"What wouldn't start?"
Rick leaned forward and whispered into my ear. "I don't want to alarm you, but I think this house is haunted."
I waited all of three seconds to break into laughter. "Oh, come on. Haunted?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "You don't believe the house could be haunted?"
"No. Not really. I mean, the wine is weird, but there has to be a rational explanation."
"There is only one way to know the truth." His face was inches from mine now, and I caught him glancing down the v-neck of my T-shirt.
"Blonde paradox," I whispered under my breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I just asked what-what is the way to know the truth?"
He held up the bottle and focused his dark eyes on me as if it was ninety degrees and I was a tall glass of ice water. I wriggled in my chair from the intensity. Pressing one hand to his chest, he said, "We must drink this ghostly wine late into the night, and I must stay with you to protect you from any unholy visitors."
I took one look at his exaggerated theatrics and said, "I'll get a corkscrew." Hell, I wasn't doing anything anyway. I walked into the kitchen to grab one off the counter and gasped. My bottle of Shiraz was corked, next to the refrigerator. What the hell was going on?
"You know," Rick called from the dining room, "Pinot gris is the better choice with salmon. Shiraz is too heavy of a red for fish."
I may be blonde, but I am not stupid. The pieces snapped together. Rick must have somehow changed the bottles. Maybe this was one big pick-up line: Hey baby, your house is haunted. Can I spend the night? Of course, that was it.
I walked back into the dining room. "You haven't been completely honest with me, have you?"
"You see through me," Rick admitted. He lowered his chin. "Your father didn't ask me to check on you. That was my own idea."
He didn't say anything about the wine, but I dropped the subject. Who cared how the bottle got there? I was enjoying his company too much to let my suspicions bother me. I opened the Pinot gris, poured him a glass, and then myself one.
"So, tell me how you became a caretaker," I said.
"I have always been interested in the dead." I must have made a face because he quickly added, "History. I was a history major."
"Oh, interesting." I decided not to share that I loathed history in college.
"This cemetery has historical significance, you know. The oldest grave is from sixteen ninety-two, an early settler of Red Grove. How familiar are you with the town?"
"Not at all. I'm a nurse at St. John's in Carlton City. I wouldn't have considered moving to Red Grove if not for my dad. He inherited the house, and I needed a place to stay." I didn't offer any more info on my embarrassing situation and thankfully he didn't ask.
"It's a small town, but it's home." He smiled. "I'll give you a tour if you like. Of the cemetery, that is. I think you can find your own way around Red Grove Grocery and Pub."
"Uh, thanks." I giggled. "Grocery and Pub. You say it like it's one building."
"It is. The first floor of Orson Thompson's place. He sells fishing bait too."
"I'll keep that in mind." The wine was starting to do its dirty work, and I could feel inhibition packing its bags. "Can I ask you a personal question, Rick?"
"Of course."
"You said your family was from Spain. How did you end up here?"
The question must have made him uncomfortable because he looked away and started tracing the edge of the table with his finger. He cleared his throat. "I guess they came for the same reasons everyone comes here. To make a new start. They used to have a farm here a long time ago. They've passed on."
"I'm so sorry." I was such a downer. Nothing like bringing up someone's dead parents to sour the mood.
"It's been years." He shrugged. The man looked desperate for a change of subject. "This is good wine."
