The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Seventy-Eight
The train leaves the station a few minutes later, and I stare out the window, admiring stately properties and expansive vineyards that stretch out as far as the eye can see.
A man wearing a navy-blue uniform comes over with a gold-plated tray with food—ciabatta, smoked salmon, and Greek yogurt smoothies. It’s a lot more food than I can eat right now, but I want to try it all. He also brings up two glasses of sparkling wine.
“Welcome aboard our wine train,” he says, smiling before moving on to other passengers.
Ethan raises his glass, and I do too.
“What should we toast to?” he asks, his eyes on mine, his smile mirroring mine.
“How about a beautiful day?” It sounds boring and safe. I want to be boring and safe.
He twists his mouth. “How about we toast to the unexpected?”
“The unexpected? I like that.”
Our glasses clink together, mellow music in the background, the light slightly dimmed. This is playing out like a scene from one of my stories, isn’t it? The main characters look into each other’s eyes and realize what they really feel. There are violins and fireworks. Nope. Not going to happen. Ethan and I, we’re the wrong characters. I avert my eyes and focus on the landscape. He does the same.
Before long, the train that wasn’t speeding anyway, slows down even more until it comes to a halt. A voice announces over a loudspeaker. “Domaine Chandon. One-hour stop.”
“Let’s go. Lots to do in an hour,” says Ethan and I follow him off the train.
I’ve been to a couple of East Coast wineries, but this is one of the most impressive estates I’ve seen. Lush gardens, acres of vines, and a mansion-like property in the center of it all.
“Domaine Chandon was the first winery to be established in the United States by the French wine and spirits producer, Moët Hennessy,” says one of the guides, a tall, loud woman.
The rest of our travel companions gather around her. We’re all now standing in a semi-circle, listening to her talk about Chandon’s history. From time to time, I glance at Ethan, and he looks just as ‘entertained’ as I am. It’s not that I’m not into the history of the winery, I am, but—
“Come,” he says and reaches out his hand as if to take mine. I follow, but I keep my hands to myself. “This way,” he says, unfazed by my reaction. “I think.”
Sometimes, if not most of the time lately, there’s this quiet, invisible tension between us. What am I saying? It’s not even subtle or hidden anymore. It’s loud, deafening.
We pass by an expansive lawn where a private event of a few hundred people is in full swing, walk through a clearing and go around a patio that’s blasting Eighties pop songs.
Ethan starts mock dancing and mouthing ‘I’m so excited’ as we walk, and I can’t help but burst out into laughter. He’s such a clown. “About to lose control… I think I like it,” he bellows.
A woman dressed elegantly, who’s dancing on the patio, stops and stares at us and it’s not a friendly stare. She says something to the man she’s with and he takes a step toward us.
“Oops, we’re in trouble,” says Ethan. He grabs my hand and pulls me behind an old oak.
My back against the tree, Ethan inches from me, my hand in his, the exuberance of this adventure takes my breath away. Sparks fly around us. Invisible sparks, but I see them. Does he?
Our eyes meet and he holds my gaze for a second, before stepping back and letting go of my hand. “We’re kind of trespassing on a wedding it seems. But I wanted us to explore this place, not just stand there and listen. Let’s see what’s over there,” he says.
Right behind the trees is a cave. Nobody’s around, but we can still hear the music. There’s a small body of water below it and next to it, stone steps.
“Want to see where they take us?” he asks and points at the stairs.
“Sure.”
It’s a terrace with iron tables, each with two chairs and a bouquet of flowers in the center.
He tiptoes to one of the tables, pulls a chair for me and we sit, not before looking around to see if we’re going to be chased away from here too. We’re pretend drinking and dining, and laughing like silly kids, when we hear a noise behind us.
“You can’t be here. It’s a private event,” says a man dressed up in a red uniform.
“We were just—” says Ethan, and we both burst out laughing, and run for it.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” I say to Ethan when we’re back on the train and en route to our next destination.
“What are they going to do? Tell on us to the tour guide?”
I giggle.
Our second stop is Raymond Vineyards. This time, I’m the instigator who takes us through an ‘off-limits’ wine cellar. We find ourselves surrounded by stainless steel tanks, mirrors, and tens of scrutinizing eyes. It turns out I’m better at sneaking in and out, since nobody ran after us, so Ethan put me in charge of our third and final stop.
“I’ll just go where you tell me to,” he says as we’re enjoying the new course our waiter brings us on the train, in between stops. A delicious meal, by the way. Asparagus bisque with white truffle oil and aged parmesan with mixed greens, mission figs, spiced walnuts, and blue cheese. Yum! We also have a glass—or a quarter of glass each—of rose wine. Equally delicious.