Rob smiles. "I don't think there's a law against that. And Snoots doesn't care. Anyway, you trained him."
Cory looks serious again. "How long can I keep up this disguise? I can't walk Snoots around my neighborhood in a seeing-eye harness. And now Todd French wants to do lunch. I was lucky I had enough cash on me to pay my share of dinner. My credit card's got a photo ID and I'm definitely not blind in that picture, if anyone had seen it."
He sets a plate of eggs in front of Rob, with slices of toast. He finds a jar of raspberry jam. He refills their whiskey glasses.
Rob digs into the eggs. "The publicity will be good for the blog. You rocked at that winery, Core. You do realize that."
"Snoots rocked. I couldn't have made those calls. Not one." He sighs unhappily. “But Julie thinks I can."
Rob gives a knowing nod of empathy. They both drink more whiskey in silence.
"Rob, I'm sorry about Dawn."
Rob needs to unload what's on his mind. "You know, I feel this connection, real connection, with her. But, she's a scientist, a molecular biologist and I'm not one of her doctors, M.D.s, whatever." He drinks more whiskey. "But that guy last night, he makes wine. The engine of a Maserati is way more complicated than a fucking barrel of grapes. So, why him?" He puts jam on a slice of toast and crunches down on it.
Cory finishes the whiskey in his glass and sets it down. His head throbs with wired exhaustion as he stares into space. "Dawn's always gone out with older guys, sometimes married ones. Even when she was in grad school at Stanford."
He looks at Rob. "Her father is a really distinguished neurosurgeon. He's pioneered surgical techniques that have changed how brain surgery is performed. He publishes articles in major medical journals. And, he's the only parent that Dawn has ever really known."
"Where's her mom?"
"Her parents got divorced when she was six. Dawn has described her mother as a classically-trained pianist, very beautiful and very self-centered. She got involved with a super-rich guy from Chicago, I think he's in finance. Anyway, Dawn's mother didn't want baggage from her marriage, which Dawn qualified as, apparently. So, Dawn was raised by nannies and went to boarding schools, but she says her dad was always around for her."
Rob looks incredulous. "Her mom just ditched her?"
Cory nods. "I wouldn't bring this up with her, by the way. But, you can see how a father like hers could become kind of godlike."
Rob nods, now recalling the picture of the intense-looking man with Dawn that was displayed on the vanity in her bedroom.
Cory shrugs. "I don't know, maybe she's looking for him, or his approval, in these older doctors, guys. And, Rob, the girl is brilliant, but I know she's not all that happy." He looks squarely at Rob. "You've seen how she gets."
Rob says nothing. He finishes his whiskey and stands up. "I'm going to bed. Thanks for the food." He holds up an empty snifter. "And the whiskey. If you need a run for wine tomorrow, call me. I'll be at the shop rebuilding a Boxster engine." He gives Cory a sad look. "Something I understand."
Rob ruffles Snoots' fur as he heads toward the door.
Cory gets up from his chair and looks at Snoots. "Let's go to bed, boy." Under his breath he sighs, "Please don't blow it, Dawn."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Trella Guest Cottage. Dawn opens her eyes to sunlight and the sounds of birds outside the window. She sits up, instinctively covering her body with the sheet. She looks at the pillow next to hers. Toby is not here. She can smell something baking, biscuits? The pungent deep note has got to be strong coffee. She smiles ruefully at the tangled sheets, recalling the hot tub, and what followed.
She finds her clothes and dresses quickly, her mind clearing, focusing. It's Sunday, how late? She looks at her watch, it's after ten. She needs to go to the lab today. Yesterday was one thing, it was part of the gig with Cory, but today, last night, was not planned for.
She has a headache, probably from the histamines in the wine. How much had she actually drunk yesterday? Better not to dwell on it.
She goes into the adjacent bathroom, which is decorated in olive-green Italian tile, and washes her face in cold water. Much better. She finds her purse and pulls a brush out, brushing her shoulder-length dark hair into order. She puts on her glasses. Her thoughts shift to work.
Pete showed her interesting data on Friday related to the oncogene, Neu. The over-expression of Neu in cells could be related to the mitochondrial proton gradient of the cell. A small molecule that Pete is investigating appears to interfere at that site, and only in cells with the over-expressed Neu. This points to a potentially new facet of cancer cell circuitry; the possibility that oncogenes are implicated in a cell's susceptibility to mitochondrial function disruptions.
She snaps back to the current setting. The smell of hot coffee is beckoning her.
Dawn pauses in the doorway of the kitchen and watches Toby cooking an omelette on the stovetop. The kitchen is rustic in an artful way with hardwood cabinets and tile decor and high-end cooking appliances. It's cheerful and sunny; the window curtains are a red poppy fabric and there is an assortment of colorful Italian crockery. A breakfast nook in one corner, with a view to gardens outside, is set for two.
Toby looks up and gives her a casual smile. "Joe's a great host. The refrigerator was stocked. I thought you'd like some breakfast."
She walks over to him. What's going to happen now, she wonders. He hands her a large mug of coffee and she takes a big swallow from it. It's wonderful. "God, thanks."
Toby divides the omelette onto two bright yellow plates. He opens the oven door and removes a tray of fluffy golden biscuits. She'd guessed right. There's a tray of jams set up in the breakfast nook and a little blue pitcher full of milk. And, there are tall glasses of orange juice that must be fresh, based on the pile of orange rinds by the sink.
Another guy who can cook. She is lucky in that regard, remembering the great food Cory used to whip up at their Stanford group house.
Toby carries the plates over to the breakfast nook, and she follows him, coffee mug in hand. They sit down and she smiles, clinking mugs with him. "This looks wonderful. And homemade biscuits!"
He is pleased. "We take our wine and our food seriously up here. The biscuits are an old family recipe."
She takes a bite of one. It's delicious. She smiles approvingly at Toby.
Toby spreads honey on his biscuit and offers the jar to her. "This is local. From a beekeeper near Petaluma."
Dawn tries the honey, thinking how easy Toby is making this social transition from the night before. She rapidly reviews last night's conversation in her mind, relieved at her coherent recall of it. Including her silly diagrams at the bar. She had definitely not betrayed Cory in a moment of indiscretion. And she hadn't exactly slept with the enemy, although if Toby were to know the whole truth about yesterday, he might not be offering her this gracious home-cooked breakfast.
She takes a big swallow of coffee to soothe the little spark of anxiety in the back of her mind. It flares for just a moment when Toby gazes at her with his dark, gunslinger eyes.
"I must thank Joe Trella for his hospitality," she says, smiling frankly at him.
"Joe is like family to me. We're a pretty close-knit community up here."
"Napa and Sonoma?"
"Some of the original families. Joe is fourth generation Napa. My great-grandfather came here from Italy, from Lombardy, and started a winery in Carneros. Prohibition nearly wiped him out as it did most of the wineries around here in those days. He and my grandfather worked many years to build it back up after Prohibition ended. But my father had other plans and he sold the Rovati family winery when my grandfather died. Now I'm back to carry on the family tradition with Two Ravens."
"What lured your father away from such a beautiful setting?" she asks him, genuinely curious.
He takes a sip of coffee, then gazes evenly at her. "Drinking. Gambling."
"Sorry." She gazes quickly into her coffee mug, now held be
tween her hands. A bitter memory of her own mother catches her off-guard momentarily.
Toby shrugs. "My grandfather taught me everything he knew about wine-making, when I was still a kid. I love my work. I love this valley, even with the Todd Frenches and the Silicon Valley glitterati encroaching. It's still about the wine, working the grapes. Viticulture isn't for amateurs and they usually figure it out after a vintage or two."
"You make fantastic wine." There's real camaraderie in her voice now.
"Despite what your Taster thought, that cask wine is going to be a very good year."
"Your sample at the tasting?" She hopes she doesn't look as rattled as she now feels.
He looks hard at her. "It's got three or four more months of fermentation before I bottle it. Joe wanted a baby in the mix, so I drew it for him. Those are pedigreed Silver Ridge grapes."
She looks down at her omelette and secures a forkful of it to avoid his gaze. She finishes her coffee.
Toby glances at his watch. "I've got to prune some clusters of zinfandel today at Raptor HIll. But first, I promised you a ride."
They're driving down a two-lane blacktop under a clear morning sky. Dawn feels the power of the Ferrari, a sexy car driven by a sexy man. She's not complaining. The black leather seat feels luxuriously deep. Toby let her select a DVD from his collection in the glove compartment. She chose operatic duets, and now the music fills the space around them. She doesn't want to talk, just listen and look. The vineyards are visible on every side, climbing up the hills of the valley. Paradise in green and gold.
The Ferrari pulls up in front of Dawn's condo all too soon. Mentally she checks that she's got her purse, her cellphone, her security badge for work.
It's time for goodbyes. She looks at Toby, her hand touching the door handle of the car. She's got her jaunty smile in place. "Good luck with those zinfandel grapes. Hope the little prima donnas appreciate all the attention."
Toby regards her with a faintly amused smile. He hasn't shaved today; the dark stubble only adds to his rugged appeal. They were lovers for a night. That's how it is. But she feels a need to be gracious, honest. "Thanks for the ride. This is a beautiful car."
He leans toward her, pulling her to him and kisses her, hard. The stubble of his beard is rough and unfamiliar against her skin, but his broad, warm chest, his touch, his scent, are all newly familiar. She kisses him back. They exchange a few more kisses.
He wants to touch her hair again and brushes it back from her face. "The sommelier at Fidelio's is a friend of mine. Let me take you there next Friday."
She smiles at him, her eyes say yes.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cory's Bedroom. It's after 2 a.m. and Cory, propped on pillows with Snoots beside him on the bed, peruses the latest comments from his readers, replying to some of them.
Commentary on his blog has increased considerably since the Trella tasting and it includes types of readers he hasn't had before.
A couple of pictures of him at the tasting have been posted on personal Facebook pages and that is partly responsible for the increased traffic to his site. Thankfully the photos were taken with cellphones and aren't great; with his beard, dark glasses and duck tail, those pictures could be a lot of other guys besides him.
Some of the comments tonight are reactions to Snoots' recent match between two Oregon pinot noirs, one of them costing twenty dollars a bottle more than the other.
Dan from Dayton
Liked your call on that Daggar Vines pinot. Great bargain, definitely worth a buck to learn about it. Thx.
RainyDayGirl
U R cutest wine guy out there an sooo brave! How can u read this?
Hi Rainy - there is text-to-speech technology that allows blind people to hear what is typed as text. - The Taster
Bev
I'm a big fan of Two Ravens now. :-D I'm also a registered nurse in Bay Area, so let me know if you need ANYTHING. <3
Thomas A. Geek
The anthocyanins must be different in Daggar versus Klio, because Klio is definitely a little deeper red. Being unsighted, you probably can't know this, and it doesn't seem to affect similarity of flavor. Anyone know how color aesthetics is affecting the overall experience/pleasure though?
A Left-Coast Redhead
Thomas, check your lighting maybe? These two wines are from the same clone and almost the same terroir. I've got two glasses (D & K) in front of me right now and I don't see a difference.
Vitis Virginis
You using text-to-speech for this? I'm SWF web developer in Cupertino. I can be your seeing-eye girl. You are a very cool blind dude. Let's drink some wine together, you will not regret it I promise.
Troy
Grouse rocks! Thank you, Taster!
Mindy from La Jolla
You are awesome. I have learned so much about wine from you. I hope you will do another public tasting bcz I would love to meet you. btw I LOVE dogs!
Randolph Hill
I think you should try the 07 pinot noir from Blue Iris Cellars, another Willamette Valley producer. i find it quite similar to the Klio that you sampled, perhaps more so than even the Daggar. Cheers.
A Left-Coast Redhead
I've tried a lot of vintages from Blue Iris, including three of their 07 pinots. Which one are you referring to? I don't think I'd agree with your call that any are closer to Klio than the Daggar is. The Blue Iris tannins seem sharper on the palate than the others. I know their fermentation techniques are a bit different as well.
RagingBelle
TASTR! Do U know how HOT U R??? Wish I wuz the wine in ur glas! LOL (-} {-)
Lia
I admire you so much for you courage and blindness. Please take my poem for you.
Even tho you are blind,
You must be so kind
Can you believe this is true?
Believe it, because I can see you.
Bill from Turkey Hill
My oh my
You brought a tear to my eye
(Can you believe that's a lie?)
Lia
Go F**K you self turkey!
A Left-Coast Redhead
You seem to have a very loyal following! :-)
Dear Redhead,
Thanks for your insightful remarks on these Oregon pinot noirs. I'll take a look at the Blue Iris wines, we're just starting to really explore Oregon in more depth now. You say you're left coast. In Oregon? :-) The Taster
A Left-Coast Redhead
San Francisco. :-)
Cory leans back and closes his eyes. He's got a motley assortment tonight, and these adulations of his alleged blindness are embarrassing.
He's a little curious about the Left-Coast Redhead. He assumes the person is female and she seems to know about wine. He wonders why it felt flirty to reply to her, but it clearly did.
Guiltily he thinks of Julie, a hopeless situation he reflects sadly. So is the redhead, he tells himself. You're a double agent now, you can't have a relationship with anyone in your reader base.
Cory opens the manager page to his blog and looks through the list of people who have registered with his site. There she is, Left-Coast Redhead with a Gmail account. Probably the person's initials. More curious, he brings up a search engine that tries to match email addresses with names. He gets a hit.
Cory smiles in amazement and unconscious relief; the Left-Coast Redhead is Julie LaRoche of Telegraph Hill, San Francisco.
Chapter Forty
Sta's. "So, E.C., what sounds good?" Todd French scans the menu for the third or fourth time, having finally decided what he's going to eat for lunch.
He's read aloud the small, but meticulously-crafted selection of dishes to Cory, who has already read them through his dark glasses, an unwired pair today, but still with ultra-dark lenses.
"The tortelli stuffed with house-made boar sausage and wild mushrooms sounds interesting," he tells Todd, playing along, shifting unhappily in his chair, aware that the patio is packed already with a line
waiting outside.
"In that case I would recommend we go with Shea Vineyard's 2006 pinot noir East Hill. I'm having the roasted guinea hen in tarragon-scented sauce over pappardelle."
Todd promised on the phone that the tiny restaurant served excellent food and was relatively unknown, so they could have a quiet, private lunch.
But, Thurston Bradley wrote a review of it in last week's Wine Hound, and now there is a crowd of foodies waiting to try it's acclaimed homemade fusion-pasta dishes.
Cory is hoping none of them are people he knows from his former life, his real life as a sighted computer geek.
Dawn dropped him at the restaurant, without Snoots. It was too risky having the dog in a seeing-eye harness in downtown Palo Alto, too close to his real world.
Todd was already waiting for him when he arrived, and able to steer him to the patio while Cory mumbled excuses about leaving his white cane in his living room.
Dawn will phone him in an hour and a half and he'll give her their agreed code, 'yes' for come and get me, 'no' for I'll find another way home.
The waiter brings the wine right away and Todd tries it. "Nice layering. This is my favorite micro-terroir from these guys."
Cory swirls the dark crimson Willamette Valley pinot noir over his tongue. "Yeah, really smooth." he agrees heartily.
Their lunches arrive promptly; the wait staff of the little bistro are in a frenzy, trying to make the most of the unexpected bonanza of customers at lunch today, trying not to turn away too many.
Todd's mission is simple, he wants information about the Taster, what sorts of wines the blogger values most. The guy is a rising star in the world of wine critics; make friends, not enemies. He's learned one new data point already; the guy goes by his initials E.C.
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