Page 39 of The Very Virile Viking

Looking for trouble…

It was dark when Angela emerged onto the back veranda of the house, searching for Magnus.

Torolf, Kirsten, and Dagny were in the library watching an action-adventure film on TV, with a worn-out

Jow laid out at their feet, on his belly with his legs widespread like a rug. The other boys were in an upstairs den playing a computer game. Grandma was upstairs, too, putting Lida down for the night.

Juanita was cleaning up in the kitchen after their sumptuous supper feast—chili-lime quesadillas, nachos and guacamole, blackened chicken, a family version of Spanish rice, better known as "spicy-dicey ricey,"

a nickname that delighted Magnus's children, shrimp chimichangas, taco salad, and cinnamon-topped Mexican fried ice cream for dessert. No one complained about how spicy the food was. It was a good thing Juanita and her grandmother had prepared such a large quantity because the children and Magnus seemed to have insatiable appetites. Heck, she did, too. There was a special dry red wine served to the adults and frosty tumblers of lemonade for the children.

Both Juanita and her grandmother had done nothing but smile and fuss over the children since they'd arrived. They were delighted when every bit of food disappeared from the table. They didn't even frown at the noise the children made. Truly this house was made for children, as her grandmother had always said.

"Miguel, have you seen Magnus?" she asked now as the manager approached the house. He'd eaten with them earlier, then had gone out to make his nightly inspection of the vines, taking Magnus with him.

Miguel walked wearily up the steps to the porch, nodding the whole time. "He's still over near the west vineyard. Who is this man, chiquita ? He is amazing."

"Magnus is an actor—I think—although he claims to be a farmer."

"The man knows a lot about the land—not grapes, of course, but he has a great curiosity about them. So many questions. The right questions. How long is the growing season? The hazards of growing grapes?

How dependent are we on climate? How profitable are grapes, compared to oats or vegetables?"

"You're impressed," Angela commented in a surprised tone. It took a lot to impress Miguel, who could see through phonys in an instant.

"Yes, I am. You did good, little one."

"Oh, no! You misunderstood, Miguel. There is nothing between us. He's just a visitor here. He'll be gone in a few days… a week at most."

Miguel looked skeptical. "He says you are his destiny."

Angela's heart swelled with some strange emotion, despite herself. "You must have misunderstood," she said weakly.

Miguel still looked unconvinced. Then he shrugged as if it were no concern of his. "In any case, your visitor has asked me to teach him everything about grape growing. Starting tomorrow he will be my assistant." Noting the distress on her face, he added, "Just while he is visiting here, of course. And he will work for no pay. Where else can we get a no-salary worker? Ha, ha, ha!"

Miguel went into the house then, leaving her behind on the porch, poleaxed by the Viking— again, even when he wasn't present. But then she heard Miguel talking to his wife through the open window.

"The Norseman looks like a tree, Juanita. He picked up the back of a tractor all by himself when I wanted to check the oil pan. Can you imagine the Italian-Viking children he and Angela would make

together?"

Juanita giggled, then cautioned, "Shhhh! The worst thing you can do is tell that stubborn-headed Angela that you like her young man."

He's not my young man, Angela wanted to shout. And he's not my destiny, either .

With that thought in mind, Angela went stomping off in search of her… destiny.

Here comes trouble…

"Magnus, we have to talk."

Magnus had just turned off the lever of the hollow metal rod that came up out of the ground spurting water. He'd washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Now he wet-combed his hair behind his ears with his fingers as he watched Angela approach. Uh-oh ! he thought. When a woman tells a man she wants to talk, it usually means she has a long list of grievances to lay on him. And she's stomping. Yea, stomping and a desire to talk are sure signs of a riled-up woman .

"Shall we sit down… to talk?" he inquired, pointing to a nearby bench. "I can tell I am in trouble."

She frowned in confusion, even as she sat down. "Why do you think you're in trouble?"

"The stormy expression on your face. Either I have done something wrong, or my children are the culprits. Either way I am bracing myself for a lengthy tirade." He sat down beside her and was immediately assailed by her woman scent, a combination of some light floral perfume and her own female essence. Magnus loved women… and he loved each and every individual scent they carried. That alone had probably contributed to his downfall.