Wine, Tarts & Sex

Two

Olivia Bell, known as Liv for obvious reasons- or at least obvious reasons to anyone who had been plagued with the teasing designation Olive Oil in grade school-lifted her booted feet up on the railing of her front porch and leaned back in her chair.

It was hotter than hell today, especially with the sun at high noon. She was dripping with sweat under her jeans and T-shirt, her fingernails were dirty as usual-no matter she’d scrubbed them after working in her vineyard-her pale hair was a riot of curls with the humidity at near record highs, and even unkempt and sweaty, she was happy, content, and really grossly self-satisfied. Sitting on the porch of her old farmhouse, surveying her vineyard that bordered a bubbling creek running through her land, she felt as though she’d found that much-lauded promised land. Or at least her own little piece of heaven, she decided, opting for a modicum of modesty in her assessment.

Lifting the glass of wine resting on the arm of her chair, she studied the deep ruby tones sparkling in the sun before bringing the glass to her nose and inhaling the scent. Perfect: lush; ripe; a brooding, classy beauty. Taking a sip, she held it in her mouth, savoring the voluptuous flavors and long, sweet finish.

Times like this made all the years of hard-ass toil as a model worth it.

More than worth it.

Six years ago she’d saved up enough to buy this farm in the rolling hills of the Saint Croix Valley. Even though most of her modeling friends thought she was crazy, they’d given her a memorable two-day party send-off after the spring shows in Milan, and she’d retired to the life of a farmer. Last fall, her first credible vintage from mature grapes had come on the market to universal acclaim-at least in her little part of the world.

Which was good enough for her.

She didn’t have grandiose aspirations.

After years of traveling the globe from one fashion shoot to another, after seeing just about all there was to see in terms of sights, both people- and planet-wise, she was more than happy-in the words of Faust-to till her own garden.

She’d probably made more money than she deserved for simply smiling into camera lenses. But then she didn’t set the rates. And thanks to a seemingly insatiable demand for young blonde models with good cheekbones, she was now able to enjoy the rewards of her labor and make some damned fine wine in the process.

But in terms of seeing that her small business continued to prosper, as soon as she finished her glass of wine, she’d better shower, dress, and drive into town to make her usual Monday deliveries to her restaurant customers.