Blind Tasting

by A. C. Houston

  He looks around the table to get everyone's attention, then asks, "Are we ready to try this? It's had two hours to breathe."

  Trella Barrel Room. Joe and Denis wander in from the reception, which is winding down, and seat themselves at one end of the rustic bar. Quietly they discuss their surprise and deepening awe of the Taster's talent. They have just compared the Black Dove cabernet franc from today's blind tasting with a procured bottle of Avatar's Diamond Mountain cabernet franc.

  There is an amazing resemblance between the two wines, despite the different soils and micro-climates of the grapes used in each. Although the grapes are clones, clones usually adapt quickly to new settings and temperatures and take on idiosyncratic flavor characteristics accordingly. But, these clones had defied that tendency, at least for these two wines for this vintage. And, the Taster's palate had zeroed in on this rare similarity.

  Denis knows he would never have made this association at the tasting today from just the Black Dove sample, and it didn't occur in isolation, when considering the other calls made by the Taster today.

  The voices of the two entrepreneurs float in from the terrace; their confident guffaws are intermingled with the honeyed contralto of the girl in the blue beret and the more strident Texas twang of a tall brunette who caught the eye of one of the entrepreneurs. These four are the only remaining guests.

  Dawn and Toby are still sitting at the far end of the bar, laughing just a shade too loud for the rather empty space. Toby's calf is pressed against Dawn's and their heads are close together. Her jacket is hanging on the back of her bar stool, her smooth shoulders and arms fully exposed in the silk camisole. The half-consumed glass in front of her now contains a lustrous golden liquid, the late harvest riesling.

  She takes a sip, savors it and looks straight into Toby's eyes, her face sensuous and playful. "So, what was the worst wine you ever made?"

  "I don't make bad wine." He mirrors her sensuous, playful look, but his husky baritone voice is serious.

  She shakes her head in disbelief. "Come on. I've got a patent pending on the synthesis of a small molecule. But I've pursued some dead ends." She shrugs at him, smiling flirtatiously. "It's an inevitable part of the creative process."

  He gazes into her eyes and touches her arm. "You're brilliant and beautiful, and I have no idea what you do in your lab. But, I don't make bad wine."

  She contemplates his answer with a seductive, doubting pout. He leans a little closer and kisses her lightly on the lips. They both turn to look at Joe, who is now standing at their end of the bar.

  Joe smiles at Dawn. "Enjoy the evening?"

  "Yes! This riesling is fabulous, thank you. And so is this man." She indicates Toby. "He makes no bad wine. Ever."

  Toby drapes his arm around her.

  Joe continues, "Your Taster made an impression on some people who matter. In fact, his call on that cabernet franc from Knights Valley was more amazing than we realized. He guessed Avatar and it turns out their '06 is from the same clone."

  Dawn smiles broadly at him. Snoots was damn good today.

  Toby's expression darkens a shade. "I'm surprised at his reaction to my syrah."

  Joe makes eye contact with him, and when Joe returns to the other end of the bar, Toby slides his arm away from Dawn and gets off his bar stool. "You'll excuse me a moment?"

  She keeps him baited with her blue eyes. "Someone promised me a ride in a Ferrari."

  He runs his hand across her hair, then walks over to Joe.

  Joe smiles, positioning himself so their conversation is private. "Listen, Toby, I'm not trying to meddle here, but, frankly, you've had a lot of wine. And she-" He gestures discreetly toward Dawn.

  Toby smiles at him and places a hand on his shoulder. "You throw fantastic parties, Joe. You pour beautiful wine. I admit I'm feeling a bit of a buzz."

  "Why don't you and your friend relax up at the cottage? Enjoy the hot tub. Drink more wine. We always keep some good bottles stocked up there. I need to close up here. Denis and I are going back to the house to join Linda for a nightcap."

  Toby gives a smiling nod of thanks. "You're a great host, Joe."

  Toby walks back to Dawn and takes her hand. "You like star-gazing from a hot tub?"

  Their eyes meet and she delivers another jousting smile. "Let's find out."

  It's dark by the time Rob returns to Trella. The large front gate is still open, so he turns the car in and proceeds up the long, manicured drive. He thinks the party must still be going if the gate is unlocked.

  When he reaches the parking area there are no lights on in the main building or the terrace. Snoots has his nose out the open window of the Mazda and is sniffing the air. So, the party is over.

  With concern, Rob imagines Dawn barreling down the highway with a drunk in a Ferrari. His pulse quickens, there's no way he can stop that now.

  Then he spots the black Ferrari still parked in the shadows where it had been earlier, a 2003 V-8 Modena coupe with the 2RAVENS license plate. So where is he? Dawn?

  Rob shuts off the engine and gets out. "Stay here, boy," he tells Snoots. He looks around and then notices a flickering light through the trees up the path beyond the winery's main building.

  He starts walking toward it, his blood pulsing through his veins. With growing anticipation he thinks he's not too late to rescue Dawn. He steels himself for a possibly unpleasant encounter with a drunken middle-aged vintner.

  He can hear the crunch of crushed stone under his sneakers and crickets singing from the rock wall by the winery's terrace. There is splashing water somewhere. He hears voices up ahead of him, quiet, laughing. He stops to listen, his senses on alert. It's Dawn's laughter.

  It all comes into sickening focus. He turns around and walks back to his car and gets in, starts the engine. He circles the Mazda around in the parking area and drives back to the main entrance onto the dirt road.

  He retraces his route back to Highway 29 and continues south, turning left onto the Yountville Cross Road, not really caring where he goes. The Mazda connects to the Silverado Trail and he turns right, heading south again.

  There is not much traffic on this less-traveled road of Napa at this hour. He selects a heavy metal station on the radio to stop him from thinking too much.

  Snoots settles down in his seat, head resting on paws, eyes watching Rob.

  Rob revs the engine and begins to drive faster. The Mazda, with its 50-50 weight distribution is a born road hugger. Especially when he drives. It's a stick, and it won't redline below 9000 rpm.

  It becomes an extension of his body; he feels the wheels beneath him, he starts to wind it out taking curves at forty-five, fifty-five, sixty miles an hour. The tires don't even talk. He downshifts smoothly at the sight of red tail lights ahead, waits for his chance, and guns it past the car, punching the accelerator up to eighty-five, ninety, on the straight stretch of road. His attention is one with his driving, the road, any obstacle in his path. He tears around a curve, the car slides a little, it was tighter than he guessed, but he knows how to settle it back on the road. He pushes on, let's see what the Mazda can really do on this road. Half-voiced thoughts and feelings are whirling through his mind in a grim fugue, no time for them now. Dark trees flash by, an intersection looms ahead. Route 121?

  Fuck!

  He brakes hard, tires squealing. The Mazda fishtails a little, he straightens it out. The flashing blue lights of the California Highway Patrol are up ahead, pulled over with another vehicle, a black Saab. Rob takes a deep breath and settles down. He's driving just the speed limit as he passes the Highway Patrol.

  That was stupid shit. Stupid, seventeen-year-old punk shit.

  He glances at Snoots because the dog has been rubbing his nose back and forth across the seat. The dog threw up and is trying to bury the evidence.

  It's only a small puddle of yellow bile, but Rob pulls onto the shoulder of the road and stops the car. He unclips his seat belt and grabs Snoots around the neck, hugging him, his fa
ce buried in the dog's fur. He feels warm stinging liquid on Snoots' thick ruff. It's his own tears.

  He sits up, rubbing his eyes, looking at Snoots. The dog is now sitting up, the tip of his tongue in a tentative puppy lick, large grave eyes looking at Rob.

  He holds a forepaw out, seeking solace from Rob. Things are not right with his pack; he can see Rob's distress, and he can only smell the traces of Cory and Dawn, who are not here.

  "I'm sorry, boy," Rob whispers, holding the dog's paw, petting him. He'd forgotten about Snoots. The dog wasn't used to high-G maneuvers in a car. And the bile was a reminder that Snoots had only an empty stomach, he'd not been fed since the morning. Rob reaches for his stash of Starbuck's napkins and wipes up the dog vomit. He feels drained.

  He starts the engine, pulls back onto the road, refastens his seat belt and finds a college station with mellow new-age music on the radio. He heads toward south 101.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Trella Guest Cottage, patio. Dawn rests her head against the smooth side of the redwood hot tub and takes another sip of wine. They're drinking a proprietary cabernet blend from some prestigious winery up the road from Trella. She can't remember when she's consumed so much wine -- and so much excellent wine -- in one evening.

  The night air feels cool against her face, and crickets are chirping in the thickets beyond the patio. The warm water feels exquisite against her bare skin, now discreetly submerged. Two terry cloth robes are draped nearby on adirondack chairs. She doesn't know whether Toby watched her entering the hot tub, and she doesn't care. Is this how life is lived in Napa? Pretty easy to get used to, the soothing wines, the deep relaxing water, the lovely flicker of the torches. And the stars. She can see them even without her glasses.

  Toby is next to her, leaning back in the hot tub, his broad, muscular chest a burnished brown in the torch light, his eyes dark as ebony. He smiles at her, "Nice, isn't it,"

  He refills their glasses with an easy graciousness. Droplets of water have formed on his forehead and cheeks, his dark hair is damp. It's the face of someone who is living the life he's chosen, and lives it with vitality and ambition, even passion. He's earthy and intuitive, not overly cerebral. There is the familiar in his age, early forties she guesses, but he's not a physician. He is a winemaker, an alchemist of sorts, and she finds that exotic.

  She tries more of the wine, relishing its fragrant spice, cocoa and cedar notes within the sweet black fruit. She sighs happily, enjoying their playful joust. "God! I've never had so much wonderful wine."

  Toby says nothing, but watches her in amusement and fascination.

  She puts down her glass and takes his hands in hers, smiling down at them. "You've got the hands of a winemaker."

  "How can you tell?"

  She examines them, enjoying their weight and roughness against her own smooth palms. "The strong fingers. These hands are capable of working the earth, but also of...caressing grapes on the vine." Her eyes playfully challenge him to top that.

  "Like this?" He strokes her cheek and collarbone with his hands. Her jousting smile fades, she is captivated, motionless. He moves closer, reaches down and takes her foot with his hands, drawing the foot above the water. He bends his face to her foot, kissing it, raising it higher to kiss her ankle, her shin and inner calf, the inside of her knee.

  She parts her lips, barely breathing. He gently lowers her foot into the water and pulls her to him, pressing her delicate ribs and firm breasts hard against him. He covers her mouth with his and she drinks his kisses ardently. Another splendid wine to be sampled tonight.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Geyserville. It's late by the time Julie and Cory part ways with Todd French and the winerati. As they walk back to Julie's car, she hooks her arm through Cory's to provide him a more secure hold in the dark.

  "Not quite the evening I expected," she admits, watching the ground ahead of Cory as they walk at a leisurely pace. "I'm sorry we didn't get to sample the Rockpile zinfandels."

  "That Pomerol was pretty spectacular," he replies, feeling like a cheat to have bait-and-switched her about exploring the wines of Rockpile this evening.

  "A French masterpiece," she agrees. "It was generous of Thurston to share it."

  Cory is feeling very wined and dined and he's enjoying her proximity, the subtle note of a sophisticated spiced perfume, probably French. But, he must not let his guard down now, get too relaxed, do something no blind man would do.

  The sound of crickets is everywhere. They're walking past a field along the road and Julie inhales deeply. "Can you smell the hay? They still grow crops here, not just vines. It's nice."

  Cory inhales the scent. "This is still old California. For how long, though?"

  "It's here tonight."

  They're at the car. The street is now deserted under a starlit sky and Julie glances up at it. Why does she feel such a strange happiness walking with this blind man she barely knows. The evening feels surreal, adventurous, beckoning her not to waste it.

  "Want to drive back through Calistoga?" she suddenly suggests.

  "Yeah!" He's really enjoying the fresh air of the summer evening. And the light scent of her perfume.

  "101 would be faster, but it's such a pretty night." She winces privately, remembering that he can't see.

  The road begins to curve as they ascend the pass through the Mayacamas mountains that separate Sonoma from Napa. They drive past many vineyards, but as the terrain becomes more rugged, these give way to grassy hillsides dotted with oaks. Big patches of starlit sky are visible overhead.

  "So how did you go from computers to wine?" Julie finally asks the question she's been wondering about all evening.

  "I didn't really plan it. It just happened."

  "Well, what you've written on your blog has impressed the top wine critic in the world."

  He laughs. "That was a surprise. I don't think of myself as a wine critic. I just want to explore and discover unknown, exceptional wines." Yeah, let Snoots discover them, liar.

  She frowns. "I wish people would trust their own palates more. One bad review and that's the end of some little producer. Wine shouldn't be that important. Not that way."

  Cory unhappily recalls the Twitter gossip at dinner. It's not what he wished for Toby Rovati. He starts at Julie's next question.

  "So you really didn't like that young Rovati syrah? I assume you knew it was still in the cask?"

  Cory sighs involuntarily. His right foot taps nervously. "I'm not so sure now. I confess I haven't done many barrel tastings." You mean none, charlatan.

  "Of course." She reminds herself that he can't drive, can't just pop into the wineries by himself, and she quickly shifts the conversation to more comfortable ground. "You know, despite the fads in taste that come and go, winemaking has a resilience of its own. It's deep in our agricultural history."

  "Probably one of the earliest human technologies," he agrees, happy to be on to a new topic. He becomes aware of an unusual bumpiness and tells her, "Something feels wrong."

  "The road does feels rough." She slows the BMW down.

  "You might have a flat tire."

  Julie pulls the car off the road and gets out. She inspects her tires and announces, "You're right. The back left tire is really low. I mean really low. Do you suppose I rolled over a nail?" She sighs in frustration. "Sorry about this. I wonder how long it will take Triple-A to get out here."

  Julie is suddenly worried whether her cellphone will get a signal here between the mountains.

  "Don't you keep a spare in the trunk?"

  "Yes." A little embarrassed, she adds, "But, I've never changed a tire."

  "If you carry a jack in your trunk I can do it."

  "Oh, I don't want you to hurt yourself!"

  He smiles, amused. "I won't." Is he going too far here?

  He gets out and waits for her to lead him to the trunk. She opens it and he feels around inside, locating the jack. "Is there a wrench?" he asks her.

 
"There should be an auto emergency kit in here." She finds it, opens it, picks up a wrench and hands it to him. "Are you really sure this is okay?"

  He nods confidently. It's now an issue of manly honor.

  He feels his way to the back left tire and squats down, adjusting the position of the jack, pretending to do it by touch alone. He begins to loosen the lug bolts. Then he gropes for the jack and positions it near the wheel and begins to raise it up.

  She watches in fascinated admiration. "You really are good at this."

  He continues to jack up the wheel, then he spins off the lug nuts and removes the tire, placing it beside him. He gets up to retrieve the spare from the trunk and, again, remembers to let her guide him, trying not to dwell on his descent into fraudulence.

  She watches him lift the spare from the trunk, marveling at how natural and athletic his moves seem for a blind man.

  Cory feels his way along the car, holding the spare with his free arm. He squats by the car again and pretends to locate by touch alone where the new tire should be placed. He mounts the spare and finger-tightens the lug nuts, then feels behind him on the ground for the wrench, which Julie spots and hands to him. Their fingers brush against each other briefly.

  She watches his confidence with the lug nuts. "You're amazing and I've been taking notes on tire changing."

  "Good. There will be a short quiz at the end of the evening."

  She laughs, then adds more seriously. "How did you learn so much about cars? I mean-"

  He begins to jack the BMW back down. "I haven't actually been blind for that long."

  She lowers her head. "I'm so sorry."

  "It's okay.” Cory clears his throat. “It's hard for me to talk about the...circumstances." Get off this topic now!

  He removes the jack and feels the wheel with his hands. "I think we're in business. I wouldn't do more than fifty on that doughnut, even on the highway."