high, pronounced. Nose delicate and straight. Her lips are extensive, the twin conquerors of her face. They hold a natural color, a rosy pink. I doubt she’s wearing any lipstick, or any makeup at all. If she is, whatever it is, I would buy it. Her skin is a new state of matter.

I can’t tell how old she is, maybe late thirties? Early forties? She smiles at me, a pleasant, frank smile. Her cheeks round, and soft lines appear at the edges of her eyes.

She reaches out and runs an elegant manicured hand along my forearm, then takes the card out of my hand and places it back on the table.

“Come,” she says. She leads me over to the back wall. “The Bordeaux. You want the Bordeaux.”

She scans the shelves until she spots the bottle she’s looking for. She materializes a ladder and begins to climb up the bottom rungs to reach the bottle.

She’s wearing a long, silky black dress. It’s got a low-cut sweetheart neckline and she has it cinched tight at the waist with a braided black leather belt. I peel my eyes away. If I let them linger any longer, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop staring. How is she possible? Is she famous? Why is she here?

She passes the bottle down to me.

“Here,” she says. Her voice is like smoke. “Drink this.”

She climbs down the ladder.

“If you don’t like it, you can bring it back,” she says. “But you’ll like it.”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’m sure I will.”

She looks at me for a moment, her eyes bright and full of affection.

We just met a minute ago, but I swear she’s looking at me like we’re best friends, like I’m her favorite person.

“You wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

“Sorry?”

She circles behind me as she speaks. “If you didn’t care for the wine. You wouldn’t bring it back. You wouldn’t pour it down the drain. You would drink it anyway. Have one glass. Give it another chance. Have another.”

A strange, prickly chill travels up my back.

Am I that transparent?

“I don’t mean this as a bad thing,” she says. “You seem so open. So polite. I appreciate it. These are rare qualities, especially these days.”

She walks behind a counter at the back and begins to write something down in a leather-bound ledger. I assume this store is hers. She seems too glamorous to work anywhere. She should be draped across a chaise longue underneath a large palm.

She has some kind of accent. It’s vaguely European, a little haughty. I can’t identify it.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” she says. “I like to think I’ve got good instincts about people. That I’m intuitive. But what do I know, really?”

“No,” I say. “You’re not wrong. I’d drink the wine. Even if I didn’t like it.”

“Close your wallet, darling. I’m not going to charge you for it. Just marking for inventory.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you,” I say. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” she says. “You’re new, yes?”

“No, I’m thirty,” I say, losing the battle with my reflex to make everything weird, to tell bad jokes when I’m feeling uncomfortable or overwhelmed.

She laughs, and the relief is euphoric.

“Almost new,” she says.

“I did just move here. Yesterday, actually.”

“Welcome,” she says. “I’m Sophie.”

She reaches out her hand. She wears gold and silver rings. Thin, delicate bands on all of her fingers. On her right index, she wears an enormous garnet. It looks medieval.

I shake her hand, ashamed that mine is clammy, that my nails are short, dirty and broken, the cuticles out of control. I wear no rings.

Her grip is firm, and she puts her other hand over mine, like my hand is something precious or fragile, something that requires extra care. Like a gem or a sick bird.

“I’m Annie,” I say. “Annie Crane.”

“Annie,” she says. My name has never sounded so beautiful. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Crane.”