A.    E. Ansorge                                                                           

THE BOTTLE OF PORT

                                     The call at 4 o’clock Sunday afternoon for some people would be an insult but as far as Eric was concerned a free meal with a different wine to accompany each course was nothing to sneeze at. The fact it was a formal dinner the next evening was a bit of an inconvenience, but such last-minute request to fill in weren’t unusual on his partner’s part. 

                                    The additional promise of a limo ride to the festivities convinced him to accept his business partner’s invitation without bothering to withhold a reply until his wife returned from the grocery. He knew Anita would understand after, all he had to work with Bill everyday.

                                    The four inches of snow that fell during the day of the dinner allowed the limo to slide sideways into the drive at exactly 5 o’clock. Eric and Anita crowded in with the three other couples already tucked warmly inside. The storm had left the streets practically devoid of all but the true traveling diehards many of whom had paid a great deal of money to attend the same charity function the limo was speeding to.

                                    The other passengers introduced themselves to Eric and Anita as they maintained firm grips on various parts of the cars interior while it careened through the city streets. More than one sigh signaled the passengers’  relief when the large car pulled to a sliding stop at the entrance of the community center and they were able to hustle to the safety of the main ball room.

                                    The hall was set with large round tables in the traditional white and red of Valentine’s Day of two nights to come.   Everyone was greeted by tuxedoed waiters with hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

                                    Chefs had gathered from the better restaurants in town to furnish the materials and time to create a seven-course feast that would probably never be equaled in the city again.  Hand-lettered menus and wine lists occupied each place setting, to be kept by the guest as a souvenir of this evening. It was obvious to all that those who decided not to brave the afternoon’s storm were indeed missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

                                    The master of ceremonies for the evening was doing his best to prime the crowd for the charity auction that was to follow dinner tempting the partygoers with peeks at gift certificates for restaurants and various selections of wine donated by vendors to the same establishments. The high point of the auction turned out to be several dinners prepared by various chefs, for the highest bidder’s guests, in his or her own home.

                                    As the evening wore down, one of the hosts, a local radio personality noticed there were a number of bottles of wine were left over because people had failed to travel out in the questionable weather to fill their well-paid-for chairs. He restarted the auction to sell the bottles to the highest bidders. Bidding started slowly many of the guests feeling they had spent enough money for admission and the items they had already bought.

                                    Anita sent an elbow into Eric’s ribs and whispered, “Start this thing.”

                                    Eric and Anita were the last couple dropped off by the limo after a slower but no less terrifying ride home. Anita cradled a 25-year-old bottle of port in her arms. Its only bidder Eric, had paid more for it than their first house payment.

                                    Eric had offered to share it with those at their table. Everyone insisted they were too full, it was too late, and they had to get up early. The bottle found a place in the small wine rack on Anita’s kitchen counter. Nether she or Eric considered opening it, it was so expensive. Without saying so, they had agreed it would be opened for some special occasion in the future.

                                    The new house had room for a wine cellar in the basement, and the bottle rested there as time passed.

                                    Holidays came and went; children were born, graduated, and graduated again. Weddings followed and one dissolved, but none of these days seemed to rise high enough to warrant taking the bottle from its resting place.

                                    Both children, Laurel and Tony, found lives of their own and moved accordingly. Affluence crept into the lives of their parents who burned a mortgage, and purchased a warm winter home to retreat to in eventual retirement.

                                    There were celebrations of life’s events and survival of scrapes with mortality but none of these things seemed like the right occasion to open the bottle…….

****

                                    Laurel sat at the dinning room table, wading through endless papers written in legalese as Tony cradled glassware in yards of bubble wrap. The antiques had already been removed to an auction house. The Florida home was sold in total.

                                    After taking one last stroll through the basement, Tony returned to the dinning room. Laurel was putting the mound of paper work back into the fireproof box.

                                    “Do you like port, Laurel?”

                                    “No, too sweet for me.”

                                    “Me too. I don’t want this rolling around in the car and breaking on the drive home.”

                                    “Just dump it out; the cleaners will junk the empty. Hit the lights on your way out, will you?”