Page 19 of Wild Abandon

“I know. You’re from New York.”

His mouth tilts up in a way that I would have missed if I wasn’t staring at him hard. I clench mine tight, not to return it.

“Yes, I am. And I can take care of myself.”

He slightly nods his head.

“And I can order my own drinks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

His forehead crinkles. “Is that all?”

Oh, damn him. “Yes, that’s all. Good night.” I turn on my heel and start to leave.

“Good night, Doctor.”

And, for some stupid reason, I smile at that comment.

But he doesn’t see it.

Thank God.

chapter FOUR

When someone tells you to arrive at nine a.m., you assume they’ll be there to greet you. Not Ed Martin. The old man is nowhere to be seen, so I push open the steel back door and step onto the veranda. The paint on the pergola above is warped from sun and rain, yet the structure still looks sturdy. Empty pillars where plants once lived are begging for something to thrive in them, and an old teak table that seats about twelve needs a polish.

I am about to walk over to the garage when I spot him in the rose garden. Stepping off the stone steps, I make my way toward him. He is seated on a small stool in between two rows of rose bushes. His khaki pants are hiked up at the ankles, revealing argyle socks. Today, he has on a short-sleeved bowling shirt and a brown stockman’s hat. And, if I’m not mistaken, he’s singing a song from “Hello, Dolly!” as he prunes the plant in front of him.

I take a moment to stop and smell the roses. I’ve heard the expression, but I’ve never gotten it until now. I’ve never stood in a field of them before. The smell is fruity with hints of apricots, pears, and apples. The deep purple-red burgundy color reminds me of a fine wine, something heady and rich. The blooms are large and growing in clusters on what I guess to be half an acre, surrounded by the most magnificent backdrop of mountains and blue skies.

“Never sneak up on a man with cutting shears,” Ed’s says from below.

I quirk up a smile. “You have a gorgeous garden. Why only roses?”

On the other side of him is a large basket that he is filling with the beautiful blossoms. “Why is the Pope Catholic?”

I cross my arms and tilt my head. “You didn’t plant these?”

Ed turns to face me with a rose petal caught in the coils of his beard. “No. And, for some reason, no matter what I do, they won’t die.” He stands up and grabs his cane and the stool off the ground. “Come on. We have a lesson to do. And bring the basket.”

“A lesson?” I ask, following him through the garden, roses in hand, and up the veranda steps. “What kind of lesson?”

Ed makes his way inside and places the stool on the floor. Then, he takes the basket out of my hands and places it up on the bar next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits down on his stool behind the bar and adjusts his hat. Before I take my seat, I lean forward, pull the rogue rose petal from his beard, and hold it up in front of him. He grumbles and then throws it in the basket with the dozens of roses he cut.

He opens a fresh bottle and then pours it into the glass. “There are four steps to the wine-tasting method. Look—which we already covered—smell, taste, and conclude.” He has a gruff, teacher-like way about him.

I place my hand around the stem and swirl it, as I saw him do the other day. I pinch the end and hold it up, as I was taught. The red has a nice dark color, and the outside line is light without looking watery.

He places his glass up to his face, nose inserted all the way inside until the rim of the glass is nearly resting against his face. I mimic his action. He swirls the wine and smells again. I follow suit.

“What do you smell?”

I move my nose to different positions around the glass. There is a scent that’s familiar. It almost smells like—

“Pipe tobacco?”