“She’s like a person.”
“Yep, she’s my girl.”
I smiled at him and then he pinched my thigh.
“Hey!”
“Hey, yourself. We made it. I’ll drop you here.” He pointed out the window to a building. “There’s R.J.’s office. Don’t be too nervous, the guy’s a douche to everyone.”
I laughed. “Thanks.” He helped me out of the truck and pulled my suitcase from the back. When I reached for it, he held on to the handle. My hand landed over his, but instead of pulling it away, for some reason I held it there. I ran my fingers over his callused knuckles and then I looked up at him. He was looking right at me, squinting slightly, like he was trying to read my expression. He moved closer and then leaned in farther, wearing a small, sincere smile. When he closed the gap between us, I could feel the heat radiating from both our bodies as he bent down toward my face. I thought he has going to kiss me—and then he did, just like that, though it was just a small peck on the cheek. His fingertips rested on my other cheek. His lips lingered there for a few seconds and then I heard him inhale deeply. He pulled away a few inches and then smiled. His eyes looked roused with curiosity and something else. Desire, maybe. “I told you, don’t be nervous. It’ll be okay.” His voice was smooth.
I was completely frozen. I couldn’t have pulled away if I wanted to. My hands were tingling. I was trembling while we stood there, staring at each other for several moments. I cleared my throat and then, just above a whisper, said, “I’m so sorry for hitting you.”
He shook his head back and forth slowly, never taking his eyes off mine. “Don’t worry about it. How long are you gonna be here for?”
“Oh.” My heart started thumping like it was going to give out. Is he going to ask me out? Holy crap. “Um . . . I’ll be here until Friday at least, but . . . I have a boyfriend.”
“I was going to offer to show you around the winery in case R.J. doesn’t have the time.”
“Oh.” Yet another embarrassing moment to add to my apocalyptic day. “Well, then yes, that would be great.”
He smiled all the way to his eyes, “Okay, Katy the Reporter with a Boyfriend. I’ll see you around.” He turned to walk toward his truck.
“It’s Kate, and I’m a journalist.”
When he pulled away, he leaned out the window and waved. “Good luck, beautiful girl. You’ll do great.” My knees buckled. I braced myself against the railing outside of the building. My nerves were in overdrive, but not because of my interview with Lawson. I was feeling something I’d never felt before. And I was feeling it for a guy I had just met.
Page 4
* * *
Hyperbole
I took a moment to collect myself and take in my surroundings. All of the winery buildings were clustered at the top of the long treelined driveway. Each section looked as though it had been recently renovated. The Craftsman architecture gave the buildings a rustic, lodgelike feel. On the left, there was the bed-and-breakfast, a large three-story house with intricate stained-glass windows and a heavy oak door displaying a complex design of intertwining wooden vines. The sign outside read Together We Bring the Warmth. Even in the afternoon, with the sun blazing low in the sky, I could see an orange glow from the outdoor wall sconces and the mica path lights, which exuded a cozy friendliness. Situated to the right of the bed-and-breakfast was a smaller structure, similar in design, with a sign indicating that it housed the tasting room and restaurant. In the distance, behind the restaurant, I could see what looked like a large warehouse, which I assumed was where the wine was made, and next to it was a red barn that could have been taken right off of a Wyoming cattle ranch.
I stood in front of four small bungalows, one of which I assumed was R.J.’s office, the others more offices or staff buildings. From my vantage point I could tell there was much more to the property that I couldn’t see. Surrounding the cluster of buildings, in every direction, were grapevines. They formed an endless ocean of identical rows, fading over the horizon. I couldn’t see where the vines stopped; they repeated endlessly. The structures around me stood out against their uniformity, like little islands.
My phone buzzed once. I tapped the iMessage button and read:
Stephen: I have a late work meeting. I’ll call you in the morning, sweetie.
I didn’t respond. He hadn’t asked how my trip went, what Napa was like, or if I was even alive at all. It was just more of Stephen’s rhetoric, the obligatory text, the obligatory “sweetie.” They were just words—there were never any feelings or experiences to match those words. There was nothing to justify what we were doing. I closed my messages and realized it was ten after five. I was late. Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jerked and turned quickly.
“Sorry I startled you. I’m Susan, the general manager here. You must be Kate?”
She looked to be in her fifties. She was on the plump side with a perfectly manicured and completely gray bob. She had on a black suit and white shirt and a pair of narrow, black-framed glasses.
“Yes, I’m here for the interview with R.J. Sorry I’m late, I had some car trouble. Jamie had to give me a ride up the hill.”
She straightened and squared her shoulders. “Did he now?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, I had sent Jamie on an errand but I guess it’s not unlike him to get sidetracked.” She looked me up and down very slowly. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I actually hit Jamie’s truck with my car.” She suddenly looked very concerned. “He’s okay and he’s running your errand. I just don’t want him to get in trouble if he gets back late.”
Her expression turned warm and then she chuckled. “Jamie’s not in any trouble, sweetheart.” She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward the door. We left my suitcase lying on the porch. Susan leaned in and said quietly, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the big boss.”
We walked through one small room with a desk and then headed toward an open doorway. I looked in to find R.J. leaning back in his chair, already sizing me up.
“R.J., this is Kate Corbin. Kate, this is R.J.”
Susan immediately left the room. I approached him with my hand out but he didn’t get up. He leaned forward over his desk, shook my hand, and sat back very quickly, making me instantly uncomfortable.
Regardless, I chose to speak confidently. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I expected a blonde,” he said with a smirk.
His comment stunned me. I was motionless. “Oh yeah, why is that?”
“I’ve just always associated the name Kate with blondes.”
I supposed there was a very general resemblance between R.J. and the twelve-year-old boy I saw in the photograph the night before: white male with brownish hair and lighter eyes. Adult R.J. had no standout features at all. His braces were gone but so was his smile, which probably answered the mystery of why he was such a recluse—he clearly had poor social skills. He wore a really boring blue suit with a pin-striped shirt and tie. His big, nerdy-chic glasses and poor style choices made sense for a computer wiz who probably spent more time alone with gadgets than with other living, breathing people.
“I guess you’ve never heard of Kate Middleton or Katie Holmes?”
“Oh, you’re quick.”
“You’re inappropriate.”
He stood up immediately, clapped his hands once, and announced, “Well I guess that wraps things up, Kate.”
“No, I’m sorry.” I plopped down in the chair across from him. I was blowing it and knew I had to recover. “I apologize. You just threw me off. I didn’t expect any comments about my hair color.”
He sat down but still scrutinized me with his eyes. “Let’s get on with it, then. You were late. I only have an hour and I still have to take you
to the tasting room.”
I fumbled with my things and pulled out a recorder. He stood up immediately.
“No. No recording devices and no pictures. Just notes. I was told Jerry was aware of this.”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to misquote you.”
“Then don’t screw up your notes.”
Geez, this guy goes from inappropriate ass to stick-up-his-ass in two seconds.
Susan walked in and announced, “The tasting room is ready for you whenever you want to head over there.”
“I haven’t answered a single question yet.” He wore a smug grin. She shook her head and walked out. I couldn’t tell for sure if her gesture was directed toward me or R.J., but my guess would be the latter.
“Let’s get started, shall we?”
He leaned forward, resting his face on his propped-up hands. “Shoot, Kate. We don’t have all night unless you want to take this interview back to my room.”
“No, thank you.” What was this guy’s problem? “So, I heard you spent some time in Africa building schools. Can you tell me a little bit about that?”
“I was told you were only going to ask questions about the winery, but if you must know, it’s true. I have an organization that builds schools in Africa.”
I glanced at his smooth, delicate hands with his perfectly manicured fingernails.
“So you weren’t actually building the schools yourself, with your own hands?”
“Let’s get to the winery questions, Kate.” He smiled and arched his eyebrows.
“Right. Tell me about the winery. I’d like to know how you turned this place around and learn about your methods of production.”
“Well, I put a pretty penny into this place, I’ll tell you that. I think it’s also about how you handle your employees, letting them know who’s boss, you know?” I unintentionally snickered. “Do you disagree with that?”
“No . . . I guess I’m not surprised. And your method for production?”
“I don’t know much about that. I let Guillermo handle that. I think it’s pretty standard, though. He had worked for the previous owners since the eighties.”
“So Susan is the general manager and Guillermo runs the wine production and distribution.”
“That’s right.”
“What does Jamie do?”
He cocked his head to the side, “So you met Jamie?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was running an errand. He had some barrels he had cleaned in the back of his truck.”
“Jamie does a little bit of everything around here. He works in the vineyard and also does maintenance. He sometimes works in the B and B and store when the need arises.”
Interesting. A man who knows how to use his hands.
“What sets R. J. Lawson apart as a winery resort and wine producer?”
He glanced down at a notecard and began rapping off facts. “Our winery is almost one hundred percent self-sufficient. Our number one goal is to produce quality wines and a quality experience in a completely sustainable environment. We have a three-acre hydroponic and natural garden and a small ranch to feed our restaurant. Our animals are raised hormone free in the best conditions with the best feed available. We have nine hundred and fifty solar panels installed in various places across the property, which produce one hundred percent of the power we use, solely from the sun’s clean energy. All of our vehicles are clean-energy-running or fuel-efficient—even the tractors and machines we use in the vineyard and ranch. We only use homemade, organic pesticides in the vineyard and gardens. The tradition of winemaking on this property has been handed down for years—we’ve just updated it. We added quality control measures and modern, environmentally sound methods to an old procedure. We take a really hands-on approach, and I believe that’s the beauty of this craft.” He finally glanced up at me with a faint look of trepidation. It was becoming apparent to me that this guy probably sat behind his comfy desk while he waved his giant wallet around and ran his equally giant mouth off at his staff. Why any staff would be loyal to a huge asshole like R. J. Lawson baffled me.
“That’s amazing. I’m really impressed, but are you saying that you actually take a really hands-on approach?” I focused on his unmarked hands again. He stood up, leaned over his desk, and glared at me. “What’s your play?”
“I don’t have a play, I’m just trying to figure out who the elusive R. J. Lawson really is.”
“Let’s head to the tasting room, unless of course you want to skip that part, go straight to my room, and perhaps get a little more personal information on R. J. Lawson?”
“You’ve made three passes at me in the last twenty minutes. You do realize I’m writing an article about you that will be published worldwide?”
“I haven’t made any passes at you. Don’t flatter yourself—you’re too uptight for me. Anyway, why don’t you just stick to writing articles on lipstick and yoga? Isn’t that what you female journalists are good at?”
“What’s going to stop me from writing about what a misogynistic dickhead you are?”
“What’s going to stop me from not approving your shit-ass article before publication?”
I looked at him and cocked my head to the side, completely bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I guess you didn’t know about that clause in the agreement I made with Jerry?”
“No, I didn’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
He smirked with pure satisfaction. “Jerry agreed to my approval over the full article before publication. If it isn’t to my liking, he’ll toss it out. So, nosey little Kate, you still think I’m a dickhead?”
My heart was racing. I stood abruptly and leaned toward him, mere inches from his face. I balled my hands into fists and tried to contain the anger building in my chest. I took a deep breath, composed myself, and shot back, “The Verizon guy called. He wants his glasses back.”
R.J. huffed and shook his head. “Time to go. I’ll walk you over there, but I can’t say I’ll stay long. Somehow sharing wine with you lost its appeal the second I met you, and p.s., you have a mouse nose.”
Prick.
What had come over me? I couldn’t believe I was blowing the single most important assignment I had ever been given by trading juvenile insults with this asshole. His behavior was reprehensible, but so was mine, and I wondered how I would ever write an article that would do the winery, the paper, or myself any justice at all.
We headed toward the door, and to my surprise he actually held the door open for me. Susan stood from her desk in the first room and joined us as we headed out. Once outside, I looked down and saw that my suitcase was gone. In its place sat Chelsea. She was like a statue, looking out at the sun, which was slowly disappearing behind the horizon.
“Hi, Chelsea. What did you do with my suitcase?” She sat there stoically, a truly regal expression on her face. Then she turned, looked at me, then looked back, almost completely dismissing my presence.
Susan laughed. “Jamie took your bag up to the room. I can escort you over there when you’re through in the tasting room.” She smiled warmly at me and then put her arm around my shoulder. “Chelsea is going to be about as easy to win over as R.J. Don’t sweat the interview. Just write the article about the winery and forget about him.”
“Were you listening?”
“A little.” She laughed and then I started laughing. R.J. was walking far enough in front of us that he couldn’t hear our conversation.
“Is he always like that?”
She stopped and placed both hands on my shoulders, turning me toward her. She was about three inches shorter than me, a small woman but with a powerful presence. Her mouth was framed with thick frown lines. She had a naturally serious face, so when she smiled it almost looked condescending. “This winery is
a really beautiful place and a fantastic operation. The people who work here have put their blood, sweat, and tears into making it what it is today.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Forget about R.J. The first thing you’ll get to experience is our phenomenal wine, and we’ve picked only the best for you to sample.”
“Thank you.” I still couldn’t understand the aloofness Susan showed toward R.J. and the frank disdain from Jamie. I smiled at her anyway and headed through the two large mahogany doors. The tasting room took my breath away. It was a large room with a high, beamed ceiling, Mission-style couches, and Arts and Crafts furniture everywhere. It felt like a cozy lodge, even though the ceiling was at least sixty feet high.
On one end of the room was a large, wooden, intricately carved mantel framing a grandiose fireplace, with river rock extending above it all the way to the ceiling. It would have been an intimidating room but there was some heavenly Miles Davis pumping through the speakers, and the warmth from the fireplace was so welcoming. There were a few patrons lounging in the chairs and couches situated near the fireplace, but most of the visitors were crowded around the large square bar in the center of the room where the tastings were happening. I walked toward the bar but stopped at a wooden hutch where some of the bottles were displayed, as well as some tapenades, jams, olive oils, and other artisanal goodies. Susan watched me patiently as I took it all in. R.J. just headed straight to the bar.
I looked up and stared at the ceiling for a few moments, at the art on the walls, at the old, early-century charm that was surely the prevailing theme. Large black-and-white photos of the winery’s vineyards hung on the walls, clearly taken decades ago. The room was a tribute. It was as if I had traveled back in time to a better place, one where you could escape the modern hustle and bustle, have a glass of wine, listen to a jazz legend, and just be. I followed Susan to the bar, and as soon as I recognized the Miles Davis song, Jamie turned from the other side and came walking toward us. It was the song “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Jamie never took his eyes off me.