He looked at Penelope. The differences between them suddenly seemed enormous.
She looked at him and smiled.
He tried to smile back, tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make him sound like a fool. He cleared his throat "I was looking at a tourist map of the wineries the other day, and I
didn't see yours listed."
"We don't give tours," she explained. "The winery is not open to the public."
"Really?" Dion was surprised at that. The winery seemed to have been built with tourists specifically in mind. With its pseudo-Greek architecture and distinctive layout, it would seem to be a natural point of interest, much more so than Edinger's or Scalia's or some of the other more pedestrian-looking wineries which did offer guided tours of their facilities. He frowned. "Then why does it look so ... Why does it look like this?"
Penelope shrugged. "That's how the women of the combine wanted it."
Dion looked again at the complex, and suddenly he didn't like it. The interest and admiration he had felt only seconds before disappeared. A
wave of distaste washed over him, an aversion so strong it was almost physical. He glanced quickly away, but not before Penelope saw the expression on his face.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
He waved it away. "Nothing," he said. But he looked again at the winery buildings, and he was afraid. There were goose bumps on his arms, and he was reminded of his equally irrational reaction to the hill last week.
He coughed, tried not to let his unease show. "Come on."
Penelope nodded, leading the way. They walked past the rows of vines and lines of pickers, through the parking lot, and down the short path to the house. The fear passed as quickly as it had come, and by the time they had reached the front steps it was just a memory.
"Home sweet home," Penelope said.
Dion looked up at the three-story mansion. "Have you always lived here?"
"All my life."
"You must have a big family."
"No. It's just me and my mother."
"Your dad doesn't--?"
"No."
He shook his head. "Just the two of you in this huge house?"
"Well, it's not just the two of us. My other ... women in the combine live here too."
Dion nodded, saying nothing.
Penelope stopped at the foot of the porch steps, turned to face him. "I
know what the kids say," she said, her voice low, "but I'm not a lesbian."
Dion found himself blushing. "I didn't say you were--"
"And neither are any of the women in the combine." Her voice was strong, her expression serious. For all of her shyness, for all of her earlier hesitancy, she seemed much older than her years, more poised and, mature than other girls her age. "Look," she said. "I know how it looks to a bunch of hormone-enraged teenage boys, but the combine is just a business concern. That's it. We all live in the same house, but that's because it's big and it's convenient. Our winery is not some sort of sex club or Playboy mansion or anything. Nothing like that happens here or has ever happened here. I'll admit that the women are all strong feminists, but contrary to what people seem to think these days, there's nothing wrong with that. They're aggressive because they have to be.
They're businesswomen. And everything they've done, they've done on their own. No one helped them, no one encouraged them, no one would even hire them when they were originally looking for positions in other wineries. They may have made it in spite of men and not because of men, but that doesn't make them lesbians." She stopped to catch her breath.
Dion smiled softly at her. "I wouldn't care if they were lesbians," he said. "But if I thought you were a lesbian, I wouldn't be here."
Now it was her turn to blush.
Both of them were silent for a moment. Dion's hands were sweaty, and he wiped them surreptitiously on his pants. He had said it. He had taken the plunge. He had spoken aloud what he had been thinking, and now she knew for sure that he was interested. He licked his lips. What would she say? How would she react? How would she respond? The silence dragged on, and he was suddenly certain that he had made a mistake, that he had tipped his hand too early.
Her response was no response. She chose to ignore his remark. "Are you thirsty?" she asked finally. Her voice was gentler than it had been, filled with an emotion he couldn't quite place but which for some reason made him feel good. She motioned him up the porch steps, refusing to look at him. "We have some juice in the refrigerator."
Part of him was disappointed, part of him relieved. If he hadn't been accepted, at least he hadn't been shot down. He was still in the running, and that was good enough for now. He nodded. "Sounds great," he said.
They walked inside.
The interior of the house was less impressive than the outside. Rather than the museum's worth of untouchable antiques he had been expecting, he saw a hodgepodge of furnishings and decorating styles, most of them contemporary, none which fit with the grandiose promise of the exterior.
The house was comfortable, though, the rooms warm and inviting. In a family room dominated by a large-screen TV, the day's newspaper was scattered over a low wood and white tile coffee table. On the armrest of the couch was an opened paperback, a Danielle Steele novel. Next to the doorway were two pairs of women's shoes.
Dion felt less intimidated than he had before. Penelope's family might be rich, but they lived the same way as everyone else.
"Kitchen's through here!"
He followed Penelope into the kitchen, where a middle aged woman wearing faded jeans and a plain white blouse was chopping bell peppers on a freestanding butcher block. The woman turned toward them as they entered. She exchanged a quick glance with Penelope, then beamed at Dion. "Hello," she said.
Dion smiled, nodded. "Hello."
"Dion, this is my mother. Mother, this is my friend Dion."
Penelope's mother looked nothing like her. She was small-boned and dark, whereas her daughter was tall and blond. Her features were plain and nondescript in contrast to Penelope's stunning good looks. She was also older and more careworn than he would have expected. The one thing mother and daughter did seem to have in common was an innate shyness, a natural reserve, although Penelope's mother appeared to be more deferential, less strong willed.
"Would you two like something to drink?"
"Yes," Penelope said. "Juice?"
"We have grape. Fresh squeezed today."
"That'll be fine."
Mother Felice opened the white refrigerator door and drew out a large glass pitcher filled to the brim with grape juice. She maneuvered carefully over to the counter, holding the pitcher with two hands in order to keep from spilling any on the floor. "Where are you from?" she asked as she put the pitcher down and took two glasses from the cupboard. "I know you're not from around here."
"Arizona," Dion said.
"Really? Whereabouts?"
"Mesa. It's near Phoenix."
"I know where Mesa is. I used to have a friend from Scottsdale, a girl I
went to high school with."
Penelope smiled as her mother handed her a glass of juice. Mother Felice had always been able to put people at ease, to make them feel comfortable. Of all of her mothers, she was the kindest, the most solicitous of the feelings of others, and it was she who was always chosen to soothe the waters after Mother Margeaux had bulldozed her way over someone. Penelope was glad to see that Dion seemed to like her mother, and that her mother seemed to like Dion.
The door banged open and Mother Janine stepped loudly into the kitchen, bumping against the frame as she pulled work gloves off her hands.
"Who's--" she began. She stopped in mid-sentence, saw Dion, and smiled.
"Hello," she said.
"This is Dion," Mother Felice explained. "A friend of Penelope's."