DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

Her voice was strong, her expression serious. For all of her shyness, for all of her earlier hesitancy, she seemed much older than her years, more poised and mature than other girls her age. “Look,” she said. “I know how it looks to a bunch of hormone-enraged teenage boys, but the combine is just a business concern. That’s it. We all live in the same house, but that’s because it’s big and it’s convenient. Our winery is not some sort of sex club or Playboy mansion or anything. Nothing like that happens here or has ever happened here. I’ll admit that the women are all strong feminists, but contrary to what people seem to think these days, there’s nothing wrong with that. They’re aggressive because they have to be. They’re businesswomen. And everything they’ve done, they’ve done on their own. No one helped them, no one encouraged them, no one would even hire them when they were originally looking for positions in other wineries. They may have made it in spite of men and not because of men, but that doesn’t make them lesbians.” She stopped to catch her breath.

Dion smiled softly at her. “I wouldn’t care if they were lesbians,” he said. “But if I thought you were a lesbian, I wouldn’t be here.”

Now it was her turn to blush.

Both of them were silent for a moment. Dion’s hands were sweaty, and he wiped them surreptitiously on his pants. He had said it. He had taken the plunge. He had spoken aloud what he had been thinking, and now she knew for sure that he was interested. He licked his lips. What would she say? How would she react? How would she respond? The silence dragged on, and he was suddenly certain that he had made a mistake, that he had tipped his hand too early.

Her response was no response. She chose to ignore his remark. “Are you thirsty?” she asked finally. Her voice was gentler than it had been, filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite place but which for some reason made him feel good. She motioned him up the porch steps, refusing to look at him. “We have some juice in the refrigerator.”

Part of him was disappointed, part of him relieved. If he hadn’t been accepted, at least he hadn’t been shot down. He was still in the running, and that was good enough for now. He nodded. “Sounds great,” he said.

They walked inside.

The interior of the house was less impressive than the outside. Rather than the museum’s worth of untouchable antiques he had been expecting, he saw a hodgepodge of furnishings and decorating styles, most of them contemporary, none which fit with the grandiose promise of the exterior.

The house was comfortable, though, the rooms warm and inviting. In a family room dominated by a large-screen TV, the day’s newspaper was scattered over a low wood and white tile coffee table. On the armrest of the couch was an opened paperback, a Danielle Steele novel. Next to the doorway were two pairs of women’s shoes.

Dion felt less intimidated than he had before. Penelope’s family might be rich, but they lived the same way as everyone else.

“Kitchen’s through here!”

He followed Penelope into the kitchen, where a middle aged woman wearing faded jeans and a plain white blouse was chopping bell peppers on a freestanding butcher block. The woman turned toward them as they entered. She exchanged a quick glance with Penelope, then beamed at Dion. “Hello,” she said.

Dion smiled, nodded. “Hello.”

“Dion, this is my mother. Mother, this is my friend Dion.”

Penelope’s mother looked nothing like her. She was small-boned and dark, whereas her daughter was tall and blond. Her features were plain and nondescript in contrast to Penelope’s stunning good looks. She was also older and more careworn than he would have expected. The one thing mother and daughter did seem to have in common was an innate shyness, a natural reserve, although Penelope’s mother appeared to be more deferential, less strong-willed.

“Would you two like something to drink?”

“Yes,” Penelope said. “Juice?”

“We have grape. Fresh squeezed today.”

“That’ll be fine.”

Mother Felice opened the white refrigerator door and drew out a large glass pitcher filled to the brim with grape juice. She maneuvered carefully over to the counter, holding the pitcher with two hands in order to keep from spilling any on the floor. “Where are you from?” she asked as she put the pitcher down and took two glasses from the cupboard. “I know you’re not from around here.”

“Arizona,” Dion said.

“Really? Whereabouts?”

“Mesa. It’s near Phoenix.”

“I know where Mesa is. I used to have a friend from Scottsdale, a girl I went to high school with.”

Penelope smiled as her mother handed her a glass of juice. Mother Felice had always been able to put people at ease, to make them feel comfortable. Of all of her mothers, she was the kindest, the most solicitous of the feelings of others, and it was she who was always chosen to soothe the waters after Mother Margeaux had bulldozed her way over someone. Penelope was glad to see that Dion seemed to like her mother, and that her mother seemed to like Dion.

The door banged open and Mother Janine stepped loudly into the kitchen, bumping against the frame as she pulled work gloves off her hands.

“Who’s—” she began. She stopped in mid-sentence, saw Dion, and smiled.

“Hello,” she said.

“This is Dion,” Mother Felice explained. “A friend of Penelope’s.”

“Dion?” Mother Janine’s smile broadened. She reached out, took his hand, shook it gently. “I am very happy to meet you. Very happy. I’m… Penelope’s aunt, Janine.”

“How do you do?” he replied.

Penelope saw her mothers exchanging surreptitious glances, smiling in approval. She reddened, but she did not look away. She was embarrassed but also proud. She had never before invited a boy to see where she lived, and she felt good that the first one she had chosen was Dion, someone of whom her mothers would obviously approve, a boy who was nice, intelligent, good-looking, and respectful.

“Would