The Senator’s Daughter (21 page)

By eleven thirty on this lovely bright morning, they were approaching their third winery.

Lyle was pacing himself, sipping lightly, and choosing to taste only dry vintages. He'd never cared for a sweet wine. Though Sylvia also tasted sparingly, a becoming flush suffused her cheeks. He wanted to credit her high color to being with him rather than the wine.

The first two places they'd stopped had been midsized establishments, well subscribed even before noon on Sunday. The third was a sleeper.

Lyle hadn't even noticed it, but Sylvia had spied buildings set back from the highway among the vineyards and pointed out the weathered sign:
Montague Winery.

He pulled the Mercedes up in front of the largest stone edifice, an apparent remnant of an old mill. The four-foot-wide door was closed, and there was no sign indicating the hours.

“I hope they're open.” She was out of the car before she finished her sentence.

Shaking his head, he shut off the engine and hurried after her, reminded again of a child's joy.

“See, Lyle,” she called back, the door swinging open in her hand. “They are here.”

Inside, they found the usual long counter where wine was served, racks of bottles, tables, and chairs. But a patina of dust covered all, and there was no one in sight.

“Halloo.” Lyle came up behind Sylvia and took her shoulders. “Boo.”

She jumped.

“You have to admit it is a little spooky.” He slid his hands down the sides of Sylvia's arms to her elbows, and drew her against him. The touch of her body along the length of his reminded him of the evening she'd landed on top of him on the sidewalk.

She leaned into him; everything seemed to slow. Wanting flowed through his veins like liquid gold, a heavy pressure, sweet like honey.

Tapping footsteps came from behind the wine bar.

A moment later, a distinguished silver-haired woman in black entered the big room. An aged golden retriever with a white face limped after her. “I'm Claire Montague. My husband recently passed away, and I've only got a few vintages left.” She gestured toward a couple of bottles, as compared to the usual tasting room's sleek lineup. “I'm trying to keep things going here.”

Half an hour later, after tasting Montague wine from glasses that were sparkling clean despite the rest of the dust, Sylvia and Lyle bade Claire Montague good-bye. Before they left with several bottles of her wine, she insisted on providing them with a picnic lunch.

“You can't just give it to us,” Sylvia insisted. “Not when you …” She gestured at their spare surroundings.

“Yes, I can,” Claire came back. “The way you two looked when I walked in reminded me of the early years with Robert. Now, please let me repay you for bringing me the memory of joy in the midst of sorrow.”

While they thanked her and walked outside, Sylvia's face felt hot. When she'd pressed back against Lyle, she'd felt desire, but had they really looked enough like a couple to remind Mrs. Montague of her own love?

In silence, Sylvia and Lyle made their way from the building to a rustic stone table and spread their repast. Nearby, a stream poured over an ancient waterwheel, and the oaks showed signs of autumn's cooler nights.

“This was awfully nice of her.” Sylvia bit into a hunk of aromatic cheese and savored the sharp taste.

“She said we earned it.” Lyle faced her across the table.

Sylvia hoped the midday sun that warmed her shoulders might also explain her high color. She gave her attention to setting aside her long-sleeved shirt to reveal her bright red tank top, a match to her $2.99 black one.

Lyle poured dry Riesling from a tall green bottle into the glasses Mrs. Montague had provided. “It's a shame about her husband. I hope she's able to go it alone.” His tone indicated doubt.

Sylvia stared into the straw-colored liquid. “Think of her trying to keep the place together after losing him to cancer. It makes you think how easily things can go from wonderful to …”

Lyle grimaced and looked out over the rows of vines on the opposite side of the mill's watercourse.

“What's the matter?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “There were some times for me, when things went from …” He shook his head. “Let's not go there today.”

Sylvia almost said he could tell her anything, but was she ready to hear Lyle's secrets? That made for an intimacy far closer than riding in his sports car.

Still, each time their eyes met, that special current passed between them. One that tempted her to believe they were closer than they were.

Several hours later, Lyle and Sylvia completed a hike in the Robert Louis Stevenson State Park on the slopes of dormant volcano Mount Saint Helena. Though the exertion had done Lyle good, he continued to be acutely aware of Sylvia.

She had shed her outer shirt again as she had during their picnic, and while they climbed he'd watched a sheen of perspiration form on her back and shoulders. And imagined other activities in which one could work up a sweat.

When they arrived back at the broad clearing above Highway 29, they paused beside a small waterfall. Lyle pointed the way to a weathered picnic table beneath a smooth-barked madrone tree. Sylvia sat close beside him on the table, their feet on the sagging bench.

In this moment of companionship, Lyle almost decided to share what happened with his mother. Unfortunately, it tended to bring up more questions than answers and he did want to enjoy the day.

They returned to his car, and he put the top down in honor of the warming day. Driving down toward the cutoff for the inn, he had an idea. “My friend Cliff recommends those Calistoga mud baths.”

Lyle had seen the brochures, people lying in white porcelain tubs filled with brown mud. All the folks were smiling, so it must be better than it looked. The credits suggested it was one of life's most relaxing pastimes.

“Why not?” Sylvia agreed.

As they passed the curve where he'd seen the tire tracks of her car, Lyle glanced her way. “Have you thought about your Jag?”

He sensed her tensing up. “What about it?”

“To begin with, it's an eighty-thousand-dollar automobile. Why not have it pulled out of the canyon and stored somewhere?”

He immediately wanted to bite his tongue. His comment surely underscored that he'd been raised poor.

Sylvia should be concerned, not only for the money being wasted while each rain rusted her wrecked front end, but because it had been a gift from her father. He'd been proud when he presented the keys and told her he thought the red convertible was right for her—red being her favorite color and she being a free spirit. She'd burst into tears and thrown her arms around his neck.

A little stab of pain said it had been one of the good times she'd been forgetting lately. The car had been a wonderful surprise.

Reflex made her parry Lyle's comment. “I know what the car cost.”

Odd, she'd never felt embarrassed before by her family's financial means. And of course, Lyle was ashamed at some level at having been born to parents who could not have dreamed of gifting him with the Mercedes he drove.

An image of her mother besmirching Lyle for being raised in a poor household brought her back to feeling justified in having taken off.

“Forget the bucks,” Lyle went on, “what happens if someone finds your car with your ID inside? They'll be searching the forest and ravines for your body, thinking you staggered away and died.”

Ever since she'd peered over the edge of the ravine and noted the wounds on the trees, she'd played that one in the back of her mind. “I've considered it,” she defended. “If I tried to pull it out, it would blow my cover.”

Lyle made a neutral noise.

“Look,” she said, “if it's found and identified, I'll call home and tell them I'm okay.”

He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “Is that a promise?”

Something in his tone made her reply, “Yes, Lyle. If my car is found, I promise I'll get in touch with my parents.”

T
en minutes later, Sylvia stood beside Lyle in the lobby of a rustic Calistoga spa where one could be indulged from head to toe. Baths included a Jacuzzi filled with hot mineral water, the special mix of volcanic mud and peat, needle showers, and being wrapped in aromatic herb-scented blankets.

“Relax and detoxify as a couple in a private treatment room,” suggested the woman behind the desk. “Afterward, have a massage … Swedish, Shiatsu, Thai, hot stones …”

Lyle rubbed the back of his neck. “Sylvia?”

“Okay,” she said.

Soon, she wasn't so sure. Stripped to her skin, she put her clothes into a locker. A discreet sign on the wall indicated if modesty were an issue, she was welcome to wear the bathing suit she didn't have with her.

Donning a soft white terry robe, she came out of the women's locker room to find Lyle sitting on a wooden bench in the hall. His robe was belted tight; his feet bare like hers.

“Hello!” said a perky voice from the end of the hall. Blond and svelte, the spa employee wore snug shorts and a well-fitting T-shirt. “I'm Kelly, and I'll be taking care of you today.” She consulted a paper. “It's Lyle, isn't it? And Sylvia.”

Lyle rose. On his way to greet Kelly, he snagged Sylvia's hand and brought her along.

Kelly's blond brows rose. “Hey.” She snapped her fingers. “Aren't you that senator's daughter they're all looking for?”

Sylvia's face got hot. She should have stayed at the inn, but a day out with Lyle had been too tempting.

While Kelly scrutinized her, she cast about for how to toss it off as a mistake.

Before she could come up with anything, Lyle broke out laughing. “I wish.” He pretended to look Sylvia over. “My gal here happens to be named Sylvia, and she sort of resembles Senator Chatsworth's daughter, but unfortunately she's just plain Sylvia Cabot.” He winked. “Dontcha know I'd like to have her father's money.”

Kelly's expression relaxed into a smile. “You and me both.” She led them through the entry into the tiled spa.

As soon as her back was turned, Lyle gave Sylvia's hand a squeeze. She returned the pressure, willing her flush to subside.

Kelly pushed open a door and gestured them into the “private room.” Sylvia stopped in the doorway at the sight of the intimate little suite and felt her color come back up. A pair of claw-footed tubs sat side by side, filled with clear bubbling water. On the opposite side of the room were the dual mud baths. The needle shower's single open stall bore fixtures aimed to spray from crown to ankles.

It appeared that Sylvia and Lyle were going to get a good look at each other.

“This is Jay.” Kelly indicated a dark-haired young man in a jogging suit, laying out clean linens on a pair of massage tables.

“First, you'll get into the tubs of spring water,” Kelly instructed. “You'll scrub with a loofah, to get you clean for the mud bath.”