“We’ve divided the vineyard into thirty parcels, according to sun exposure, soil type, incline and elevation.” Chance waved his arm toward the patchwork quilt of vineyard blocks. “This Cabernet block here is five-hundred feet below that Zinfandel block up there.” He pointed to the top of the mountain, chattering like a second grader on Show and Tell Day. I nodded, captivated by the intricacies of mountain farming, which stresses the grapevines, resulting in smaller berries and thus more concentrated flavors in the wine. But Chance didn’t look like your typical winegrower. He stood 5-foot-11 and probably weighed 190 pounds. He kept his short, light-blonde hair tousled with thick gel and had striking, light-blue eyes. Chance was handsome but not handsome enough to be cocky about his looks, kind of like Tom Scavo from Desperate Housewives. He wore faded Lucky Brand jeans and a sage paisley-print shirt—a gentleman farmer in every way.
His ears glowed reddish pink from the evening sun at his back. “We’re on our fifth leaf. The vines have taken well to the soils here.” My heart throbbed with rapture. Winemakers count the age of young vines by leaf, not year. It turned me on when Chance talked viticulture. I was one smitten wine kitten.
I gazed at the endless rows of grapevines with tiny, pink-edged leaves sprouting from skinny trunks. “Any problems with frost this season?” My voice was firm, yet cool like a cop at a routine traffic stop. Making small talk that would impress a wine guy was definitely in my wheelhouse. It was early April, and the vines had just emerged from their winter sleep and pushed their first buds of the season—the beginning of the grapevine’s growth cycle known as “bud break.” Spring frost can damage baby buds and significantly decrease the size of the crop.
“So far, so good.” Chance kicked the dirt as he walked. “But we’ve got another month before we’re out of the woods.” He stopped short of a cluster of car-sized rocks at the edge of the vineyard and pointed. “You gotta check out the view from up there.”
Chance climbed onto one of the boulders and extended his hands to me. I dug my Via Spiga boots into the red, rocky dirt to get some traction. “If this is a typical second date in wine country,” I said, grabbing his hands, “then I can’t imagine what you’ll do next time.” I laughed as he pulled me up. We stood side by side on a moss-covered rock in our fancy blue jeans and designer boots. Chance reached for my hand; my pulse surged. His hands were smoother and smaller than Paul’s, and I liked that about him. My new life was every bit as exciting as I’d dreamt it would be. I cupped my right hand above my eyes to block the sun. San Pablo Bay glistened on the hazy blue horizon in the distance.
“It’s even better here.” Chance pulled my body in front of his. He wrapped his big arms around me, as I crouched down in front of him. My heart leapt into my mouth. The guy had so much promise, and our bodies had never been that close.
“What clones did you plant?” I asked, hoping to calm my nerves. Birds chirped in the nearby forest.
“Clone seven, Clone two and some Martini.” I could feel his lips near my ear as he spoke. “They all do well in these red, rocky soils.”
“You’re so lucky to be able to start a winery right now,” I said, feeling the warmth of his chest against my back. “Land prices are going through the roof.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Thank God getting a divorce wasn’t as expensive as buying real estate. Three weeks had passed since I’d told Paul our marriage was over. I know. I moved so slowly, but after years of struggling with internal turmoil over my marriage, I was beyond ready to date again. Kelly Clarkson had just released “Since U Been Gone,” and I’d realized that I could breathe again … for the first time in years. I wanted to juggle men like bowling pins and perfect the art of dating without a deadline.
Chance laced his hands around my waist. “Dad and I have been holding onto this piece of land for ten years.” My stomach tingled. He had patience when it came to his dreams, just like me. I kept my back straight and didn’t lean into him. I wanted to keep a little distance. I was willing to wait ten years to find Mr. Right, but I knew he’d never find me if I sat home every night watching Alias re-runs, as I’d done while married. “I’m glad you wanted to come here with me.”
“All it took was thirty dollars, two glasses of wine and four tacos.” I looked down at my hands locked with his and shrugged a laugh. “And here we are.” We’d just had dinner at his favorite taco shop in Napa—a week after I’d found Chance on Match.com under the code name “KingofCabernet.” Online dating seemed like the best way to meet men outside of my inner wine circle, and I’d made a pact with myself to never date a co-worker again. My previous foray into Internet dating had netted me Tyler the shy hottie, so my record was quite good. Chance’s profile picture showed him toasting with a fishbowl-sized wine glass; his biography was riddled with jokes that would have impressed the writers of Family Guy. He seemed like the right amount of fun for a thirty-year-old divorcée.
“You’re a cheap date.” He sat down on the rock. “And you smell good too.” His arms tugged me toward him. I grinned and sat Indian-style in front of him on the bumpy rock, letting the evening sun warm my face.
I giggled, turning my head to him. “Are you kidding me? I smell like a taqueria.” My hair, my clothes, my breath—I could still smell and taste the spicy-greasy goodness of our carnitas and carne asada taco platter. Chance wrapped his arms around me, making my fleece jacket feel like a cozy blanket. I welcomed the tenderness of his soft arms, not the power of Paul’s thick biceps and broad chest. Chance’s body was neither hulky nor skinny, which worked for me. I took a deep breath and savored the moment of the new. His head rested on the crown of my head. We sat on top of what seemed like the wine world and just gazed at his magnificent mountainside view. My heart and mind were sprinting. It was way too soon to meet The One—that dashing winemaker I’d daydreamed about after breaking up with Raul in Miami. I took another deep breath and forced the ridiculous thoughts from my head. Chance was simply my rebound guy.
I looked over my shoulder to Chance. “What was it like growing up here?” A lot of women in the wine business who aren’t born into a winemaking family dream of finding a single guy like Chance. He grew up in Napa Valley wine country, owned a few rental properties in Calistoga with his father, and planned to launch his own wine label making Zinfandel and Cabernet Sauvignon from his estate-grown grapes. He was an entrepreneur who spent his days managing two of the most prized assets in wine country: vineyards and real estate. I wondered if dating winemakers wouldn’t feel so exciting if I’d been living in Sonoma County my entire life; they seemed like celebrities to a newcomer like me.
“It was…well…umm…interesting,” Chance said. “There’s a lot of wealth. There’s a lot of poverty. I had an interesting mix of friends. It taught me a lot about having money, but not so much money that it changes you.” His profound statement lingered in my head, as goose bumps flew up my legs. I sat in silence, thinking about my upbringing and the reality of my new life in wine country.
“I’ve always wanted more than I had.” I wrapped my arms around my knees. “But it’s only changed me for the good.” I peered out at the breathtaking horizon. Pink and lavender began mixing in the sky, signaling the finale of a wine country sunset. Years later, I’m still in awe of this region and all its beauty.
“I can’t wait for you to meet my friends,” Chance said excitedly. “My real friends. Not just all the people around town who have known me since I had braces.” He laughed. Dating Chance was a social rebirth as much as it was a wine dream. He’d already introduced me to tons of people from the Sonoma wine community—Napa’s more laid-back neighbor—and had my calendar booked solid with parties, dinners and wine tastings for the next three weeks. During our first date at the historic Swiss Hotel on the Sonoma town square, we’d shared a bottle of his inaugural 2002 Zinfandel, and locals had stopped by our table on the terrace every ten minutes to chat with Chance about everything from mortgage rates to vineyard frost protection. I’d felt as if I was
on a blind date with the mayor. My desire to date a man who could provide the mental stimulation of deep conversation, as well as a fun night on the town, had been realized after years of living with a homebody.
“Hey, you wanna meet Darth next?” Chance spoke in a bellowing voice with a smirk. Chance named his dog Darth Vader, a Star Wars tribute any child of the 1970s would appreciate. The dog was a Pomeranian—a fluffy, dainty Pom—a telltale sign that Chance was totally in touch with his feminine side. I had no problem with that. What can I say? The man owned a vineyard.
Chance hopped down from the huge rock, then extended his arms to me. My body glided down his, and his arms wrapped around me as I hit the ground. I looked up into his eyes, as blue as an afternoon sky. The silence was uncomfortable but sweet. He leaned down to me, and my eyes instinctively closed. Our lips met. His lips were soft, wet and lustful. He kissed me again and again, never leaving my lips. My pulse raced, after days of anticipation. Finally, a real kiss I could get lost in. The world stood still. I listened to our breath and the birds chirping in the darkness of my mind. His kiss was filled with a desire I hadn’t found in the lips of the construction site manager named Brian (also courtesy of Match.com), who drank Bud Light and showed his interest by burning me Duran Duran and Toad the Wet Sprocket CDs. My mind danced with the magic of the moment: a vintner and a wine marketer, kissing in the middle of his vineyard. It was the closest I’d been to a surreal surge of chemistry in seven years.
Chance closed the front door of his house behind me. “Do you want anything to drink?” He owned a ranch-style home with an attached apartment near the Sonoma town square, about thirty minutes from his grapevines in Napa Valley. As I stepped under the vaulted ceiling of his living room, Chance darted behind the accent wall that led to his kitchen. The jingle of a dog collar trailed from down the hallway, then a brown-black ball of fur smaller than a carton of milk pranced around the corner, his tiny tail wagging rapidly. The dog looked less Darth Vader, more Chewbacca.
I scooped Darth into my arms, lowering my left cheek to his tiny nose. I miss my dog. Leaving Paul’s dog was one of the hardest parts of the divorce. I sat down on Chance’s cushy, gray couch, laughing and nuzzling Darth’s wet nose while he licked my forehead. I glanced around the room. Every white wall was bare, except for a dartboard next to the fireplace. Sliding glass doors off the living room opened to a flagstone terrace with a gas grill, a white plastic table and four chairs, shaded by a redwood pergola. I smiled at the discovery of a forgotten relic: the bachelor pad. “Make yourself at home!” Chance yelled. He was always a ball of energy—just like his dog and kind of like Robert in a haunting way.
“Do you wanna listen to music?” Chance handed me the glass of water without dropping cadence, as he buzzed over to an old stereo tower next to a tiny, dusty television. He kneeled and zipped through a handful of CD cases stacked on the speakers. His ears looked bigger from behind, but his butt looked mighty fine in his Lucky jeans. My whole face beamed while I squeezed his squirming dog in my arms.
“What kind of music do you like?” I asked, petting Darth. Music was a subject we hadn’t covered yet, which is serious when deciding whether or not to date someone.
“Kenny Chesney, Phil Collins.” Chance thumbed through the stack of CDs in his hands. “Country music is my favorite genre.” I felt a lump the size of an avocado form in my throat and swallowed hard. Strike one. Growing up listening to “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks and “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” by George Strait had scarred me for life. I’ll forever blame that all on my roots.
“Can I pick?” I bent down over his shoulder and plucked James Taylor’s Greatest Hits from the stack. “Let’s go with this one.”
Chance clicked in the CD and hopped to his feet. His endless energy rejuvenated my hope that most men in their thirties didn’t spend four hours a day in a recliner with a remote control in hand. He flew through the house, tugging my arms through the animated tour of his personal world. He busted into each room waving his arms like Kramer from Seinfeld, before rattling off declarations:
Backyard: “I’m going to start landscaping this summer. The hot tub needs a new motor. I bought it on Craigslist for two hundred bucks.”
New computer: “Running your own business is a pain in the ass.”
Web site: “I’m not happy with the layout.”
Guest rooms: “You can stay here anytime you want. My brother comes up on the weekends. He lives in San Jose. You’ll meet him sometime. He’s awesome.”
Guest bathroom: “I need to retile the tub. I know.”
Bedroom closet: “I should throw away this shirt, right?”
Chance pulled me into the kitchen. “I’m still hungry.” He whipped open the refrigerator door. “We should snack.” I peeked over his shoulder, trying to discreetly inventory the contents of his fridge. (What a man eats says a lot about his character.) A dozen cans of Slim Fast shakes lined the door’s shelves; two Weight Watchers chilled-and-ready meal boxes filled the bottom drawer. I also spotted three two-liters of caffeine-free Diet Coke. My mind began cycling like a dishwasher. Danger! Danger! My dating radar hit code red. Chance grabbed a plastic to-go box packed with wilted romaine, then scrunched his nose and tossed it in the garbage can.
Chance threw open two cabinets above his Formica countertop. “Do you like popcorn? I know I’ve got popcorn.” His hands hunted through the cupboards.
I leaned against his kitchen counter, letting his true colors sink in. “I’m not really hungry. We just ate dinner like two hours ago.” Mexican food was not my idea of a light meal. After a plate of tacos, I wouldn’t be hungry for a day, and I’d need to run for two hours the next morning to work it off. Fat and married—I thought the two went together like Asian massage parlors and happy endings. Why did I fill my head with such crap? The Biggest Loser wasn’t even on TV yet. Within three weeks of filing for divorce, I’d slimmed back down to my Tyler weight. The fear of becoming that single, fat lady with a house full of cats was highly motivating.
Chance reopened the refrigerator and grabbed a Diet Coke, then looked at the glass of water in my hand. “I should just drink water, shouldn’t I?” His eyes darted from my glass to the plastic bottle in his hands. I shrugged, hoping my indifference would make him change the subject. He sat the bottle down on the countertop. “I’m really getting into a new work-out routine.” Chance grinned like a used car salesman.
I smiled, gripping the glass in my hands. “Oh, really. Tell me all about it.” I did a lot of listening to Chance’s stories back in the beginning, and I didn’t mind a bit—even if his choices in food and music seemed a bit odd. He never talked about the evening news or reality TV. Chance had told me he’d started running four days a week at Jack London State Park and suggested I keep work-out clothes in my 4-Runner so we could go running together. I liked the idea of dating an exercise buddy.
His eyes danced around my forehead. “I’m eating take-out salads from Sonoma Market.” His voice was chirpy like a bird. “I got my body mass index done a few weeks ago, you know, a BMI. I need to lose ten pounds.” He grabbed both sides of his waist and pinched a roll of skin through his dress shirt no bigger than a Totino’s Pizza Roll.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re nuts.”
“What?!?” Chance shrieked like a girl. “My jeans are too tight. Look!” He tugged at the denim near his hips. I felt like I’d been sucked into a time warp and was talking to my fourteen-year-old self.
I coughed down a gulp of water. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about your weight.” I rested my glass of water on his counter. “You’re a guy. You look fine.” He definitely didn’t have the body of a weightlifter, but he wasn’t really fat. Little love handles didn’t compare to the cellulite I’d been fighting.
Chance jabbered on, standing over his kitchen sink. “You know, BMI doesn’t lie, right? The numbers are always right.” I looked deep into my water glass. In a bizarre sort of way, it felt refreshing to have
such a girly conversation with a guy.
“If you think you need to lose weight, just cut out the fatty foods and carbs,” I said, tapping my fingers on the counter. “And exercise. Burn off more calories than you take in.” I looked down at the Gap jeans I hadn’t worn since college and crossed my ankles. My chin was raised high. I no longer craved the junk food I’d eaten with Paul, and the pounds had melted away. Chance bobbed his head. If Chance really wanted to make a change, he’d need the same discipline.
“You’re going to be so good for me.” Chance grabbed the soda bottle from the counter and poured it down the sink. “I shouldn’t drink this crap anyway, right? It has Equal in it. It’s unnatural. I’m going to drink water from now on, just like you.” I watched his hand gripping the upside-down bottle. My mind began ticking off boxes—the bad ones. The man had more quirks than the cast of Pee-wee’s Playhouse. His eyes darted back to the fridge. “I’m thinking about becoming a vegetarian or maybe a vegan.” Chance pointed his nose in the air with conviction. “Well, maybe just for thirty days to see how my body reacts.” He tossed the plastic bottle in the recycling bin and rubbed his palms. “We have such a great farmer’s market. It won’t be too hard.” I glanced at his blonde hair and the tiny creases in his forehead. I wanted to study his mind like mechanics do car engines. Chance was a fascinating creature.
Chance opened a bottle of Gundlach Bundschu Merlot, a supple wine from one of the oldest family wineries in all of California. We moved to the couch, and he popped his favorite CD into the stereo: Kenny Chesney’s “When the Sun Goes Down.” A blaring siren now accompanied the flashing light in my head. I sniffed my glass of wine, letting scents of blackberries and plums fill my nose.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 32
