Nowhere but Here

  “What?”

  “You said it’s been a long, strange day, but I hope it wasn’t all bad.”

  “Definitely not all bad.” When we got to my door, I turned around before unlocking it. “Actually, I should thank you. You turned a pretty awful day around for me, even after I hit you with my car.”

  He nodded. “Well thank you for sopping up my blood.”

  “No prob.”

  “My list is growing.”

  I crooked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? What list is that?”

  “All of the reasons why this is gonna be so hard.” I tilted my head, encouraging him to elaborate. He smirked. “Now you’ve added compassionate and tender to the list.” He leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “Night, Katy, see you in the morning.”

  Oh, that list.

  I was beginning to make a list of my own, and the promise of seeing him the next day made my heart bounce around inside my chest.

  Stephen who? I thought to myself with a smile.

  • • •

  In the morning, just as promised, an itinerary was shoved under my door. At the top, under the emboldened word WEDNESDAY, there was a list of breakfast items and the extension number to place my order. In the margin, someone had written, I recommend the eggs Comtesse or the eggs Blackstone (minus the bacon, of course).

  Wow, this is amazing, I thought. Personal recommendations—and they know I’m a vegetarian.

  Under the breakfast choices was a detailed schedule.

  10:00 a.m.: Private educational tour of winery with Guillermo. Meet in lobby.

  In small handwriting above “Guillermo,” there was a little carrot arrow and the words and Jamie written rather messily. Well, I knew who the annotating culprit was now, and I couldn’t stop smiling as I continued through the schedule.

  12:00 p.m.: Private wine and food pairing experience with Chef Mark. And again, a little handwritten note with the words and Jamie.

  2:00 p.m.: Facility tour with Susan. Instead of and Jamie, it said, I have work to do, young lady .

  There was a big space and then Jamie’s writing again.

  But, if you’re willing, the staff at R. J. Lawson would like to take you on a sunset sail in the San Francisco Bay. Meet in lobby at 4 p.m.

  Wow, really? They’re going all out . . . or maybe Jamie is going all out . . .

  After eating the best eggs Comtesse I’ve ever had, I searched my suitcase for something to wear. I had brought plenty of very reporter-looking clothes, not sure of what the weather would be like, but none of it was appropriate for impressing hot, rugged winery men. Spicing up the same black blazer was going to be a challenge, and then I remembered that I had brought a maroon camisole, something I would normally wear underneath a blouse. I went for it—my sexy silk camisole, the tightest jeans I owned, some heels, and the black blazer, for the sake of good form.

  I decided I would tell Jamie as soon as I saw him that I had broken up with my boyfriend, but Susan’s warning scared me, and I wondered if I really wanted a fling with a man who lived two thousand miles away. Yes, with this one, I most definitely do, I couldn’t help thinking.

  It was time to update Jerry, even though I had made no progress on the story. I dialed his number and it didn’t even ring. “This is Jerry.”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Congratulations. You haven’t been serious about anything in a very long time.”

  I often had these ridiculous back-and-forths with Jerry in which he would intentionally mock me or try to ruffle my feathers because he thought it inspired my writing. I was also ninety-nine percent sure that Jerry had undiagnosed ADD. Many days we ate lunch in the park together, sometimes Lincoln, sometimes Stanton. We’d eat our deli sandwiches and talk about life stuff. We would be having the most profound conversation about mortality or world hunger and Jerry would suddenly jerk his head around and say, “Oh man, look at that kite, it’s shaped like a giant squid!” I would never even attempt to take him to Millennium Park—forget about it. I know he’d just sit there and stare, mesmerized at those giant sculptures. His brain would go into overload and he would probably chant, “Big metal object, big metal object,” over and over. He did everything fast—he thought, ate, wrote, talked, even walked faster than the average person. His attention span didn’t last longer than a few seconds. His deadlines were sometimes unreasonable, and his brain rarely allowed for small talk in conversations, which made him a straight shooter.

  “Jerry, stop.”

  “Are you getting the dirt? That’s all I really want to know.”

  “Yes, dirt is exactly what I’m getting. R.J. is kind of a dick.”

  “What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

  “Well, he is a dick. He kept hitting on me throughout the interview.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “No.”

  “Good . . . Are you gonna fuck him?”

  “No, Jesus Christ, Jerry, who do you think I am?”

  “Well, it’s great that he’s a dick, just don’t fuck him.”

  “Okay! And why is it great that he’s a dick?”

  “Because you need an angle, Kate. You always need an angle.”

  “But I love this place, and all of the people who work here are so nice, and the wine is phenomenal. Plus, I know he has veto power over the article.”

  In his typical superfast speech, he said, “Listen, there are always loopholes. If you would have told me that he was the most philanthropic, God-loving gift to all women and humankind, I would have said great to that, too. You just need an angle, okay? Don’t stress so much, you’re not fucking writing The Jungle. Just play up the facts. Get the dirt on how the staff feels about him. Find out why the wines are winning awards, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “They’re winning awards because the wine is that fucking good.”

  “Well, why? What are they doing that’s different? That’s what you need to find out.” He suddenly paused and then continued. “By the way, I’m sorry to hear about Stephen.”

  “Oh . . . how’d you know?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

  “Beth saw him having breakfast this morning.”

  “So? What did he say to her?”

  “Well, it wasn’t so much what he said . . .”

  “What do you mean?” And just like that, it hit me. “He was with a woman? This morning? Already? Fucking dog!”

  “Yeah, and you know how Beth is. I guess she went up to him and said something like, ‘While the cat’s away, huh?’ He blurted out that the two of you had broken up.”

  “What a fucker!”

  There were several seconds of silence, which was rare for a phone conversation with Jerry. I wondered if he was rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling. Then I could hear a smile in his voice.

  “Yeah, you could say that again.”

  “Jerry!”

  “No, I am really sorry, Kate. I just never really liked the guy.”

  Jerry wasn’t alone in his feelings. Rose hadn’t liked Stephen, and Beth couldn’t stand him, though of course Beth couldn’t stand most men. Still, even the superintendent of our building loathed him and would instantly scowl whenever Stephen would simply approach him.

  “I’ll call you later, Jer.”

  “’Kay. Don’t think too much about Stephen. You deserve better. Focus on your job and get out there and knock ’em dead, kid.”

  “Yeah, because I’m so good at that,” I said sarcastically.

  “You stop it right now. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.” His tone went serious and then turned right back around. “Oh, and don’t fuck the genius.”

  “Bye, Jerry.”

  I had fifteen minutes before I needed to be in the lobby, so I plugged
in my laptop and fiddled around for at least ten minutes, trying to log in to the Wi-Fi with no luck. They left me a code on the desk but it wasn’t working, so I opened a Word document instead and began jotting down some notes.

  R.J.: asshole, no sign of genius, brags about his money, has girlish hands.

  How I was going to get an article out of that little bit of information baffled me. Then I wrote:

  Winery: sustainable, beautiful grounds, rustic, old world charm, great wine.

  And then, finally:

  Jamie: vast knowledge and pride in the winery, diabetic, sweet, genuine, gorgeous, charming, warm hands, strong hands, likes me . . .

  And then I had to go.

  Page 6

  * * *

  On Three

  Rushing from my room, I slammed the door and turned toward the stairway, running smack into Jamie’s hard chest. I looked up. He was grinning, and then in the softest voice he said, “Hello, angel. You’re gonna have to ditch those shoes. You know that, don’t you? Did you bring anything else?” I took a step back and scanned him from head to toe. He was wearing grungy jeans, work boots, and a plain white T-shirt beneath a long-sleeved flannel shirt, unbuttoned. I looked down at my shoes.

  “Okay. Give me one second.” I turned and ran back to my room. Other than heels and flats, I only had a pair of gray and black old-school checkerboard Vans. They were my flying shoes because I could slip them on and off easily. Normally I wouldn’t have been embarrassed to wear them, but when I looked in the mirror I noticed I was very mismatched. Shedding the blazer in a huff, I pulled on my dorky, heather-gray University of Illinois hoodie.

  When I met Jamie again in the hallway, he looked down at my feet, smirked, and said, “Perfect. You’re cute.” And then he looked up and said, “Go Chiefs.”

  “Actually, it’s Chief Illiniwek, and people have a huge problem with that. Did you go to college?”

  “You’re not convinced enough to say, ‘Where did you go to college?’ ”

  I laughed nervously. Way to insult him. He jogged down the staircase, motioning with his arm. “Come on, we have to meet Guillermo.”

  I followed him through the great room and out to the front of the building.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. Where did you go to college?”

  He threw his arms out to his sides and gestured around us. “Everywhere. All over. Anywhere I could.”

  “So you didn’t have a formal college education, per se?” I smiled kindly, trying to figure out what he was implying.

  “I had that, too.” One side of his mouth turned up. “But I’ve learned a lot more from the people in my life.” He gestured toward a man walking in our direction and raised his voice. “Like Guillermo, for example. This guy has grown up on the vineyards, making wine and perfecting his craft.”

  Guillermo, a small man of maybe fifty, gave Jamie a guylike half-handshake, half-hug. “J, get your ass out there, it’s still crush season.”

  Jamie laughed and then turned to face me. “Enjoy the tour, I’ll catch up with you later.” Still holding my gaze, he said to Guillermo, “This is Katy. Bring her back in one piece, okay man?” Guillermo chuckled.

  When Jamie left, I said, “It’s nice to meet you, Guillermo.” He shook my hand. “And by the way, what is crush season?”

  “It means we’re still picking the grapes, mija. Let’s go see how we make this stuff.” We walked side by side into the vast sea of vines. “The first thing you need to know is that it’s about the fruit, the grapes. These are not the grapes you’re used to.”

  He stopped at a cluster of dull-looking grapes hanging from a vine.

  “See, dear, these are Pinot Noir grapes. They have less color.”

  “They look bad.”

  He shook his head. “These are excellent grapes. It has taken us ten years to perfect the Pinot Noir grape on this property, something they have been doing in France for years.” He pulled one from the bunch and handed it to me. I popped it into my mouth.

  “Wow, that’s not what I expected at all.”

  “Juicy, right? Juicier than the grapes you eat?”

  “Yes, and very, very sweet, but it tastes nothing like Pinot Noir.”

  He chuckled. “Well, you see, much of that flavor is coming from the skin. The skin is a bit bitterer and much thicker than, say, a Thompson seedless grape, and that’s why these grapes are not as enjoyable to eat. But they do make a magnificent wine, don’t they?”

  “I have to ask, if you’ve been here so long, why is it only now, since Lawson has taken over, that the wines have done so well?”

  “He sent me to France.” Pausing, he arched his eyebrows. “He paid for the whole thing. Let me spend a month there. I learned a lot, but mostly things I already knew and just needed to be reminded of. Lawson gave me the resources and space. Pinot Noir grapes have a low yield. When I got back, we focused on that specific wine here on the estate and set aside more acres to grow this grape.”

  “Why was Lawson so set on Pinot Noir?”

  He popped his shoulders up into a shrug. “Hopeless romantic, I guess.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “No, truthfully, he said he wanted to make Pinot Noir because it’s a sexy wine.” He laughed loudly, like he thought that was ludicrous.

  I instantly remembered a quote from a Vanity Fair article describing Pinot as the most romantic of wines, with so voluptuous a perfume, so sweet an edge, and so powerful a punch that, like falling in love, they make the blood run hot and the soul wax embarrassingly poetic.

  “I guess that kind of makes sense because he’s a”—chauvinistic pig, I thought—“Because he’s trying to sell wine.”

  “Who knows. Let’s move on, mija.”

  As we walked down a row of vines toward the big warehouse-looking structure, I decided to take the time to get to know Guillermo.

  “Do you have family?”

  “I do. We live down the road. My wife, Patricia, works here at the front desk in the lodge. I have two daughters. They’re both in college—one at Berkeley and the other at the University of Arizona.”

  “Wow, and you can afford that on your pay here?” He turned toward me, looking affronted. “I didn’t mean any offense, I’m sorry. You must work tirelessly here for R.J. Does he provide you with proper breaks and benefits?”

  He hesitated and spoke in a quieter, more apprehensive voice. “Yes, I do . . . he does. He’s putting both of my daughters through school. He’s like a son to me, but he has taken care of me, too.” I was shocked. R.J. was either a complete contradiction, acting like a douche while doing good things for the people around him, or he really did have it out for the media and his little tantrum was just to throw me off of his true personality.

  We walked past a giant, red, tractorlike machine that was moving slowly down the row toward us. It was built to almost straddle the rows of vines. Guillermo gently grabbed my arm and pulled me into another row.

  “Let’s give the man some space.”

  Still looking back, I said, “What is that thing?”

  “It’s a mechanical harvester. We handpick a lot of our grapes, but we use a couple of those, too, to stay on schedule. Jamie made them more fuel-efficient.”

  “How do they work?”

  “They vibrate the vine. It’s sort of a delicate process for such a big, intimidating machine, but the vibration causes the cluster to drop from its stem and into a bin.”

  I spotted Jamie a couple of rows over. He had abandoned the flannel, and the reddish tattoos running down his left arm contrasted sharply against his white T-shirt. Even from that distance, I could see a gleam of sweat on his face and arms. He had added a plain black baseball cap and black sunglasses. Bad boy, good boy. Ahh!

  I stuck my hand up and waved, getting his attention. In that moment another worker ha
nded him something so his hands were full, but he tilted his head back and kissed the air in my direction. I smiled giddily and then looked over to find Guillermo grinning.

  “Focus, mija.”

  I played it down by shrugging, like I had no idea what he was referring to.

  “Is it okay for Jamie to work like that with his diabetes?”

  “Oh yeah, of course. Exercise is good. It helps to naturally lower his blood sugar. That’s why Jamie is so fit.”

  “Yeah. Jamie is fit . . .”

  Guillermo raised one eyebrow. “I bet you want to see the grape crusher?”

  I laughed. “You’re damn right I do.”

  We walked into the quiet warehouse through a large, rolled-up metal door. Apparently the grapes that had been picked that day had not made it to the crusher yet because the warehouse was eerily quiet. Guillermo pointed to a stainless-steel square funnel with a large black machine attached to the bottom of it.

  “That’s it. One of the best. It’s the most gentle of all large-scale grape crushers. We tested out a few others but weren’t happy until we found this one.”

  Studying it, I walked around and took some mental notes, and then I thought about that episode of I Love Lucy when Lucy and the Italian woman stomp around the huge barrel, crushing the grapes with their bare feet.

  “I was really hoping to have a Lucille Ball moment while I was here.” I was half-joking, but I smiled to myself at the idea.

  A voice coming from behind startled me. “I think we can arrange that.” I turned to see Jamie, sweaty and gorgeous, leaning against the large doorway. Chelsea was sitting right at his heel, staring me down. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair and then replaced his hat again. As I watched him move, it was like time stood still. His motions slowed down, as if someone had turned a dial or pressed a button on the remote.

  “What do you mean, you can arrange that?”

  “Give me ten minutes.” And then he was gone. Guillermo looked down, shaking his head, trying to contain his laughter.

  “I think that’s it for me, mija. I have to get back to work. Do you have any questions?”