TWENTY-SEVEN

The Dovecote

Allegra’s favorite time of the day was just before sunset.

That summer in Napa, almost a year since she’d left New York, the days were so long that it would be nine o’clock by the time darkness descended on the valley. The heat of the day would dissipate in the late afternoon, and a rustling breeze would blow through the trees. The rolling hills were covered in a warm russet glow, in an ephemeral, timeless beauty. The vineyard’s tasting rooms and cellars would be joyously empty.

The tourists and wine lovers had gone, along with the field hands and vintners who’d become their friends and col-leagues, and it was just the two of them. Ben would shuffle in from his studio, and Allegra would open a bottle of their newest Chardonnay, and they would eat their dinner under the trees, watching the hummingbirds flit from flower to flower.

Life could not be sweeter.

“Aren’t we lucky your family bought this place,” Allegra said, dipping a piece of crusty French bread into their homemade olive oil. “It’s like a dream.”

They had moved to the vineyard ostensibly to help prepare for the fall harvest, when the grapes would be plump and bursting with juice. Ben’s father had bought the whole spread on a whim one afternoon a few years ago, when he’d stopped by for a drink at his favorite enoteca only to discover that his usual glass of Syrah was no longer available, as the vineyard was closing due to bankruptcy. It was something his parents did often, Ben explained—they bought things that they enjoyed in order to keep them in existence. Their hobbies and interests had led them to assume ownership of a Greek diner in New York that still served egg creams, and a whole French cosmetics line. They were preservationists and traditionalists.

One of the great benefits of being so privileged was their ability to keep the beautiful things in the world they loved from going extinct and disappearing forever.

The question of where Allegra and Ben would live was answered when Allegra happened to mention that she had some knowledge of winemaking. Right then it was decided that they would not settle in the Bay Area, but instead would move up north to help run the winery.

Allegra had left her life that afternoon when she had taken a walk in Riverside Park, and had never returned. She had not left a note of explanation, and had cut off the telepathic communication she shared with Charles, even going so far as to cloak her glom signature. She had taken the extreme pre-caution to make sure he would never find her. She was certain that Charles could send an army of investigators and Venators after her and never even come close to finding her true location. He would never forgive her for this—for walking out on him on their bonding day—and she did not want to think of the pain she was causing. All she knew was that something inside her could no longer stomach the life she had been living; and even though every fiber in her blood and her immortal being told her she was making a huge mistake, her heart was steadfast in its resolution.

It had been madness, really, to walk out of her life with nothing. She was still in her bonding dress when she jumped into a taxicab with Ben. She brought nothing with her: not a toothbrush or a change of clothes, not even enough money for a bus ticket.

No matter. money was no object, as Ben had arranged it all. They had left the city that evening, and she was whisked away on his jet—the family plane—directly to Napa. Now they were both hiding in the dovecote, Allegra thought. Two lovebirds.

During the day, Ben painted in a small cottage on the property. The room had good light, and from the picture windows he could see vines growing on the hillside. Allegra ran the shop: she had an instinctive feeling for the vintner’s trade, and enjoyed every part of it—from pruning and nurturing the vines to designing the labels; from testing the barrels to see how they were fermenting to selling the vintages in the little tasting room. She had gotten a dark tan from working in the fields, and she was known in the small farm community for her cheese and bread. She had invited children from the neighborhood for the annual crush at the end of the season, as theirs was one of the last vineyards to keep to the tradition of stomping the grapes after harvest. Their vintner, a world-renowned winemaker, had named their latest Chardonnay after her. golden girl, it read on the label.

The sun finally set that evening, and they brought in their plates and empty bottles. After cleaning up, Ben said he wanted to work a little more, and Allegra joined him in his studio.

She curled up on the rickety couch covered in canvas and watched him paint. He was working on a more abstract series these days, and she knew it was good. He was going to be famous, and not only because of his family, but because of his talent. Ben turned around and cleaned his brushes into the turpentine.

“How do you feel about another portrait?” he said.

“Do you think it’s wise?” she teased, flirting a little.

“Might bring back old memories.”

“Precisely.” He grinned.

He was so beautiful, she thought, towheaded and tan, with his generous laugh. She loved the way he made her feel: light-headed, joyful. The way they were together: easy, laughing. She felt human with him. She did not think of the future or what was in store for them. She had walked away from all of that. Here, in the heart of the sleepy Napa valley, she was not Gabrielle the Uncorrupted, no vampire queen, but merely Allegra Van Alen, a former New York girl who had moved to the country to make wine.

She moved to the sheet on the platform and slowly peeled off her clothing. The overalls she unhooked and let fall to the ground, the old T-shirt that she wore on the days she worked in the fields and not in the store. She twisted her torso and asked, “Is this good?”

Ben nodded slowly.

Allegra held her pose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could feel him watching her, memorizing every line, every curve of her body for his work.

There was no sound for the remainder of the hour but that of the quiet taps and soft strokes of a paintbrush on canvas.

“Good,” he said, meaning she could release the pose.

She wrapped herself in a robe and walked over to look at his painting. “Best one yet.”

Ben put away his brushes and pulled her onto his lap.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” she said, sinking into his arms. She traced the veins on his neck. Then sank her fangs deep into his skin and began to drink deeply.

Ben leaned back, and soon the robe fell away and they were together.

It was the happiest she had ever felt.

Allegra could almost convince herself that they would be able to live here together for the rest of their lives.