Yes, we have fallen in love with each other. Madly. Deeply.
We drink the wine with Alain Passard’s legendaryrotisserie chicken, smoked over hay, the skin crisp and fragrant, the meat tender and glistening with jus.
The La Tâche wraps itself around every bite—dark cherry, rose petals, truffle, smoke, as though the vineyard itself has leaned in to kiss my lips.
“I’m in food heaven,” she declares, sinking back in her chair, bliss on her face.
I’m in heaven, too, and it’s because you’re with me.
We end the meal with profiteroles with hay ice cream, topped with shards of caramelized sugared almonds, and a glossy drizzle of caramel sauce.
“You said you have a healthy love for ice cream,” I remind her as I hold up a spoonful.
She takes the bite and moans.
I pour a chilled glass of Château d’Yquem 2001. I taste it and sigh with pleasure. The Sauternes hums with honey, apricot, and orange blossom, its sweetness cutting clean through the caramel’s richness, each sip bright as sunlight against the cool cream of the profiteroles.
Tara closes her eyes after her first taste. “This is…indecent.”
I can’t help but laugh, watching her surrender to joy, to hedonism, to us.
After dinner, we sit in the living room with our Sauternes.
“I like your place.” She curls against the velvet couch where we’re resting, looking sinfully lovely.
“I like you in it.”
She turns away like that might be too much. Maybe it is.
I brush my fingers against hers. She doesn’t pull away.
When I lean in, she meets me halfway.
The kiss is hungry and familiar. Like we’ve kissed a hundred times—and it still matters.
After she pulls away, she licks her lips.
She looks away from me and around at the room. “It’s more opulent than your place in Pommard, but still you. Especially your bedroom. Your art isverymodern.”
“I like all art…when it’s good, that is.”
I can’t stop thinking about how good she looks in my space, and how she fits so well.
She tips her glass, eyes dancing. “I have a deep love for Miró.”
“Have you been to the Miró Foundation in Barcelona?”
She shakes her head, hair brushing her cheek.
“I’ll take you.” But we both know it’s a promise I can’t keep. When would I take her? She’ll be gone in a few weeks, and I’ll be here—alone again.
I slide my hand down her back and say softly, “Stay right there.”
She watches me as I cross the room and flip through therecords.
I find what I’m looking for—Charles Aznavour. I set it on the carousel, and drop the needle onto the vinyl. A soft crackle gives way to melody, and then Aznavour’s voice fills the room, gravel and silk.
“Emmenez-moi au bout de la terre….”
