“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.
He threw his arms up and smiled from ear to ear. “Katy, you made it!”
“I did.”
“Good to see you again.”
He reached a hand over to R.J. “R.J.”
“Jamie. Everything running smoothly?”
“Always, R.J. Always.”
Their exchange seemed strange, almost strained. I was getting the feeling that Jamie wasn’t the most compliant employee, and clearly R.J. was not the best boss. I sat next to R.J. on stools at the bar. After Jamie set two wineglasses in front of us, Susan went behind the bar and Jamie followed her to the other side. He bent his tall, six-foot frame down toward her; I saw her whisper something in his ear. He looked at her cautiously and then she rubbed her hand up and down his back before he leaned over again and kissed her cheek. She patted his back and then left, waving to me as she walked away. There was something very maternal about her behavior toward Jamie. When he turned and headed back toward us, I took in his appearance more closely. He had cleaned up since our encounter on the road. He was wearing a black polo shirt with the R. J. Lawson logo on it and dark Levi’s cuffed over a pair of new-looking Converse. His hair was slicked back. I noticed it was long enough for a little curl of hair to just barely stick out from behind his ears. It drew my eyes to that part of his neck. As he was pouring the first tasting, I glanced up and noticed his eyes were on me.
He shot me a crooked grin. “See something you like?” I shook my head nervously.
R.J.’s cell phone rang. “Put that thing away, man,” Jamie said to R.J., scowling. Oh my god.
“I have to take this,” R.J. said as he got up and walked toward the door.
“Wow, I can’t believe you talk to him like that.”
“He’s kind of on my shit list right now. You know, no raise in a while.” He smiled and then tilted his head toward the wine he had just poured. The small bit of growth on his face couldn’t hide his subtle dimples when he grinned. He was undeniably handsome with his chiseled jawline, but there was also something really adorable about him. He still had a hint of baby face hidden in his rugged good looks.
I reached for the glass. “That’s our 2009 Estate Pinot Noir, the big award winner.” He watched me as I took a sip. When his gaze moved to my mouth, I noticed a tiny smirk play on his lips. “What do you think?”