He looked back at Penelope, but she only smiled, shrugged, and followed them.
'Do you have dreams, Dion?'
'Everybody has dreams,' he said.
Mother Janine laughed, a low, sultry laugh that somehow put him on edge.
'I dreamed last night that I was a flea bathing in your blood--'
'Janine!' Mother Margeaux said sharply.
His hand was let go, and Penelope sidled next to him. 'Sit close to me,'
she whispered. 'I'll help you through this.'
They walked into the sitting room.
The dining room table was large and regal, the place settings formal.
The room smelled of an unfamiliar odor, a scent at once organic and alien. Dion sat near the head of the table, next to Penelope. The pre-dinner conversation had been neither as awkward as he had feared nor as strange as he had expected. Penelope's mothers had asked the usual parental dating questions, subtextually quizzing him on his intentions toward their daughter, and they seemed to be fairly pleased with his responses.
Dinner appeared to be a different story. The moment they had stepped into the dining room, all conversation had stopped, as though they had walked through some sort of soundproof barrier, and the only noise had been the scraping of chair legs and the quiet slap of bare feet on hardwood floor.
Now the only sound was the slurping of soup.
Dion cleared his throat, intending to talk, if only to pay Mother Felice a generic compliment on the food, but the sound was so loud and out of place in the stillness that he immediately gave up the idea of speaking at all.
Across the table, Mother Sheila picked up the carafe from between the twin soup tureens. 'Would you like some wine?' she asked Penelope. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
The girl stared at her in surprise. 'I'm not supposed to--'
'It's a special occasion. Besides, you're nearly eighteen. You're mature, responsible. I think you're old enough to handle it.' She smiled teasingly. 'You've lived in a winery all your life. Don't tell me you've never sneaked a taste.'
Penelope blushed.
'I don't think she should have any,' Mother Felice said, prim-lipped.
Penelope smiled gratefully at her favorite mother.
'She may have some if she wishes,' Mother Margeaux said from die head of the table.
Mother Sheila poured Penelope a glass. 'Here you go.' She looked questioningly at Dion. 'Dion?'
He shifted in his seat, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Having seen the destructive effects of alcohol close up, drinking seemed to him neither exciting nor adult. It seemed wrong and somewhat frightening. Still, he did not want to offend Penelope's mothers. His heart was pounding. 'Just a little,' he said.
Mother Sheila smiled and poured.
Dion took a sip. He had never tasted alcohol before, though he'd had ample opportunity to do so. It was milder than he expected and more pleasant. His mom had often left open bottles around the house, had breathed her drunken breath on him many a time, and after a while the smell alone had been enough to nearly make him gag.
But this was good. He took another sip, a bigger one.
The table had once again lapsed into silence. The other mothers continued to slurp their soup and drink their wine as Mother Felice went out to check on the chicken.
Dion finished his soup and, realizing that he was the first one done, made a concerted effort to sip his Wine slowly. He emptied the glass, and Mother Sheila quickly poured him another. He did not touch it. He felt strange, queasy, slightly dizzy, and as he looked around the table at Penelope's smiling mothers, his first thought was that he had been poisoned. They had put a drug in his wine to kill him in order to keep him away from their daughter. But that was stupid, crazy thinking, and he at least had enough sense to realize that the alcohol was affecting his thought processes, impairing his judgment.
Was this what it felt like to be drunk? If so, he didn't like it.
'Have some more,' Mother Sheila said, nodding toward the untouched wineglass.
He shook his head. His brain felt heavy, full. 'No, that's enough.'
'Come on,' Mother Janine told him.
He felt a bare foot rub against his leg, caress his calf.
It was getting hard to think. He glanced at Penelope, next to him, and she looked at him and shrugged, not certain of what behavioral clues to offer, 'Don't you like our vintage?' Mother Margeaux asked him.
He picked up his glass and obligingly took a sip. He nodded. 'It's very good,' he said.
He took another drink. The feeling in. Ms. brain changed, and now he found that he did like it. The heaviness, the queasiness was gone, replaced by a subtle sense of exhilaration.
Penelope's mothers smiled at him.
Mother Felice brought in the chicken.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence.
After dinner, Penelope went upstairs, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and the two of them went out to the Garden alone. The air was crisply cold, but he felt warmed by an inner fire. The alcohol, he assumed.
He wondered if he was going to be able to drive home.
Penelope led the way over to the same stone bench they'd sat upon the last time they'd come here/Leaning against the wall behind it, Dion saw several long sticks tipped with pine cones. He frowned. Like the women's welcoming curtsy, they too seemed familiar, though he could not quite place the reason why.
'Your mothers are nice,' he said. His voice sounded different to himself, louder, amplified. He wondered if Penelope noticed any difference.
She nodded. 'They are. Mostly. But sometimes they're a little strange.'
He chuckled. 'I'll give you that one.'
They were sitting close on the bench, and Penelope drew closer. Their hands, lying flat on the stone, were almost touching. Dion put his fingers over hers and was surprised at their warmth. He leaned to the left until their shoulders were pressed together. Not knowing what to say, not knowing if he should say anything, he put his arm around her and pulled her to him. He licked his lips to moisten them, then-bent down to kiss her.
She was ready, and she moved up to meet him. Lips parted, tongues met, and Dion felt an immediate reaction stirring between his legs. The kissing grew more passionate. Their mouths pressed harder together, their tongues intertwining.
Dion pulled back. 'Are your ... can your, uh, mothers see us here?'
Penelope reached around his neck. 'No,' she said. 'Besides, they trust me.'
Dion felt her tongue slide deeply into his mouth, and he tentatively reached around her to cup her right breast in his hand. It was small but firm, and he could feel the raised bump of her nipple. She did not push his hand away but instead leaned into him. He began massaging her, his fingers moving in slow circles, and he felt her body stiffen imperceptibly.
His hand worked its way down to her pants.
This time she tried to push him away. 'No!' she said, but the word was muffled in their kiss.
Dion ignored her protestation, slipped the fingertips of his left hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, touched the cool silk of panties.
She pulled away. 'No,' she said firmly, removing his hand from her waist.
'Okay,' he said, withdrawing. His face was hot and he was breathing heavily. 'I'm sorry.' His words were apologetic, but he was aware that his tone was not. Part of him was embarrassed, embarrassed at what he had tried, more embarrassed that he had been rebuffed. But another, deeper, more frightening part was angry, angry at her rejection, angry at her attitude, angry at her. He wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, wanted to feel the warm giving elasticity of her skin as he struck her face, wanted to slap her across the mouth until her blood ran, wanted to throw her down on the hard stone fence and take her now by force as she screamed in pain and fear and longing.
He realized that his fists were clenched, and he unclenched them. He shook his head to clear it.
What was happening to him?
Penelope stood up, straightened her hair and her T-shirt. 'It's getting late,' she said.
