Wine, Tarts & Sex

Twenty-six

Jake woke with a colossal hangover, the sound of the alarm jarring his brain. He lunged for the clock radio, grunted as agonizing pain spiked through his head, and slammed his hand down on the Off button just as a wave of nausea hit him.

Falling back, he shut his eyes.

Jesus. That made his churning stomach worse. Opening his eyes, he dragged himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and waited for the world to stop spinning. He might have dozed off again, he wasn’t sure, but when he came to again, taking his head in his hands, he carefully rose to his feet. Steady. Stars flashed and popped before his eyes. He did that deep breathing thing until they disappeared. Then, dropping his hands, he cautiously moved his head left and right. Okay, that was working. Now, if he could walk without hurling, he’d try to find the Vicodin he kept for times like this.

Since he’d hardly unpacked, it took him longer than he would have liked to ferret out his hangover remedy. But dire necessity prevailed, and two Vicodin later, he navigated the route to the kitchen and made himself café au lait with six sugars. After his chemical and caffeine fix had worked its magic, he showered, shaved, dressed, ate some toast, and felt almost normal. Okay, he couldn’t lie; he wasn’t in shape to run any marathon. But everything else was definitely on the rise.

Descending the stairs to the ground floor, he stopped on the bottom landing to take in the panoramic view of the mighty Mississippi flowing by the restaurant’s window wall. Sun sparkled off the water, runners and walkers were taking advantage of the meandering path on the opposite bank, water poured over the dam in a white-water torrent, the scene vibrant and alive. There was something restorative in the view-a tonic perhaps-or a reminder of the simple beauties of life.

Speaking of beauty, his new restaurant was going to be one awesome place to hang out once the dust settled.

Now, which contractor was scheduled first this morning?

The following days saw major changes in Jake’s River Joint as work crews demolished and plumbed, wired and rewired, took out windows for new windows, power-blasted the original brick walls of the old mill, and cleaned the kitchen to pristine splendor.

Each day was a three-ring circus of activity, with Jake’s participation indispensable for decisions large and small. Suppliers, wholesalers, decorators, and construction managers all needed him to tell them what went where and when. Not that he didn’t welcome the tumult. It kept his mind off Liv.

However, once the work crews left at the end of the day, he was alone, and things always turned dicey. He’d find himself obsessing again about pretty much one thing. Or person. Or whatever designation best characterized his bizarre craving.

If he was actually introspective-which he wasn’t-he would have described his craving as lust: a perfectly understandable concept for him. Didn’t someone once say an accommodating vice was preferable to a more obstinate virtue? He would have agreed. As for harboring feelings of affection for Liv, he wasn’t ready to acknowledge anything of the kind.

Every evening, he’d force himself to focus on the project he’d come here to accomplish-like open a restaurant. Meeting Liv had thrown him off track for a few days, but he was back on schedule, and he had every intention of staying there. After all, getting a restaurant up and running was normally a smoothly run operation for him. Hadn’t he always prided himself on his ability to concentrate on business, regardless of distractions?

So, stay on task.

Self-lectures and warnings notwithstanding, he still found himself constantly daydreaming about Liv at night when he should be concentrating on the next day’s work schedule. It seemed as though every little thing reminded him of her, whether he was trying to decide on the type of outdoor tables and flowers for the window boxes, or the color of bathroom tile, or the dimensions of the new dining room carpet. It was insane.

It was even more disturbing to think about sleeping in the Bollywood bed. Although that emotional can of worms at least made sense. His memories of her in that bed were totally erotic. Just remembering them gave him a hard-on.

So after that first night when he’d fallen into bed drunk, he’d chosen to sleep on the couch. Or semisleep. That was the best he could do with lascivious images of Liv looping through his brain.

Christ, he felt like he was losing it.

While Jake was overseeing the construction on his River Joint and struggling to maintain his equilibrium, Roman, Janie, and Matt were enjoying a little bit of paradise- in their case consisting of children’s activities in the daytime and adult pleasures at night. Matt was thriving and happy with two adults inclined to give in to his every whim. Janie basked under Roman’s tender accommodation and didn’t even once think about Leo’s nastiness. Roman took pleasure in one day at a time; he’d learned a long time ago that it never paid to plan.

Liv and Chris worked long hours seeing that the grapes were nurtured with loving care in hopes that Chris’s anticipated first world-class vintage would materialize. One and all missed the in-home chef, but generally by the time Liv returned from the fields and Janie’s group arrived home after their amusements, it was too late to even think about cooking.

“We found the nicest little restaurant not too far from here,” Janie cheerfully announced the second day. “They have chicken-fried steak that reminds me of Texas. And Roman says their cabbage rolls are almost as good as his grandmother’s.”

“I wike da cheese mac,” Matt had chimed in.

And Nickie’s Diner replaced Jake’s meals for Liv’s guests.

Liv would make herself a sandwich or omelet or eat some fruit and cheese when she came in for supper. Then she’d drink a glass of wine and spend the night catching up on her TV watching. She was fine, she told herself. She liked her life. She’d been alone here for years. If she needed some nightlife, she could always go into town and hang out with Shelly et al. Ah-denial.

Jake was less in denial and consequently less laid-back. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent time alone, his schedule the last twenty years essentially seven-nights-a-week work in the mass hysteria of a commercial kitchen.

He tried to tell himself that he was long overdue for peace and tranquillity. He even tried to believe it.

But when platitudes no longer staved off the potent force of his libido, he’d go downstairs, pick up one of the sledgehammers left behind by the demolition crew, and take out his frustration on the wall that was being razed between the restaurant and the new bar.

He’d smash cement block, brick, and old lathe and plaster until he could no longer lift his arms, then he’d drag himself back upstairs, collapse on the couch, and try to find something to further distract him from his out-of-control desires. Reading a book wasn’t in the cards. He was too jumpy. TV became his mindless fallback, which meant he ended up watching a ton of dreck on cable.

One night, very late, when sleep was more elusive than usual-okay, impossible-he sat down and made a list of the relevant liabilities apropos a relationship with Liv. This from a man who’d never even considered an actual relationship with a woman. Nor had he ever done anything so truly lame since he’d written that poem to Dede Orlando in the seventh grade. Which only went to show the extent of his lust or Liv’s frigging appeal; he wasn’t sure of the pecking order on that one.

Anyway, on the very top of his list of liabilities he scrawled: “I won’t be here long. Six months at best.”

Second, he wrote: “Liv is passionate about her vineyard and settled in for the long haul. Seriously. No ambivalence there.”

Third: He didn’t do relationships.

Fourth: He’d never done relationships.

Fifth-shit, his brain was caught in a useless groove.

So, okay, there it was. He wasn’t available. Now, if only his libido was equally reasonable about that long-held belief.

Fuck. His damned libido didn’t give a shit about lists or availability or beliefs of any shape or form. It just kept telling him to get in his car, drive to Liv’s, and do what he wanted to do.

He figured he was becoming pretty well unglued when he was talking to himself and-worse-answering back. But grim, dogged self-control managed to get him through another night.

Just barely.

Okay, so the sex channels helped.

But the next morning, after greeting the work crews and running over the schedule with the project manager, he said in what he hoped was a mild, restrained tone of voice, “I’ll be gone today. If you need anything, call my cell.” He counted to ten real, real slowly on his way out the door, hoping to rachet down his champing-at-the-bit horniness.

Five minutes later, he was on the freeway, heading north.

He probably shouldn’t have stopped for an espresso, he was already strung out, but it was an hour drive. He’d have time to calm down.