Lies That Bind Us(23)

Brad was still pitching his wine-supplier idea.

“I don’t know,” said Simon. “Risky commodity. Too fragile, too niche . . .”

“But with the right capital outlay and people on the inside who really know the product . . . ,” Brad persisted.

“Yeah, but the hardcore enthusiasts aren’t your market, are they?” Simon quipped. “Or if they are, your market is too small and you’ll never earn out. And if they’re not your market, if your target consumers are people more like . . . well, us, who frankly don’t know that much about wine . . .”

“Hey,” said Melissa. “I know wine.”

“You know what you like, honey,” said Simon, indulgently.

“Same thing,” said Melissa, kissing the top of his head and taking his empty glass to refill it.

“See?” said Simon to Brad. “Expert opinions don’t matter to most consumers.”

“But people want the best!” said Brad. He was leaning forward, his shoulders locked, spine straight, and it struck me that he hadn’t made a smart-ass remark for a while. Usually, every other sentence had a barb or a punch line.

“But when you’re talking about wine, that’s just opinion, isn’t it?” said Simon, lounging.

“No!” Brad replied. His grin was a little fixed and his voice a tad louder than it had been. We had all been drinking since we got back to the house. “It’s measurable! There are experts whose judgment—”

“Nobody cares!” Simon laughed. “They like it, they drink it, and then it’s gone. The only people who are going to pay top dollar for what they think is the best are collectors, not consumers, and that’s too small and volatile a market.”

“But that’s not a concern for investors, is it?” said Brad. I was weary of the conversation and wished they’d shut up, but Brad wouldn’t let it go. “So long as they see their money growing, who cares whether it’s coming from a casual drinker who buys a few cases a year, a store that buys thousands, or a collector who buys one bottle of Chateaux Margaux 1875 but spends a quarter of a million dollars on it?”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” said Simon, less playful now. “I don’t see investors making their money back on this.”

“Simon . . . ,” Brad began, earnest to the point of frustration.

“Leave it, Brad,” said Kristen, reaching over and patting his hand. He looked at her and she smiled. “Let’s have another drink, shall we? You can talk about this later.”

Brad hesitated for a second, then the tension in his face eased a little and he smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Later. How about we open that Peter Michael Oakville Au Paradis? Gonna blow your mind.”

“I want something with vodka,” said Melissa.

“Yeah,” said Gretchen. “Get that voddy out.” She gave me a quick look and hesitated. “Voddy’s OK, right, Jan? It’s brandy you don’t drink.”

I was momentarily taken aback, wondering when I had let that slip, then nodded.

“Voddy is fine,” I said.

“Ah,” said Simon getting up. “But vodka and what? I spotted some elderflower tonic, and I had a case of basil spritzers flown over yesterday.”

For a moment, as Melissa and Gretchen oohed and aahed from the adjoining kitchen, Brad kept looking at the chair Simon had just vacated, his fists balled, and then he sat back and turned away. His gaze fell on me, and for a moment he looked—what? Caught out. Embarrassed and angry. Something hard and dark went through his eyes, and then he shrugged it off and turned to the rest of the group, getting to his feet and turning his back on me.

“Vodka it is,” he said, suddenly cheery. “Where’s my glass?”

“Are those words?”

It was Kristen. She was standing at the French doors that opened onto a brick patio with ornamental shrubs in terra-cotta pots between faded wicker furniture and a large grill, her head tilted on one side. I moved to join her.

“There,” she said, pointing at what seemed to be just dead leaves on the ground. They looked like they had been left over from someone sweeping up, the edges of former piles straggling into each other. But as I looked, squinting to wring a little focus from my terrible vision, I saw that she was right. The crisped fall leaves trailing together in little heaps of dust, sticks, and other debris formed what might be capital letters. An A stood out. And a spiky S. The rest were less clear.

“Hanos?” she murmured. “Nanos?”

“Nanos,” I said, still squinting. “But that’s not a word.”

“Just fell like that, I guess. Random.”

“Or someone swept up with a dust pan. I get those little lines on my floor where I can’t get the dirt up no matter how many times I sweep,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I wanted it to be nothing, a chance event. Something about it bothered me, partly the way it seemed arranged to be read through the window. If it was an accident, it was a strange one.

She laughed and nodded but turned from the window, still puzzled and thoughtful.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get a drink.”

An hour or so later we all went out into the garden for a few minutes, and I went back to the spot by the French doors to see if I could still read it, but the word, if it had been one, had been blown away, though there was no wind to speak of.