The Wine Train – Part 1: Twenty Years

"To twenty years," said David.

"To twenty years," said Michelle, and clinked her glass against his.

The wine train rolled slowly through Napa Valley in the late afternoon light, with the vineyards sliding past outside the window, rows of golden vines under soft hills. White tablecloths. A string trio playing at the end of the carriage. A waiter in a black waistcoat poured sparkling wine with a flourish. Michelle, forty-three, a paediatrician, felt her shoulders drop an inch for the first time in a month.

David, forty-six, an engineer, was looking at her in a way she had almost forgotten. "You look beautiful," he said.

"I look tired."

"You look beautiful and tired."

"That's the nicest thing you've said all year."

"It's only April."

She laughed, and leaned back in the plush seat. They had married at twenty-three on a hot June day in a friend's garden, with borrowed chairs and a cake that collapsed in the heat. They had two teenagers, a mortgage, a third of a dog and a calendar so full that dinner for two had become a faintly glamorous rumour.

"What do you remember about our wedding?" asked David.

"That you cried."

"I was moved."

"You wept into the cake."

He laughed. "That was why it collapsed."

They ate slowly. The courses came and went: a salad of tiny greens, seared salmon, a tart with raspberries. The sun slid down behind the hills and the vines turned bronze. Between the dessert and the coffee, David reached across the little table and took her hand.

"Michelle. I'd like to say something. I'd like to do this again. All of it. For the next twenty."

"I'd like that very much."

"And I'd like to kiss my wife. In front of the whole carriage."

"Go on," she said, smiling.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cottage in the Vines.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cottage in the Vines.