Prosecco Heart

by Julie Strauss

“Well, I wanted to branch out.” She used vague terms, not naming anyone as if there were any possibility that Mark, and all of his readers, wouldn’t know what she meant. “I’m still part owner of El Zopilote, and I love what we do there. But I’d forgotten how good I am at being a somm. I can bring all kinds of good wine to people. Why wouldn’t I want to do that more?” She smiled at Mark. “And wearing a business suit every day is a pain in the ass, so I decided to change my clothes and hair, too.”

  “Let’s talk about SommFest. How do you feel?”

  “I feel great. Ready for it.”

  “Your mom won in, what was it? Eighty-seven?”

  “That’s right. I was five.”

  “You feeling pressure to live up to her legacy?”

  Tabitha leaned back in her chair and searched the ceiling of the coffee shop for an answer to his question. Pressure was just a hiss of air against rubber, eased by opening a valve. Too weak a word for the combined complications of the Lawson clan.

  “I mean, she was the youngest person ever to win, and she was the first woman. I’m already too old to beat that. And then, after she won it once, she said it was impossible to compete at that level with a family, so she quit competing.”

  “She blamed you?”

  Tabitha waved her hand as if the notion didn’t hurt her. “Me and my sister, I guess. I don’t know. She was full of it, obviously. Almost everyone I know in the wine world has a stable family. It’s a happy business.”

  “So why didn’t you stay married?”

  Because I married a cheater who liked to look at other women’s vaginas?

  Tabitha let this reply play out in her head, and wondered if it would be the pull quote on the cover of the magazine. Ex-Husband of Rock and Roll Sommelier Likes Other Vaginas! Full Story Inside!

  She’d pay almost any amount of money to see the look on Royal Hamilton, the Duke of Muffordshire’s face when he saw the article. Someone would tell him about it in advance; one of his minion assistants would scurry to him with the news, or maybe Mark himself would contact Royal and ask for a response.

  But no, she couldn’t do it. Revenge only tasted sweet at first, and then it turned sour in the belly almost immediately. Like an over-fermented Porto, attractive only to wasps and flies. And the fact was that Royal still had a whole lot more influence with other vintners than she did. It was bad enough to be divorced from him; to taunt him publicly would be career suicide. Not yet. Not when she was finally making a name for herself outside his sphere of influence.

  She smiled her most benign and wise smile and tilted her head to the side as if they were discussing a toddler who wouldn’t behave. “We tried, for a long time. But as you know, winery hours are nonstop. We both got a little consumed by the work. It’s a very sad divorce, but what are you going to do?”

  By sad divorce, of course, she meant it was the smartest divorce she’d ever have. But Mark didn’t need to know that.

  “Tell me this. How are you different from your mom?”

  “Well, my mom is old school,” Tabitha answered slowly, considering the repercussions carefully before she continued. “She always presumed a basic knowledge of wine when she served it, and she didn’t have much time for, um, let’s call them dilettantes.”

  “That’s how the wine world operated, back in her day.”

  “Right. But it’s different now. Not so rigid. A lot of people just want to enjoy a glass of wine. They don’t need the stress of a somm in a tuxedo judging their choices.”

  “Let’s pretend I don’t know anything about wine. How would you pick one out for me?”

  She glanced down at his cup. “I’d decide by your coffee. You got the darkest roast. That tells me you like bold and bitter, old-world style. You added real cream, but just a few drops, so you like strong flavor, but you don’t like anything harsh or astringent. I’d pick out a wine that stays true to varietal, something that tastes like seventies rock music. But I’d encourage you to try something that wasn’t as well known here in the States. Maybe a South African Pinotage.”

  A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “What about her?” He tilted his head to the table next to them, where a woman in mom jeans sat reading a novel and sipping green tea.

  “She’s into self-care,” Tabitha replied. “I’d steer her away from the Chards and the Chenins she’s used to. Maybe I’d give her a peachy-grassy-tasting Mauzac out of Languedoc.”

  “That’s a pretty esoteric choice.”

  “She listens to the Avett Brothers.” Tabitha tilted her head toward the woman’s phone, where they could see the music choice. “She looks like someone who likes new things and that would be just bright enough, refreshing, and soothing on the surface, but a lot of depth when you stop and pay attention.”

  “This is fun.” He indicated a table behind her. “What would you do for them?”

  She glanced at the young women leaning in toward each other and laughing loudly, and turned back to him with a smirk. “A heavy-handed fruit bomb. Something that tastes like Taylor Swift songs on repeat at the end of your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.” Royal’s least favorite customers but most favorite body types, she wanted to crack. But she restrained herself.

  “Your brain is odd. You think differently than most somms. It’s almost like you have some kind of musical wine synesthesia.”

  Tabitha shrugged. “I guess so. I can’t explain it. All I can tell you is when I taste certain things, I hear music in my head. And when I hear music, it makes me crave certain flavors. I don’t know what it is, but it’s much easier for me to explain wine that way than it is to say oaky or vanilla or tannic.”

  “What’s happening next at El Zopilote?”

  “Next year is going to be spectacular.” That was, so far, the only outright lie she had told in this interview. The new vintage was going to be an exploding California-style jam jar, just like the wine Royal made every year but more so. A Frappuccino in a wine glass. The soccer moms and the Botoxed cougars would suck it down, like always, and post selfies with Royal from the winery, like always. Tabitha loathed the new wines.

  But there was no way to explain this to the reporter without throwing her business, and all of her employees, under the bus. She just had to get the winery’s books back in the black again, make sure the employees were taken care of, and she would get the hell out of there.

  You do you, Royal Hamilton. I won’t ever have to pretend to like your milkshake of a wine ever again.

  Mark stood up, drained the rest of his coffee, and reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you again for your time, Ms. Lawson. I’m glad I finally got to meet you after all these years.”

  “Thank you. It’s been my pleasure. Let me know when the article is published, won’t you?” As if I won’t be stalking your website every single day so I can buy fifty copies of my own, she thought.

  “I’ll be in touch. I’ve run a monthly profile of each of the SommFest contestants all year. I’ve enjoyed getting to know all the competitors.” He checked his watch and stood up. “Can I just ask you one more personal question? Will it be strange, at SommFest?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, competing against your ex-husband.”

  She opened and closed her mouth several times, like a gaping fish, and Mark looked surprised.

  “Didn’t you hear? Only two somms from California. You’re one. Royal Hamilton is the other one.”

  “He knew I was competing this year,” she finally said, her voice low and hoarse. “He helped me with my initial application, way back when we were still married.”

  “You didn’t know he was doing this?”

  She shook her head, trying to make sense of the information. “How would I know? This was my thing. He knew it was my thing. Why would he want to compete against me?”

  “That, I don’t know. But I would be careful.”

  It took her a full minute to absorb this comment.

  “Be careful? Why? Has he put out a hit on
me or something?”

  Mark laughed. “Not that I know of. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to order a hit. Still, I think he’s… Well. Let’s just say there has been some talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  Mark pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Talk about his methods. I’m not at liberty to say much. But I’m not sure he’s entirely honest.”

  Tabitha could only stare at him.

  “Look, it’s probably nothing. Jealous rumors. I wouldn’t worry about it. Everyone knows you are the one to beat this year.”

  “They do?”

  “They do. Talk to you soon, Rock and Roll Somm.”

  8

  She flew along the coast highway, the windows of her coupe down, the air rushing through her car and whipping her hair around her head. Tabitha could smell the ocean breeze in the air from her home in Paso Robles, but most days she didn’t actually see the beach. She loved the opportunity to drive north up the coast and enjoy the ocean air. The morning fog had burned off, and the sun warmed her skin. She hung her left elbow out the window, tapping the window frame along with the music, trying to focus her thoughts on the day ahead. She cranked up her speakers—the Beastie Boys, “No Sleep Till Brooklyn.” As she listened, her mouth watered for buttered popcorn, which she always craved when she heard this song. She was grateful for the drive, as she needed to think about what the reporter had just told her. The music helped her focus.

  Her life was unsettled now, in the best possible way. Unsettled. Like the sediment inside a champagne bottle, being turned on its side. Riddled, they called it in winemaking. No more husband. No more staying in one spot for work every day, no more prim clothes. Her life had been riddled, like a fine champagne, and after it settled, she would only be finer.

  That would have been a good thing to tell Mark from Wine Life. But, she never thought of the right phrase at the right moment. Royal would have thought of the proper thing to say. Instead, she talked about Taylor Swift and Tuesday night orgies.

  Tabitha pressed the brakes as the northbound traffic slowed. She loved these coastal drives she got to make lately. Visiting other wineries in hopes of representing their brands, visiting restaurants to give demonstrations and sell wine. She moved around more, talked to people. It seemed so much more inclusive.

  This afternoon, Tabitha was headed to a private home to give an in-home wine demonstration for OWNS. The in-home demos were where she could shine. Inevitably, a host explained in advance that he or she absolutely, positively, hated a wine—Chardonnay, for most of the men, Cabernet for the young drinkers. Tabitha always brought them what they wanted, but managed to sneak in a bottle or two of the supposedly loathed flavor profile. There was nothing as fun to her as usurping a taster’s expectations. Only last week, she’d convinced a group of golfers that they would enjoy a rosé by asking them to blind-taste it.

  Today’s event was a younger crowd. The hostess worked at a social activism startup and was hosting her friends for an evening of “Drinktivism.” Tabitha would provide the wine, one of the other guests was providing postcards, and they would spend the evening tasting new wines and writing letters to their senator. The hostess, Lisette, a pansexual anti-gun activist with a shaved head, blue lipstick, and combat boots, hadn’t specified a favorite wine. “We’re kind of new to it all,” she had explained to Tabitha. “We mostly drink Pinot Grigio from the grocery store. But nothing expensive. And no zin. Ugh. That’s old-people wine.” Tabitha thrilled at the challenge of introducing someone to their first real wine. She’d packed some organic wines out of the Loire Valley that would be perfect for a crowd like this. Lots of flavor profiles, because the millennials loved variety. A socially conscious business practice, so they could feel good about their wine’s impact on the earth. And not too expensive. These were young people, after all. It was unlikely any of them had any real money to spend on wine.

  At this stage, it was about getting them to understand the possibilities in front of them. The wine world was huge, satisfying, a lifelong pleasure—if, and only if, she introduced it correctly. If she scared them off with expensive bottles, rare, unfindable vintages, or intimidating words like oeno-fetishism, they’d never pick up a bottle again.

  She glanced down at her speedometer and realized she’d sped up when the traffic cleared. She eased her foot off the pedal. She always got excited when she thought about teaching.

  She pulled off the coast highway into an unassuming, though pleasant area of Big Sur. She turned her music down to listen to the directions. It was an Australian male accent she’d installed on her GPS. Because why wouldn’t a single woman want a sexy Australian to give her directions around the Central Valley? She called her GPS Croc, and she was certain he was shirtless all the time and had loose beach-blond hair and a perpetual tan. He sounded eternally pleasant, perennially cheerful, even when she missed a turn and had to double back on her way to a destination. A stark contrast to when she used to drive with Royal. Not that he let her drive that often, but on the rare occasions she did drive, he barked orders from the passenger seat and fumed every time she made a wrong turn.

  Just as she exited the freeway, both the music and her GPS were interrupted by an incoming call.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “Tabby? I saw you called this morning. Sorry. Really busy, couldn’t call you back.”

  “I’m frankly surprised you called back at all. Hope it’s not interrupting Tea and Strumpets.”

  She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. It seemed like they hadn’t had a single civil conversation since the morning they’d fought about the Meritage. In retrospect, she wondered how many pleasant conversations they had ever had, even while they were married. But that was neither here nor there.

  “What can I do for you?”

  As if she were a business call and not his ex-wife.

  “You’re going to SommFest?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’ll wanna make a uey at the next light,” said Croc over her speaker.

  “Is someone with you?”

  “No. Yes. That’s none of your business.” Who is with you? she wanted to ask. Honestly, it could be almost any female in California.

  She heard him sigh, in that maddeningly patient way he had. A slow exhale of breath, more like a steady leak through a pinhole than real exasperation, the way a normal human would react.

  Control. Royal was made of it.

  “Yes. I am competing at SommFest. You knew that.” His voice was clipped, even, with space between each word, as if Royal thought he was speaking to a child.

  “How would I know that?”

  “I thought for sure I told you.”

  “When?”

  “Tabby,” he said slowly, “I was invited. Okay? They contacted me. They wanted some more Americans in the competition, and I was their first choice. Evidently.”

  “You’re not even American. And they already had me.”

  “They wanted more. They wanted someone who has already made a name for himself.”

  “We both have a name. The same name.” This was not, strictly speaking, true anymore, as she had dropped his last name the day she walked out of his house. But as far as the wine world was concerned, they shared a last name.

  “Look, Tabby, I—”

  “Stop calling me Tabby,” she interrupted. “I fucking hate when you call me that.”

  Croc repeated his instructions. “You’ll want to make a uey at the next light.” She’d been driving up and down the same street since Royal called, unable to concentrate on the road. Now she pulled into the parking lot of a Whole Foods and took a deep breath. She kept her hands on the steering wheel in front of her, as if prepared to speed away at the slightest provocation.

  “Royal. You knew this was my thing. You helped me fill out the application. Why would you enter? That’s the part I don’t understand. What are you
trying to prove?”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything, Tabby. Tabitha. And I don’t need to run my career choices past you, either.”

  “Career choices? Since when does winning a stupid competition matter in a career like yours? You own a prestigious winery.”

  “You also own a prestigious winery, and as I recall you hardly thought it was a stupid competition when you agonized over the application.”

  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, watching her knuckles whiten.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “that doesn’t matter. This distinction would not only help me, but it would also help the winery. I realize you are having a lot of fun with this little freelancing job of yours.” She could practically hear him making air quotes around the word. “But my primary focus is still the winery. Employees. Healthcare benefits. I don’t have the luxury of traipsing all over town, drinking wine with book groups.”

  “That is not what I—”

  “It can’t be changed. We both want the same thing; only one of us can get it. It’s the basis of every great story.”

  “But Royal, can’t you please just—”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to argue this,” he interrupted. “Did you need to talk about anything else? Anything that I can help you with, for example?”

  Tabitha loosened her grip, let her hands fall on her lap. She leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Tabitha. Are you still there?”

  “What exactly are you up to?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You don’t get to screw me in bed anymore, so now you want to screw me at the SommFest.”

  He snorted. “I used to appreciate your uniquely American vulgarity.”

  “Tell me the truth, Royal. What are you up to? People are talking.”

  “What people?” His voice had gone flinty, that tone she recognized from their married days. She’d crossed into territory he wasn’t interested in discussing, but would make sure he controlled the narrative of everyone else talking. Watch yourself, Tabitha.

  “People. In the industry. Our industry. You are up to something. What is it?”