The boards without splashes. Waiting. He knew she was downstairs, working. She sold beads on E-Bay. He knew it took time to climb the circular staircase that modern architecture prescribed for their house.
The melting snow had flooded her front walk. He didn't want to track that in. The Buddhists had that right: strip to your socks.
It was February. They'd had all the snow they'd see this year. He cared. It was a sad note for Rhode Island. Only farmers wanted Virginia's climate to move this far north. But it was. Ask any winery manager. Rhode Island could field a drinkable white since the beginning. Now? Pull out the white vines. Grow red vines. This new, insidious, reverse-carpetbagger climate favors red grapes, bolder recipes, more notes. Longer summers. Higher temps. More sun. Gesturing them in from the wings (hurray!): syrah, mourverde, cab sauvignon — grapes of character. I like a toasty, leathery, smoky cocktail red.