“No. No.” Reno got this evil look in his eye. “I’ll vacuum and give these animals a run for their money at the same time.”
Journey’s dusting didn’t go very fast. She was too busy laughing at Reno running the vacuum and the dogs at the same time. It was a great game and by the time the floors were done, the dogs were completely tuckered out.
Seeing she wasn’t quite through, Reno pitched in to help her. He also loaded the dishwasher and changed sheets on their beds. When they were both through, Journey announced in all seriousness. “Remind me to marry you. I can’t let you get away.”
“I will make a note,” he informed her, and he made a mental one as well.
He planned on buying a ring at the first opportunity.
…After packing their picnic lunch, she called Reno to help her pick a bottle of wine. “Aunt Myra keeps quite a collection. This will be our first adventure in getting to know one another. I’ve always heard you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of wine he chooses.”
“Okay.” Reno stood by the wine rack to survey the myriad bottles. “Whites, reds, chardonnay, French, domestic, dry, sweet – she has a great selection.”
“Do you know a lot about wine?” Journey asked, about to reveal her plebian tastes.
“A fair amount. When one lives with royalty, one picks up a few social graces,” he announced in a haughty tone.
“Okay. The main part of our menu consists of thinly sliced prosciutto wrapped around sweet melon and gourmet chicken salad with grapes, dried cranberries and pecans. We also have a platter of assorted fine cheeses, and a wide array of fresh fruit. Plus, there’s chocolate ganache cake for dessert – which, along with the chicken salad, are my homemade contributions.”
“I can see now that I’m going to be a fat old man.”
She gave him a sweet smack on the cheek. “Yes, but a happy one. So, what do you recommend?”
“Okay, I select…” Reno ran his finger over several bottles. “Hmmm. I select a Chianti made from the workhorse grape of Tuscany, the Sangiovese.” He pulled out a bottle and smiled. “Big, ripe, cherry fruit flavor, firm tannins, and high acidity.”
Journey frown at the acidity part, but quickly regained her game face. “One more, just to cover our bases.”
“Are you going to select one also?”
“I thought I would,” she said. “We don’t have to drive – not even a horse and carriage.”
“We have to walk, though. Without falling down, hopefully.”
Journey tapped him on the scruff of his chin. “You have to walk. You get to carry me.”
“Ah. Okay. My second recommendation is a beautiful Chardonnay. He pulled out a bottle. Now, what about you?”
“I’m afraid you’ll be drinking most of those two.” She pulled out a bottle full of a beautiful pale pink liquid. “I drink Moscato. Almost exclusively.”
Reno gave her one of those ‘surely, not’ stares. “Moscato is too sweet.”
“Look who’s talking? What about your coffee?” She took all three bottles and carried them to the picnic basket. “I’ll try your selections. At least a few sips. Okay?”
“Okay.” He agreed, continuing to check out Myra’s collection. “I see she has a lot of Texas wines. Gentry would be shocked to know they have vineyards in Texas. He’s such a wine snob. Only drinks the finest French wines.”
“Aunt Myra is gung-ho on Texas wines. She says the Hill Country soil is perfect for high-quality grapes. In fact, she’s fond of telling me the story about the time Texas saved the French wine industry.”
“When was this?” he asked, intrigued.
“1887 or 1888. Somewhere in there. What happened was that a tiny aphid called a phylloxera wreaked havoc in France, destroying eighty percent of their grapevines. In an act of desperation, a French scientist, Pierre Viala, contacted T. V. Munson, a renowned horticulturist who lived in Texas. Munson had been working tirelessly trying to find a location in Texas that would grow grapes to compare to the finest found in Europe. The world was skeptical and not always kind to the idea of Texas wine – that is until Viala contacted Munson for help and he gave it willingly. Together, they found three Texas native species that were resistant to the aphids and they grafted their European vines onto this hardy Texas rootstock. Thus, the French wine industry was saved. France honored Munson by inducting him into the French Legion of Honor.”
“Oh, my God. Wait until I tell the Duke that story. He’ll go hunting Munson up himself. They’ll probably end up being best drinking buddies.”
“I want to be there when you tell him.” Journey imagined what their life would be like. “I can’t wait to go with you.”
“Won’t you miss your life here?”
Journey thought a moment, considering everything. “I’ll miss my friends and my aunt. Other than that – no. Not at all.”
“Not even all of the appliances, doo-dads, and fast modes of transportation?”
“Not a bit,” she promised him.
…The weather was perfect for a stroll to the creek. Reno carried the basket and a blanket for them to sit on. The sky was blue with just a few wispy clouds here and there. Journey couldn’t take her eyes off him, he looked so handsome in a pair of jeans and a western shirt. “If you take that shirt back with you, people will be baffled over those snaps.”
“I like them.” Reno fingered one of the flat, smooth covers. “So, I take them back and someone sees them. They are ‘invented’ or discovered at some point. I wear them back and someone copies the
