Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I jolt, looking back at her. If I could remove everything that’s uncertain and just look at her sitting there in the early-afternoon sun, a beautiful woman with an open, warm smile on her face, I’d have thought I hit the lottery. But this isn’t that.
The ground is cold through the blanket as I settle beside her, stretching my legs. The sun hits us full on, taking the bite off the air. I see why she said to dress in layers because in about ten minutes, I’m going to be hot.
Livia sets out containers of cheese, meat, olives and dried fruits.
“What is this?” I finally ask, needing her to give me a little clarity because the unknown is making my skin feel tight.
“It’s a picnic.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “I’m aware of that. I’m just wondering why.”
She glances up briefly before turning her attention to the bottle of wine. “I wanted a neutral place for our first meeting and well…” She looks around at the splendor. “You have to admit this is a lot nicer than sitting in my office.”
“I’ll give you that,” I grumble.
“Sena loves doing this type of stuff and I love the Willamette Valley, so this seemed like a good spot.” She works the cork free, and it comes out clean. She pours two glasses, offering me one.
I take it.
“You drink wine?” she asks.
“Not often.”
She takes a sip, hums her approval and says, “You mention that after I already handed it to you?”
“You didn’t ask before you handed it to me.”
The corner of her mouth shifts. “Fair. What do you drink?”
“Craft beer mostly.”
“Anything specific?”
I stare at her, wondering how my alcohol preferences matter to her. “Depends on the season. Right now, I’m on a Pacific Northwest IPA kick. There’s a brewery called Steeplejack that does a double dry-hopped I like—” I stop abruptly, wondering why I’m running on at the mouth. “So yeah… I prefer beer, but I’ll drink wine.”
She holds up her wineglass and studies it. “Okay. Since you’re not a wine person, let me at least make the case for what you’re holding.”
I look down at the glass. Dark ruby, almost garnet at the center where the light hits it.
“That’s an Arvendale Estate Pinot Noir. The Willamette Valley is one of the best places in the world to grow Pinot—the climate here is close to Burgundy in France, cool and wet, long growing season. Pinot Noir is a difficult grape. Thin skinned, temperamental, needs very specific conditions.” She swirls her glass once, unhurried. “It doesn’t perform well under stress.”
I’m aware of the metaphor she’s building, and I choose not to acknowledge it.
I stare at the glass dubiously. “What am I supposed to be tasting?”
“Try it first. Then I’ll tell you.”
I take a sip and am surprised by the silkiness. I don’t have the words to describe the quality beneath it.
“It’s not bad.”
“High praise.”
“I’m not a wine critic.”
“What do you taste?”
I take another sip because apparently, I’m doing this. “It feels… dark. Fruity, but not sweet fruit.” I think about it. “Almost like… dried cherry with an earthy quality underneath.”
She gives me an amused smile. “You have a very sophisticated palette,” she says. “That’s exactly right. Cherry, a little plum, and what you’re calling earthy is probably the forest floor note—it’s characteristic of Willamette Pinots. That’s the soil coming through.”
“Dirt, huh?” I say blandly and take another sip. I’m not about to give up my craft beers, but this is acceptable.
“The poet says soil, the hockey player says dirt. But they’re the same things, right?” She chuckles at her own joke and the corners of my mouth want to pull upward in a smile. I berate them to stay down. “What the vine pulls from the ground shows up in the glass.” She says it simply, matter-of-fact, reaching for a piece of cheese.
I consider her words and the distrust I have upon hearing them. Maybe she’s forcing another subtle metaphor on me, or maybe she just knows about wine.
“Dive into the food,” she says, reaching for an olive.
We eat for a while without talking. The valley is quiet and a gentle breeze starts up to help cut through the sun’s warmth. The scenery is spectacular which I have come to love during my short time here in Portland. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking and there’s not a bad view anywhere.
I don’t hate it.
Livia refills both glasses without asking and I don’t stop her.
“Okay.” Her tone shifts. Not dramatically, but enough of a gear change that I know we’re past niceties. “I want to talk to you about how this is going to work between us.”
Here it is. I set my glass down on the board and wait.
“We’re going to do just three sessions,” she says, and I open my mouth to object, but she holds out her hand, palm up, and I snap it shut. “Be thankful it’s three and not ten. And in those three sessions I’m not going to ask you about your past. I’m not going to push you to open up about anything you don’t want to open up about. No couch, no probing questions, no clinical anything.” She holds my gaze. “You just have to show up.”