Rosemary beamed at him. She jiggled the backpack a little on purpose. It felt like different items, all jammed together, the taller ones keeping the bag from slouching into itself like an old man.

“Don’t agitate it. It does neither of us any good if something breaks and causes a big mess inside. And please don’t fiddle with the locks. Remember Pandora?”

He removed the backpack from her shoulder and returned it to the trunk. Had she already failed him? She wanted to hold it to her chest like a newborn and prove to him that she was worthy.

“I’ve been keeping this in my cellar for some time. It likes being in a cool, dark place. Think you can handle that? Put it under your bed or in the basement. It’s just too risky leaving it around my house with my wife poking into everything.” He shook his head. “I guess some people will just never understand.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” She put her hand on his.

He gazed into her eyes. “Guard it with your life. I want to enjoy it with you. We’ll celebrate.”

They got back into the car. He turned it around slowly and they drove down the hill, not braking, it seemed, all the way down, like a freefall. He turned to look at her instead of watching the road. Four, five blocks he held his eyes on her. The butterflies went berserk in her belly, and she couldn’t tell if it was from the plunge or the placid expression on his face. He began braking when they approached a red light about three miles down, well past the rival churches facing off with their moveable type billboards, payback time vs. jesus wanted us to lose our sins, not our minds.

Back in her room, Rosemary pushed the red backpack into the deep, dark underneath of her bed. As the mysterious items clinked together, she became convinced that they had to be wine bottles. Based on Mr. Z’s early comments to her and Arik on terroir, based on the glass-bottle, liquid-glug sounds, based on his saying that the bag had to be placed in a “cool, dark place,” and that he wanted to “enjoy it with her later.” She tried to imagine what kind of play it could be that had wine-drinking as the central action. A bacchanal or a communion? With Arik out of the picture, perhaps Mr. Z would play the male lead himself. The only thing now was to hope she wouldn’t have to leave before the curtain rose.