“Yup,” Alice smiled. “So do ya like Casablanca?” she said holding her glass up to Johnathan’s.

Johnathan beamed as he spoke. “It’s one of my favorites. Are you saying you think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

Grinning, Alice clinked Johnathan’s glass, “You gots it, buster. You gots it!”

They sipped their wines.

Their eyes opened wide to partake of each other’s response to the fermented grape they’d both just received.

“Oh my God!” they exclaimed in unison. “This is so frickin’ good!”

*************

Speedily, and with great annoyance, Bette spun to face the messenger.

“Marie! Now is not the time,” Bette scolded in a brusque but quiet voice.

“But, Ms. Porter, you said you wanted to know when and if we reached the goal,” Marie argued, abruptly stopping in her tracks.

“So I did. Thank you. But I’m busy now. You can give me the details later,” Bette forced a smile, preempting any further information.

Bette placed a palm comfortingly upon one of Marie’s shoulders. She still held her wine glass in the other hand.

“All right. I was just doing what I thought…”

“It’s okay, Marie,” Bette interjected, fully aware the woman whose attention she’d sought was watching. “You’re right. I did ask. Others should be as conscientious as you. Please keep up the good work.”

Marie’s eyes beseeched Bette’s forgiveness for the intrusion she had committed with only the best of intentions. Bette was sorry for her violation. She put her arm around Marie. And whispered in her ear as she turned away from the woman she was seeking to know. “Marie, I’m sorry. Really. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that I’m feeling a bit, well, preoccupied right now.”

“Are you sure?” Marie asked. “You aren’t mad?”

“Yes, I’m sure. How could I be angry with the bearer of such wonderful news?” Bette consoled her with a smile, encouraging her. “Get along now. Go grab a taste of wine. And get back to your numbers crunching. And your excellent work.”

“I’m on it, Ms. Porter,” Marie responded, sufficiently heartened.

*************

Bette heaved a sigh.

Would she still be there?

She pivoted slowly back to the woman who had spoken so beautifully, just minutes before, of a morning in France. In a vineyard. Enamored with the dawn. And the plump grapes. And the music in nature’s air.

The lovely woman was still there. And she was watching Bette carefully. Scrutinizingly.

Bette felt her face grow warm.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Bette apologized. “Where were we?”

“I was telling you about waking up in a vineyard in France,” the Venus replied. “By the way, am I underdressed for this occasion?”

Bette laughed. “No, your attire is fine,” she said, glancing down and admiring the woman’s figure in her tightly fitting denims. “These fundraisers are always come-as-you-like affairs.”

“Come-as-you-like?” the woman flirted, with a smirk, insinuating a double entendre.

Bette felt her face flush before regaining her composure. Then she cleared her throat.

“I must correct you. You were telling me about your morning in a French vineyard. But you were also about to introduce yourself,” Bette smiled self-consciously.

The woman extended her hand. Bette noted from the feel of the woman’s palm wrapped in hers that she must spend a great deal of time in the fields.

“I’m pleased to meet your acquaintance, Bette Porter. My name is Helena Peabody.”

Bette choked.

Helena patted Bette’s back.

When she caught her breath, Bette choked out her response. “Peggy Peabody’s daughter? But you can’t be Helena Peabody!”

“I can’t?” she replied, with a grin, pulling out her cell phone. “Let me call my Mummy and tell her that this gorgeous woman that I just met in a California museum says that I can’t possibly be born to her.”