“I’m the bloody lab rat,” Max gave a disgruntled groan as he looked around his Canadian house. Yes, he was a lab rat, scurrying through, trying to decipher a whole new maze and being watched over by a bigger being that controlled everything. The Portal. 

After having the dreaded chat with Biebe, he did his best to appear cool, like he understood it all. Bollocks, his original explanation made more bloody sense. The original explanation? That he’d cracked his head shagging a gorgeous redhead and was deep into a rather bizarre dream. Now that he could accept. But this?

The practical thinker in him went right to work. He immediately left Vermont, leaving Titus Pullo, (Legionnaire from the Thirteenth, brought to life after some badly portrayed and misrepresented history entertainment programming on HBO) to believe that he was returning to purchase land and partner with the vintner for a large vineyard and winery. It wasn’t that Max didn’t want to return, but lab rats can’t always be sure to find their bloody way back, now can they?

He looked around the house; modern, clean lines, great furniture. He’d done everything different from Uncle Henry’s French chateau which he’d come to love. No point getting too attached, was there? He was going to wake soon, back where he belonged. Fingering the collection of bottles in his wine rack it finally hit him like a speeding truck … he wasn’t ever going back, this is where he belonged … and he didn’t like it all that much. There were things about his new environment he specifically chose because he didn’t care for them; the ugly carpeting, the massive, hard bed … hell, even Paulette, his girlfriend. She sure as hell wasn’t what he really liked. She was too tall, too loud, too much the professional legal consultant and she never, ever seemed to reach climax. He’d even cheated on her probably a hundred times, but Paulette was a lot like this strange dream, she just wouldn’t go away.

When he originally woke, he had a lot of money in his pocket but no ID. The four-star Quebec hotel had no real issues with that; actually treated him like quirky royalty and accepted the cash for his room. Then an envelope arrived from a man named Dino O’Leary. Inside; a welcome note and a bank book showing a hefty balance. What the bloody hell? He accepted it all and rolled with it, locating a vineyard to buy and setting up housekeeping with the funds. Why worry if it was legal? He didn’t question the intensity of a dream prison sentence until he discovered the intensity of dream sex. It tasted real, it felt real, and if he was actually in a coma back in France, he should give the orderlies a big tip for changing the sheets so often because the ejaculations were as real as they get.

He dropped onto the cold leather sofa. “So … this is real, all of it.”

The vineyard had done extraordinarily well and he already knew of a few prospective buyers. Since Biebe explained that the money he’d purchased it with was really for him and not a mistake, he felt no concern about making a killing. If he did it right, he could get out of Canada before Paulette even knew he was planning to leave. She didn’t even know he was back. How fast can this lab rat move? he wondered. Within an hour he’d made the calls and after the sale, he might hopefully never again have to deal with French Canadian life.

Did he hate that? No. In fact, being around French speaking people was probably the only thing that held him sane in the beginning. Knowing he had no choice but to live out this new life, that there was nothing to go back to, no Fanny, no Uncle Henry’s vineyard, no cousin Christy … he suddenly, fully understood that he had to go somewhere else … anywhere else. Strange how a few weeks in Vermont with the disjointed and strangely functional/dysfunctional family that claimed him as their own had made him feel connected for the first time in a long time.

Vermont had its drawbacks, some would be huge adjustments, others irritating inconveniences. The new vineyard would be starting from scratch, but with Pullo’s innate expertise and Max’s vine cuttings smuggled from Quebec, he knew it would eventually be a rousing success. Max had the touch and Pullo had the talent. It would be wonderful!

Stowe was a small town, but he could come to like that. Valerie, Pullo’s adopted daughter, however was a challenge to say the least. A proper Brit child would know when to be seen and not heard. Valerie was always heard, and she had quite a few powerful opinions. Secretly, he enjoyed the lively banters with the girl, but in the scheme of things, she needed to back off and let him push Pullo into the twenty-first century. At times Max wondered who was the parent and who was the child, but the adoration in Pullo’s eyes was unmistakable. He recalled the depth of character he’d developed at the hands of his playful uncle and truly couldn’t criticize Pullo and Valerie’s relationship; he just regretted the fact that he be in such close proximity. A rousing example? Max Skinner wasn’t likely to accept a twelve-year-old’s opinion regarding the women he chose to date … and Valerie Pullo had already been up front and loud about her opinions.

“She’s too mean … she’s not smart enough … she’s got a weird nose … she acts too uppity … her clothes are too tight … her hands are too big.” Every time Valerie noticed Max looking, she had some comment. But deep in his belly, he suspected the kid was trying to protect him from the wrong kind of woman. It was endearing. Too bad she didn’t know that there is no wrong kind of woman. A woman with a weird nose and tight skirt served just as well as one whose uppity attitude is squelched during orgasm. Cute kid, Valerie. But perhaps Max should consider building his house as far from the Pullo residence as the property lines permitted.

The house and vineyard were on the market and sold within days. And as he packed a single suitcase in his car and took a long last look at the ultra contemporary monstrosity he’d called home for two years, he realized that he would in fact be building a house in Vermont. One very, very different. One he could love.

“Life has its curiosities, and apparently I’m one of them. Best surround myself with others just like me. Keep them at arms length, of course, but close by all the same.”

The drive was longer than he liked, but he wanted to take the Jaguar with him. He’d replace his Escalade with another closer to winter; the one he had brought a good price and he was counting on the resurgence of the American dollar. The vine cuttings were carefully wrapped and hidden deep in various cubbies of the car but there was no need, the nice blokes at the American/Canadian border never asked or even moved to do a search. Max Skinner had a trusting face, stupid sods.

Finally zipping off Route 91 and taking the quiet country roads, he played a foolish game. He’d casually plotted a route but written nothing down. If this lab rat found Mount Mansfield and Stowe, Vermont without a hitch, simply by instinct alone, no GPS or Mapquest printouts … then he was meant to be there. Three short hours later he marveled, parked the car and shook his head.