He glanced down at a notecard and began rapping off facts. “Our winery is almost one hundred percent self-sufficient. Our number one goal is to produce quality wines and a quality experience in a completely sustainable environment. We have a three-acre hydroponic and natural garden and a small ranch to feed our restaurant. Our animals are raised hormone free in the best conditions with the best feed available. We have nine hundred and fifty solar panels installed in various places across the property, which produce one hundred percent of the power we use, solely from the sun’s clean energy. All of our vehicles are clean-energy-running or fuel-efficient—even the tractors and machines we use in the vineyard and ranch. We only use homemade, organic pesticides in the vineyard and gardens. The tradition of winemaking on this property has been handed down for years—we’ve just updated it. We added quality control measures and modern, environmentally sound methods to an old procedure. We take a really hands-on approach, and I believe that’s the beauty of this craft.” He finally glanced up at me with a faint look of trepidation. It was becoming apparent to me that this guy probably sat behind his comfy desk while he waved his giant wallet around and ran his equally giant mouth off at his staff. Why any staff would be loyal to a huge asshole like R. J. Lawson baffled me.
“That’s amazing. I’m really impressed, but are you saying that you actually take a really hands-on approach?” I focused on his unmarked hands again. He stood up, leaned over his desk, and glared at me. “What’s your play?”
“I don’t have a play, I’m just trying to figure out who the elusive R. J. Lawson really is.”
“Let’s head to the tasting room, unless of course you want to skip that part, go straight to my room, and perhaps get a little more personal information on R. J. Lawson?”
“You’ve made three passes at me in the last twenty minutes. You do realize I’m writing an article about you that will be published worldwide?”
“I haven’t made any passes at you. Don’t flatter yourself—you’re too uptight for me. Anyway, why don’t you just stick to writing articles on lipstick and yoga? Isn’t that what you female journalists are good at?”
“What’s going to stop me from writing about what a misogynistic dickhead you are?”
“What’s going to stop me from not approving your shit-ass article before publication?”
I looked at him and cocked my head to the side, completely bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I guess you didn’t know about that clause in the agreement I made with Jerry?”
“No, I didn’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
He smirked with pure satisfaction. “Jerry agreed to my approval over the full article before publication. If it isn’t to my liking, he’ll toss it out. So, nosey little Kate, you still think I’m a dickhead?”
My heart was racing. I stood abruptly and leaned toward him, mere inches from his face. I balled my hands into fists and tried to contain the anger building in my chest. I took a deep breath, composed myself, and shot back, “The Verizon guy called. He wants his glasses back.”
R.J. huffed and shook his head. “Time to go. I’ll walk you over there, but I can’t say I’ll stay long. Somehow sharing wine with you lost its appeal the second I met you, and p.s., you have a mouse nose.”
Prick.
What had come over me? I couldn’t believe I was blowing the single most important assignment I had ever been given by trading juvenile insults with this asshole. His behavior was reprehensible, but so was mine, and I wondered how I would ever write an article that would do the winery, the paper, or myself any justice at all.
We headed toward the door, and to my surprise he actually held the door open for me. Susan stood from her desk in the first room and joined us as we headed out. Once outside, I looked down and saw that my suitcase was gone. In its place sat Chelsea. She was like a statue, looking out at the sun, which was slowly disappearing behind the horizon.
“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.