“Adate? Or adult company?”
She smiles at that. “Why don’t we get there and decide?”
XX.CECILIA, NUE.
NAPA VALLEY.
MAY. 2015.
For two weeks I wrestled with the decision. Well, not wrestle per se, since I knew I was going to make the trip, and I knew what was likely to happen when we got there. But I mused on what it meant, how I saw myself, how others would see me, and whether I cared. This was Los Angeles, after all, a bastion of liberal elite, and a place where evidently few people were aware of my existence. But I was still firmly Generation X, and while millennials seemed comfortable being fluid and not necessarily claiming one sexuality over the other, I was still stuck thinking of myself as mostly heterosexual. Mostly.
I’d also conveniently decided my marriage wasn’t a factor. Because Fran had already sullied it. And because, in some twisted way, I knew he would get off on the idea. I would withhold it from him for the time being, and then reveal my secret later. Months, maybe years after the fact, let it slip out at an intimate moment. A lure. “Did I ever tell you about the time when…?” And then disclose my liaison in delicious detail.
Surprisingly, when I tell him I am running off to Napa Valley the week before Memorial Day because I’d been playing single parent for the past two months, he only balks slightly. He has a full six days off, including the holiday weekend, and he’d intended to make the most of it.
“I was hoping we’d do something as a family.”
“The kids and I have been doing things as a family for seven weeks, Fran. I need a break. I need some me time. It’s three days. Parisa will fill in.”
“Fine,” he says. “Go.”
“I’ll be back by Friday night.”
“Go. We’ll have fun without you.”
“Please do.”
Anouk bought the plane tickets, booked the resort, and arranged for us to rent a car from Oakland, because she thought hiring a driver was too much of a fuss. “If we drink too much we can always Uber,” she’d reasoned. Although she did manage to secure a highly coveted dinner reservation at the French Laundry for our first evening, which certainly seemed like a fuss to me. “You must have the experience. It’s otherworldly.”
At five hundred dollars a head, I did not doubt her. But oh, what a delight to have Napa Valley reveal herself. Her rolling hills, her abundant vineyards, her green. Otherworldly, indeed. And then the accommodations at Solage: a luxurious spa resort replete with an impressive selection of pools (thermal, mineral, cold plunge, jacuzzi), an award-winning restaurant, endless winding paths connecting detached bungalows, and ribbons of lights strewn throughout, rendering the entire property magical, enchanted. That there were three bottles of champagne, an artisanal cheese plate, and a dozen macarons awaiting us in our suite upon arrival was just the icing. We had a separate living room and our own private enclosed patio, with an outdoor shower and firepit. And in the bedroom, conspicuously (or not), one king-sized bed.
“It’s lovely, no?” Anouk smiles as we peruse the premises. “Quaint.”
I laugh. Anouk and I have very different definitions ofquaint. Perhaps the word was lost in translation. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for arranging this.”
“Of course.”
I follow her as she makes her way out to the patio. The air is crisp, moist. If I inhale deeply enough, I can taste the grapes.
“About the one bed,” she says, and I turn to her. Her lips quirk,ever so slightly. “There were a couple of bungalows with doubles. But they weren’t suites. I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
It takes her a moment to read me, and then she laughs. “No. I guess I’m not.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. Someone is walking along the path beyond our walls. Their footsteps audible. I imagine they can hear us, as well.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” Anouk says, eventually.
“Not really, no.”
“Not even at Yale?”
“Not even at Yale.”
“I thought American coeds were known for being experimental.”
“I’m Jamaican, remember?”
