I’ve been dreaming about fluffy, strawberry-slathered rolls for weeks, but now all I want is to climb into a cool, dark hole with a barrel full of Tums and a two-liter bottle of ginger ale.
After a quick stop home to change, hydrate, and pee, we repack the cars with picnic supplies. The process of getting everyone and everything out the door is like herding cats on acid. Like the cats are on acid, and the cat shepherd is also on acid.
Right as Parth returns from using the restroom, Kimmy realizes she forgot her sunglasses and darts back inside.
Sabrina says, “Do you think the first two hours of their days on the farm are Cleo sending Kimmy back into the house for every individual item of clothing she’s forgotten to put on?”
“And once more when she accidentally puts her pants on her head,” Cleo calls from down by the cars.
“That’s not an accident, babe,” Kimmy says, barreling back outside. “I’m just waiting for the day you finally embrace my forward-thinking approach to fashion.”
“Wear whatever you want,” Cleo says. “I’m more concerned with what’s underneath.”
“Awh!” Kimmy kisses the side of Cleo’s neck. “I don’t know if you’re being lascivious or sentimental, but either way I’ll take it.”
Sabrina slaps her forehead. “The wine. Can you run down to the cellar and grab it?”
“Pick anything pink or white?” I guess.
She shakes her head. “It’s the Didier Dagueneau Silex from 2018. You mind?”
“It’s not that I mind,” I say. “It’s just that I recognized very few of those words.”
“Silex,” she repeats, jogging her multiple tote bags up her shoulders. “It says that on the label, followed by Didier Dagueneau, and you’re looking for the 2018. It’s a white.”
I drop my own bag inside the door as I double back. The door to the wine cellar sits ajar, the lights already on. Allegedly, there are bottles worth twenty thousand dollars down there. Hopefully none of those also starts with Silex and ends with eau.
As I descend, a faint rustling rises to meet me.
At the bottom of the steps, I round the corner and stop short at the sight of Wyn, limned in the soft golden overhead lighting like some tortured fallen angel as played by James Dean.
“Silex something-something?” he says.
“Sabrina must’ve forgotten she’d already sent you to get it.” I turn to go.
“I’ve been staring at this spot for like ten minutes. It’s not here.”
I hesitate. When I pictured retreating to a cool, dark cave, this wasn’t what I had in mind, but if Sabrina has her heart on this particular wine, we’re not leaving until we find it. I mean that literally. When she gets an idea into her head, there’s little room for deviation. See also her reaction to Cleo canceling her and Parth’s visit to the farm.
I let out a breath and cross toward him, crouching in front of the shelf to run my fingers across the labels.
“I’ve checked everywhere,” he says, grumpy.
“It’s basically a universal law that if one person looks for something for an extended period of time, then the next person to walk up to it will spot it immediately.”
“How’s that going?” he asks.
Among the dozens of chardonnays, Rieslings, sauvignon blancs, gewürztraminers: no Silex.
“Satisfied?” he says.
The hair at the nape of my neck tugs upward at his bemused tone. My brain wanders to the absolute worst place it could possibly go in this particular room.
The cellar, for us, is full of ghosts. Not the scary kind. Sexy ghosts.
I straighten up. “Just grab a white that doesn’t look too expensive.”
His eyes flash. “You want me to look for a Big Lots clearance sticker, Harriet?”
“Choose something they have more than one of,” I say, practically running for the stairs, like he’s a riptide I need to claw free from.
Halfway up the steps, I notice the door’s shut. Then I reach the top, and the knob won’t twist. Won’t even budge.
I knock on the door. “Sab?”
At the bottom of the steps, Wyn steps into view, a bottle of wine in hand.
“The door must’ve locked,” I explain.
“Why’d you shut it?” he asks.
“Well, I was hoping it would automatically lock, from the outside, and I’d be trapped down here with you,” I deadpan.
He ignores the sarcasm and climbs up, brushing me aside to try the knob himself.
“Seems to be locked,” he says, probably to annoy me.
He pounds on the door. “Cleo? Parth? Anyone?”
I can feel heat rising off his skin. I descend a couple of steps, check my pockets for my phone as I go. Once again, my pockets are tiny, and my phone must be in my bag, in the foyer.
“Call someone,” I say.
Wyn shakes his head. “I left my phone in the car. You don’t have yours?”
“Upstairs,” I say. “We’ll have to wait until they get sick of waiting and send someone to hurry us up.”
Wyn groans and drops onto the top step, setting the bottle down by his ankle. He bows his head and knots his fingers together against the back of his neck.
At least I’m not the only one panicking.
Of course, I’m freaking out about being here with him, and he’s freaking out because he’s claustrophobic. He has been ever since he was a kid and a broken armoire fell on him in his parents’ workshop while no one else was home. He was trapped for hours.
As soon as the door’s open, he’ll be fine. Whereas I’ll still be reeling from the purchase of a stupid coffee-table book.
The whole stairwell sways as an awful realization hits me. I latch on to the banister to keep from falling over.
“What? What’s wrong?” Wyn leaps up, steadying me by the elbows. His drawn mouth is visible in bits under the black splotches swimming across my vision.
“We were taking two cars,” I squeak out. “We were taking two cars, so all four of them could’ve left in the Rover.”
His eyes darken, clouds creeping across the green. “They wouldn’t.”
“They might,” I say.
“We don’t need to assume that’s what happened. They could be back any second.” He stares at the ceiling, doing some kind of mental calculation.
I descend the rest of the steps, trying to regain the space between us. But he follows. “This isn’t my fault, Harriet.”
“Did I say it was?” I ask.
“You stormed off,” he says. “There’s an implication there.”
I spin back to him. “Wyn. We’re in a twelve-foot box. That wasn’t storming. There isn’t room for storming. But if your point is to remind me that I shut the door, point received.”
“I’m not blaming you. I just—who the hell has a door that locks from the outside?”
“It’s a panic room,” I point out. “That’s what the little panel on the wall does. We could unlock it if we knew the code.”
His gaze clears. He climbs the stairs in three long strides to examine the panel. “There’s a button to call 911.”
How long will it take for them to realize something’s wrong? Will they drive all the way out to pick up the pre-hike popovers without trying to call us?