Well, back to Wednesday morning in September, about nine a.m. now. Tom and Judy Gordon, who stood right here on Uncle Harry's dock with me, are now dead, and the ball is in my court, to switch metaphors.
I turned and walked back toward the house, invigorated by the morning air and my carrot, motivated by my good memories of two nice people, my mind clear, the disappointments and worries of yesterday put in their proper perspective. I was rested and eager to do battle. To kick ass.
I had yet another seemingly unconnected dot that needed to be placed on the sonar screen: Mr. Fredric Tobin, vintner.
But first, thinking someone may have called whilst I was reflecting by the bay, I checked my answering machine, but there were no messages. "Bitch." Now, now, John.
More annoyed than hurt, I left the house. I was wearing Mr. Ralph Lauren's blazer, Mr. Tommy Hilfiger's oxford shirt, Mr. Eddie Bauer's pants, Mr. Perry Ellis' boxer shorts, Mr. Karl Lagerfeld's aftershave, and Messrs. Smith and Wesson's revolver.
I started the car with the remote and climbed in.
"Bonjour, Jeep."
I drove up to Main Road and turned east into the rising sun. Main Road is mostly rural, but becomes the main streets of many of the hamlets. Between the downtowns are barns and farmhouses, nurseries, lots of farm stands, a few good and simple restaurants, a bunch of antique stores, and some really charming New England -style clapboard churches.
One thing that has changed since I was a wee lad, however, is that Main Road now boasts about two dozen wineries. Regardless of where the vineyards are, most of the wineries have set up headquarters on Main Road to rope in the touristos. There are wine tours and free wine tastings, followed by a mandatory visit to the gift shop where the day-tripper feels obligated to buy the local grape nectar along with wine country calendars, cookbooks, corkscrews, coasters, and whatnot.
Most of these winery buildings are actually converted farmhouses and barns, but some are big new complexes that combine the actual wine-making facilities with the wine and gift shop, a restaurant, wine garden, and so forth. Main Road is not exactly the Rue de Soleil, and the North Fork is not the Côte du Rhône, but the overall ambience is pleasant, sort of a cross between Cape Cod and the Napa Valley.
The wines themselves aren't bad, I'm told. Some are quite good, I'm told. Some have won national and international competitions, I'm told. As for moi, I'll have a Bud.
In the hamlet called Peconic, I pulled into a big gravel parking field marked by a wooden sign that read "Fredric Tobin Vineyards." The sign was black lacquer, and the letters were carved into the wood and painted gold. Some weird streaks of various-colored paint crisscrossed the black lacquer, and I would have thought this was vandalism, except I'd seen the same streaks on the Tobin wine labels in the liquor stores and also on the wine labels while sitting on the back deck of Tom and Judy's house. Regarding the paint streaks on Mr. Tobin's sign, I concluded that this was art. It's getting harder to tell the difference between art and vandalism.
I exited my expensive sport utility vehicle and noticed a dozen others like my own. This was where they bred, perhaps. Or were these the vehicles-of-choice for urban and suburban cowboys whose definition of off-road meant a parking lot? But I digress.
I walked toward the Tobin complex. The smell of crushed and fermenting grapes was overwhelming, and a million bees flew around; about half of them liked my Lagerfeld.
How shall I describe the Tobin winery? Well, if a French chateâu were built of American cedar shingle, it would look like this place. Clearly Mr. Tobin had spent a small fortune on his dream.
I'd been here before and knew the place. Even before I entered, I knew that the complex consisted of the visitors' reception area, to the left of which was the big gift and wine shop.
To the right was the actual wine-making wing, a sprawling two-story building filled with copper vats, crushers, and all that stuff. I once took a guided tour and listened to the blabber. Never in the course of human events has so much bullshit been concocted about something as small as a grape. I mean, a plum is bigger. Right? People make plum wine. Right? What's with this grape crap?
Anyway, rising above all of this is a broad central tower, sort of like a castle keep, about fifty feet high, from which flies a big flag. I don't mean Old Glory. I mean a black flag with the Tobin logo on it. Someone likes to see his name around.
All of this shingle is stained white, so from a distance it kind of looks like it could be one of those limestone châteaux you see in the travel brochures. Freddie put a big bucko into this thing, making me wonder exactly how much money there was in grape squeezing.
To continue the word picture of Château Tobin: farther to the left was a small restaurant that women and reviewers invariably described as cute. I called it prissy and stuffy. But no matter, it wasn't on my list of places to go if the Olde Towne Taverne was closed by the Board of Health.
The restaurant had a covered terrace where people who dressed with Eddie, Tommy, Ralph, Liz, Carole, and Perry could sit and bullshit about the wine, which, by the way, is really grape juice with alcohol.
Anyway, attached to and behind the cute restaurant is a bigger catering hall, a nice place to have a wedding, christening, or bar mitzvah, according to the brochure that was signed by Fredric Tobin, proprietor.
I'd been to the hall for one of Mr. Tobin's wine-tasting soirees, back in July. The occasion was to celebrate some new releases, by which I guess he meant wine that was ready to sell and guzzle. I had been a guest of the Gordons, as I may have mentioned, and there were about two hundred people present, the cream of North Fork society-bankers, lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, a few attendees from Manhattan who had summer places here, successful merchants and realtors, and so forth. Mixed in with the local crème were a smattering of artists, sculptors, and writers who, for various and sundry reasons, didn't do the Hampton scene across the bay. Probably many of them weren't financially successful enough to afford the Hamptons, though, of course, they'd tell you they were more artistically honest than their Hampton colleagues. Barf. Also, Max had been invited, but couldn't attend. According to Tom and Judy, they were the only Plum Island people there. Tom said, "Hosts and hostesses avoid Plum Island people like the plague." We both got a good chuckle out of that. Gosh, I missed Tom. And Judy, too. She was bright.
I recalled that on this occasion of tasting the juice of the grape, Tom introduced me to our host, Fredric Tobin, a single gentleman who at first glance appeared to be a man who wore comfortable shoes, if you get my meaning. Mr. Tobin was dressed in a foppish purple suit, a white silk shirt, and a tie that sported vines and grape clusters. Gag me with a spoon.
Mr. Tobin was polite, but a bit cool toward moi, which always annoys me when I'm in La-Di-Da gatherings. I mean, a homicide detective sort of crosses social lines, and the average host or hostess enjoys a detective or two around to spin a yarn. Everyone loves murder. But Fredric sort of blew me off before I could tell him my theory about wine.
I had mentioned to Tom and Judy that Monsieur didn't even have the courtesy to make a pass at me. Tom and Judy informed me that Freddie (as no one dared call him to his face) was in fact an enthusiastic heterosexual. Some people, according to Judy, mistook Fredric's charm and refined manners as a sign that he was gay or bi. That has never happened to me.
I discovered from the Gordons that the suave and debonair Mr. Tobin had studied viniculture in France and held some grape juice degrees and all that.
Tom had pointed out to me a young lady who was Mr. Tobin's current live-in. She was an absolute knockout-about twenty-five, tall, blonde, blue eyes, and built like she came out of a Jell-O mold. Oh, Freddie, you lucky dog. How could I have misjudged you?
So, that was my sole encounter with the Lord of the Bees. I could see why Tom and Judy had sought this fellow out-for one thing, the Gordons loved wine and Tobin made some of the best. But beyond that, there was a whole social matrix to the wine biz, such as that party, and private dinner parties, and outdoor concerts at the vineyards, extravagant picnics on the beach, and so forth. The Gordons seemed to buy into this whole thing, which surprised me, and though they weren't fawning over Fredric Tobin or sucking up to him, they certainly had little in common with him socially, financially, professionally, or otherwise. Point is, I found it a little out of character for Tom and Judy to be involved with a guy like Fredric. Regarding that name, there's a case of getting rid of an "e" while everyone else around here was trying to tack "e's" onto things. To be succinct, Fredric the Grape seemed like a pompous ass, and I liked the idea of popping his balloons a little. Also, he had a beard, and perhaps a white sports car.