“What a great idea, to do something physical,” Tabitha lied. “It’s a real opportunity to get to know people outside of the typical wine environment. I mean, it’s so old-fashioned to taste wine together, right? Why would you even want me to do that, for a wine job?”
Cori sipped her drink, watching Tabitha. She had a quiet manner about her that made Tabitha profoundly nervous, but she forced her body to remain still and match the steady gaze.
“Do you have faith in the business practices of El Zopilote winery?” Cori asked.
“I’m very proud of the work we do there, of what we produce.” Tabitha paused before continuing. “Do you have questions about our business practices?”
Cori opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it again, seeming to reconsider. “A few times I’ve tasted bottles and wondered about the labels. That estate Meritage last year, for example.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Tabitha nodded so hard that she could feel her ponytail whipping against the back of her neck. “That was a special one. A passion project for my husb—for Royal.” She stopped and dropped her fake smile. “I would have labeled it differently, if you want to know the truth. But sometimes you play the game.” She hoped the answer didn’t sound too feeble.
“What game is that?”
“We are both owners, but Royal is the Head Winemaker. I’m Operations Manager. Ultimately, he has the final say on the presentation of our products. I don’t always like it, but I respect his choices and will work my ass off for the company. As I will for your company. Old Wines New Planet.”
“Old World New School. We call it OWNS for short. As in, everyone takes ownership of what we do there. Not just a team, but a family.”
“Right. I love it.”
Cori paused. “But you don’t plan to leave El Zop?”
“What I’m doing now is looking to work elsewhere in the wine industry. Expanding my horizons. I’m trained as a sommelier, and I’m good at it. Really good at it. I’ve spent the last few years only selling El Zopilote wines, but I can do so much more. I’d like to do that for you.”
“We don’t sell wine. We sell experiences. OWNS is the opposite of a winery. We source wines from all over the world and bring them here to the States. We sell to restaurants, to individual collectors, to small boutique stores. One branch of our business takes wine to small tasting parties within people’s homes, teaching them in small, personal sessions how to experience what they are tasting. We bring the people what they want, instead of trying to sell them what we have.”
“That’s exactly what I miss. I used to love being in a restaurant, talking to someone who maybe didn’t know much about wine, and have them taste a few things. There is nothing that is as fun to me as introducing people to an experience they are going to love forever.”
“I’m not sure I’ve made the job requirements clear. I’ll need you to travel. Locally and internationally. I need a scout to try new things, bring us new product.”
“I understand. I have a lot of flexibility at the winery. I’ve turned over the daily on-site business to my twin sister Gabrielle, who is our Tasting Room Manager. I do the books at home.” Her new home, Tabitha didn’t mention. In her sister’s spare bedroom. She’d give Cori authenticity, but didn’t need to give her the sad details.
“What are your life plans? Where do you want to be in five and ten years?”
There was a time when Tabitha loved this question. A time when she could answer it easily because the future had a mapped-out, decided quality to it that never needed to be questioned. Education, travel, career, more travel, accolades, eventually a family. She could have predicted it almost to the day.
Very little of it came true, of course.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered, without explanation.
Cori watched her, tapping her now-empty cup against the table. Tabitha had forgotten about the shot in front of her, so raised it to her lips.
“Holy firebomb, what is this?”
A smirk touched the corner of Cori’s lips. “Ginger, lemon juice, and cayenne pepper. It’s cleansing.”
“That is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Why does everyone in California drink stupid shit like this?” Tabitha stood up. “I’m getting something with chocolate. Do you want anything?”
“No thank you.” Cori’s gaze, and her attention, drifted around the room.
Tabitha sat down again. “Listen. You want authenticity. Here it is. Royal and I are divorced and I want to get as far away from him as possible. But we own a business together, and I don’t want to leave anyone in the lurch. It’s a business I’m proud of, but I want to do more of what I’m good at. I can talk to people about wine. You know that about me. I’ve been selling wine Royal’s way for a long time. He made me part owner when we got married, but he was always the boss. That’s fine. I think it shows that I know how to work with people, even if we don’t share the same philosophy. But if you give me a chance, you’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Which is what?”
“I can teach people how to love wine.”
“Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask where you want to be in five years,” Cori said. “The universe is too unparalleled to make those predictions.”
Tabitha wasn’t sure that was the correct use of that word, but what did she know? She had already thrown around the word synergistic with no regard for its meaning, so she kept her mouth shut.
“The real reason I asked where you want to be in five years is that we are expanding our offices around the world. Instead of sending reps to the wine regions several times a year, I want people based there, so they know what’s going on. A rep living in Italy can follow the local culture, be aware of the trends and winemakers who are trying new things, as well as the ones who are sticking to the old ways and producing the best juice.”
Tabitha sucked in her breath, the air in her lungs sharp and her tongue still on fire from the spicy ginger drink. “Italy,” she murmured. “I love Italy,”
“I mean, that’s just for starters, and it’s only one region we are looking at. France, obviously, Argentina, Australia, South America. Hell, if I have my way, we’ll have reps in every country in the world someday.”
“But I want Italy,” Tabitha murmured. “I want to be your Italy rep.” She stopped, wondered if she sounded desperate.
Cori sat forward now, looking engaged for the first time.
“Why don’t you start as a consultant for us at first, while you, ah, extricate yourself from El Zop. And your husband. I can put you in charge of the local scheduling and send you on a few short overseas trips for now. You can figure out the lay of the land, get to know our company culture, see if this is the opportunity you are looking for. If it works out, and it looks like you will be able to sell your share of the winery in a year or so, we can bring you on part time for now and start talking about making you our full-time Italy rep.”
Tabitha nodded, not trusting her mouth to convey what she was thinking.
“Getting you on our team—in our family—would be a real feather in my cap, I’m not going to lie.”
“Cool. I won’t lie either. Yoga is dumb and boring; I don’t want to do that again. I’ll work my ass off for you otherwise.”
Cori grinned. “Welcome to Old World New School.”
Tabitha reached out her hand to shake Cori’s. “Glad to be here. Let’s eat some chocolate.”
“What the hell is happening here?” Gabrielle stood in the doorway of the bathroom and stared open-mouthed at her twin, who wore only jeans and a bra and stood barefoot amid piles of blonde hair.
Tabitha squirted a blob of hot-pink gel onto her scalp and massaged it into the shorn hair left on her head with her gloved fingers. “Just going for a new look.”
“Anytime a woman does a dramatic haircut, I always think she’d be better off just seeing a therapist.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need a therapist,” Tabitha shot back. She yank
ed the gloves off her hands and dumped them into the trash can, leaving a streak of fuchsia dye down the side of the bin. She pulled a long sheet of cling wrap from the box and wrapped it around her head, smashing it down with a vengeance. “I just need new hair, and for Royal to sign the final divorce settlement so I can move into my own house.”
“What’s wrong with my house?”
“Nothing’s wrong with your house—that’s the problem. Everything here is perfect, and I’m messing it all up.” She grabbed a broom and swept the hair off the floor. There was a lot of it down there, and she wondered now if she should have let a professional chop it all off for her. “I mean, I want to be able to dye my hair without being afraid that I’m ruining your reputation as a perfect wife and a perfect mom.”
Gabrielle stood with her arms crossed and leaned against the doorjamb, staring at her sister, who had stopped sweeping and started furiously scrubbing pink dye that had splashed into the sink.
“How did the interview go?”
“It went great. I got the job.”
“Which you wanted?”
“Of course I wanted it. It’s a great company. Full of self-actualized hippies who know what they want in life.”
“Tabitha.”
The sound of Gabrielle’s voice stopped her, and Tabitha leaned on her palms and closed her eyes.
“I couldn’t answer these really basic questions. Where do I want to be in five years? What’s it like being Jillie’s daughter? I just stumbled over the answers.”
“Who cares?” Her sister laughed. “You got the job anyway, so you must have said something right.”
“I told her I hated this ginger bullshit drink and I think that was the first time she liked me. We did yoga. Yoga! For God’s sake! The whole time, I was thinking Mom would have a fit if she heard me.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t.”
“I sounded like an idiot. The old me could have answered her questions. I used to know what I wanted, G.”
“Wrong.” Gabrielle grabbed a towel and used it to wipe dripping pink liquid from her sister’s neck. “You knew what Mom wanted. Now it’s time to figure out what you want.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You got the good shiny hair, and I got boring hair. You got a good marriage, and I picked a douchebag. You got a mom who never comments on your life choices, but I got a mom who does nothing but criticize me.”
“Well, now you have pink hair, so you showed me.” When Tabitha didn’t laugh, Gabrielle continued. “Remember that time Mom told me that having a baby would ruin my career? Or the time she told me I ought to consider some filler work on my face because I look older than my years? She criticizes me as much as she criticizes you. I just don’t care.”
“Do you know how scary it is not to know what’s next?”
“Everyone does. You get used to it.”
“Not me,” Tabitha replied. She turned on the shower and pulled the plastic off her head. “I won’t get used to it. I’ll get my mojo back. Cori is sending me to Italy next month, and I’m going to be the best somm they’ve ever hired. I’m going to taste every wine in Treviso. I’ll be like a wine-tasting machine, and I’ll get to the top of the somm world without Royal Hamilton.”
“Sounds super fun,” her sister said, but Tabitha ignored her sarcastic tone. “Shall I call a therapist for you?”
Tabitha stepped out of her jeans and into the shower. “Nope. Scissors are way cheaper than a therapist. Look at me, I have pink hair, and a new job, and no husband, and all of my problems are totally solved.”
She could hear her sister laughing as she watched the pink dye run off her head, down her body, and swirl around her toes.
4
Tabitha swished the straw-colored wine in her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose. She pulled the stainless-steel bucket up to her face and spat the wine out in a quick stream. She set it down again and jotted notes in her notebook.
Hayfields. Honeysuckle. Horse chestnut.
She gulped some water and reached for the next glass in front of her, holding the glass up to the light to examine the color before sticking her nose deep into the glass and sniffing.
Thick and syrupy. Smells like duck liver.
She took a tentative sip and forced herself not to gag when she moved it around her tongue. She spat it out quickly and resumed her notes.
Tastes like duck liver. But not in a good way. In a cirrhosis way.
She signaled the owner of the enoteca, who sprang to attention and gathered the empty glasses. Tabitha saw that he’d placed a tray of charcuterie on the bar in front of her, but she couldn’t risk her palate by eating any of it. She pulled a bag of bland oyster crackers from her purse and nibbled on one, alternating with tiny sips of warm water. She looked longingly at the cheeses in front of her and hoped they wouldn’t spoil before she could eat them. She glanced around the bar, which had grown crowded in the last couple of hours that she’d been here. The Italian night air was warm, and the air thick around them, even though all of the windows were thrown open. She watched the people walking on the sidewalk outside, each more beautiful than the last. A parade of Adonises, with chiseled shoulders and crisp linen shirts, smiling at women with glossy, dark hair and lyrical, teasing laughs.
She turned back to the bar. He’d put six more glasses in front of her, moving on to the reds this time.
“This one is my favorite,” the owner began, but Tabitha put her hand up and forced a smile.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you again not to tell me any details. It works better for me if I don’t know anything about the wine in advance. I can make a much better decision if I’m not influenced.”
He stared at her for a moment and then ran his hand through his dark grey hair. He shook his head, not for the first time tonight, and she watched his jowls wobble with each shake of his head. She sighed.
“Mi forgivo,” she began, mangling rudimentary Italian with the barely-literate Spanish she remembered from high school. “Es muy important-ay.” He furrowed his brow at her, and turned to the man sitting at the bar next to her and raised his shoulders, both hands up in pinched-finger position, the classic Italian pose of confusion.
Tabitha sipped the first wine and wrote while swishing it.
Pomegranates and dragon blood.
She let herself swallow this one, then made a face and scrawled on the next line,
Finishes like a glass of warm milk.
She shoved the glass aside and reached for her water. The man sitting at the bar next to her had been staring at her notes all evening, and she finally glanced over at him, hoping some semi-aggressive eye contact would scare him off. One look at him and she choked on her water, splashing it up from the glass and all over her face. She grabbed her linen napkin off her lap and dabbed her lips.
The man had deep olive skin, thick, curly hair, and strong, dark eyebrows. His gaze was so intent that she wondered if they’d met before. Perhaps he was a movie star? He’d have to be, with a face like that.
“Bongiorno,” she said.
He nodded at the wine glass she had shoved aside, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I didn’t like that one. I know, I barely tasted it, but this is my job. It doesn’t take me more than one sip to know if it’s good or not, and that one, I’m afraid, is not. The rest have been okay.” Tabitha put her hand over her notebook, though she couldn’t tell if he even spoke English. His gaze never wavered from her face. “Most of them, anyway. Some of them.”
She laughed, a short, forced sound that she regretted instantly. Why was she babbling in front of this man, one of approximately a million beautiful Italian men with brooding eyes and a cleft chin? She was acting like a teenager.
“Why don’t you want Francesco to tell you about the wine?”
His deep voice rumbled down her spine and caused her to sit up straighter. Possibly she pushed her breasts out just a bit more, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Oh, no. I mean,
yeah. Yeah, I totally want to hear. It’s just that I work better without it.”
“Without a story?”
“I’m here on a buying trip. I work for a company called Old World New School importers, and we want to distribute his wines in the United States. And when I’m tasting, I just do better without any knowledge at all. Just me and the wine. I can judge it better if I go at it completely objectively, you know?”
Francesco picked up the spit bucket and turned his back to dump the contents into the sink and then rinse it out. He set it down and placed both palms on the counter, his eyebrow cocked at her, and the man continued.
“You are, what? A scientist?”
She nodded and then shook her head. She’d consumed only one swallow of wine all night, but talking to this guy made her feel dazed. Drunk, even. “No, not a scientist. But there is a lot of science to what I do. You have to understand how all the different compounds work together. There is much more to it than that, of course. It’s about taste and education. I’m a sommelier.” She drew the word out, the French pronunciation that always made her feel stupid, but she suspected it impressed other people. Sum-uhl-YAY. She turned back to the glasses in front of her. The next one was an inky purple, the darkest of the lot, almost opaque in the glass. She could feel the man watching her, but refused to let herself look at him again. She sipped, swished it around, and breathed a few times. She picked up her pen and jotted down some thoughts.
Leather. Long eyelashes. Hard. Smooth. Complex.
When she looked up, she saw his eyes on her writing. The man picked up his glass—a pale red that he drank slowly, closing his eyes slightly as he swallowed. The wine was growing sour and hot in her mouth, but the spit bucket was on the other side of him. She pointed at it. He looked around the bar. She pointed again and waved her hand toward the bucket. By this point, the wine had grown too warm to swallow; she was afraid she’d gag if she tried. He looked puzzled, and knitted his brows as if she were a touch insane.
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