by Jules Carey
Row upon row of grape vines were flaming behind their house in the valley. It was twilight on a dry, summer night, no rain for weeks. She swore this was the last time she’d pretend everything was fine when he returned from the other woman’s bed. His empty promises rang in her head as she poured the remaining lighter fluid and dropped the match. When he pulled in the drive, he’d find his fortune burning in the California night. She and the boy would be long gone by then.
Jules Carey, who blogs here, has never been to Napa Valley.