I stood up from the desk. “I think it’s, ummm, it’s more than that.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a life of wine all day and all night.” The words echoed in my head. I can handle his Slim Fast but not his wine? My lips tingled from the shock of my realization. I rubbed my forearms. “I felt comfortable working with you a few minutes ago.” I squeezed the pen in my hand, staring down at my Franco Sarto sandals. “I think this is just too comfortable. It’s too familiar. It’s scaring me.” Even though I’d dreamed of marrying a winery owner when I’d lived in Florida, I’d suddenly realized that living a life of wine 24-7—as I’d done with Paul—was like drinking Pinot Noir every day. Boring! Sorry, Miles from Sideways. My soul craved diversity. I was thirty years old and still learning about my needs and myself. I was contributing tons of ideas to Chance’s dreams; I didn’t think he’d ever contribute any to mine beyond the bottle. The relationship was not effortless.
I painted the bedrooms in my townhouse sky blue and butterscotch—colors Paul had vetoed at our house. The first night at my new home, I didn’t invite Chance over for a drink or dinner. I wanted to be alone. I owned my own home: a safe haven for personal time, space and reflection. Paul had started dating a college senior—the man was thirty-six at the time—and she’d moved into his new house the day after the moving truck had left. Jealousy was, however, the farthest thing from my mind. Maybe she was The One. Maybe he would give her everything she wanted. There is a perfect match out there for everyone.
I marinated a chicken breast in Jamaican spices and tossed it on my new George Foreman, then heated a pot of black beans mixed with pico de gallo, Pickapepper sauce and a spritz of fresh lime juice—healthy, Caribbean comfort food I’d enjoyed for years in Florida and had abandoned when I’d started living with Paul. I lit the candles on the dinner table and poured myself a glass of Gallo’s MacMurray Ranch Pinot Gris. Crisp, bright, refreshing. Being alone never felt or tasted so good.
“We’re getting salads, right?” Chance asked in his ever-hurried pace, as we sat down at Mary’s Pizza on the Sonoma square. Six weeks had blown by since our first date, and I was still hanging out with the frantic foodie. Most dates with Chance felt more like Young Professionals’ mixers, so I wasn’t ready to give up all the opportunities to meet interesting people.
I settled into my seat. “Yes, and nothing fattening like a Caesar.” I’d told him I’d eat at Mary’s only if we didn’t order pizza. My body could handle pizza as an occasional splurge, not a weekly staple. And I didn’t want to hear Chance complain about his bloated gut for the next two days.
He ordered the Margherita Pizza and drummed his hands on the gingham-checkered tablecloth, smiling at me across the table. I shook my head. He bounced around in his spindled chair, singing along with Madonna’s “Die Another Day” drifting through the loud dining room.. When the server asked us if we’d like fresh bread, Chance fired back, “Yes, please.” My eyes flew across the table. He knew I didn’t like the temptation of bread with meals. Chance gobbled three pieces of bread from the wicker basket before I organized my thoughts.
“Why are you eating that?” I shoved my straw around my plastic water glass. “You keep on saying you want to eat healthy.” My voice was sharp and exasperated. I leaned back in my spindled chair. He doused another slice of bread with olive oil, then pushed the oil carafe neatly toward the salt and pepper shakers.
“Olive oil is healthy,” he replied. “This bread is made fresh daily. Isn’t that healthy?”
My cheeks flushed hot with frustration. The waiter returned with our two glasses of Benziger Syrah. I took a long sip and hoped the silky red from a great family winery would lighten my mood.
“Listen.” I sat the wine glass on the table. “You can eat whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m not your mom.” My nose scrunched as I snipped at him. Chance stared at me, stunned. I folded my arms. “I just hate hearing you complain about what you eat after you’ve already eaten it. I’m not your personal trainer either.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy masturbated to Richard Simmons Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The buzz of the busy restaurant filled my ears. Ever since we’d starting dating, he’d talked about exercising together. I’d slept over at his house a dozen times, and we’d still never gone running the next morning. “Let’s go to Garden Court Café for eggs benedict, and we’ll run later,” he’d say. I squeezed in my workouts—a forty-five-minute jog or power yoga session—here and there, but my fuse was getting short. Standing up to Paul had given me the confidence to confront Chance. Chance needed a dose of honesty. Being good for him meant telling the truth. Truth hurts sometimes. I’d finally learned how important it was to be honest and not keep my feelings bottled up—especially when something was bothering me.
He pushed the breadbasket into the center of the table. “You’re right.” His hand waved in the air, motioning our waiter to return. “Please take this away.” Chance lifted his bread plate and the basket in the air.
“Are you going to come to my parents’ barbecue for Mother’s Day?” he asked, sitting a packet of Equal on his fork like a catapult and launching it into the air. I rolled my eyes and looked around to see if anyone noticed his childish table manners.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for me to be meeting your family?” My eyes stayed focused on the stem of my wine glass.
His mouth dropped open. “We’ve been dating for more than a month.”
I swirled my wine. “That’s not a very long time.” My eyes drifted to the window.
“Let’s change the subject.” Chance rapped his palms on the tabletop. “I can’t wait for our trip.” He started dancing in his chair. I forced a smile; I wanted to crawl under the table and get swept away with the bread crumbs. Blinded by the bliss of a new romance, I’d made the classic dating mistake of a woman in her thirties: I’d invited him to travel, by airplane, with me—not once, but twice—before I’d seen his true chimichanga. We’d already been to the Wine Spectator Grand Tour tasting in Las Vegas, where I’d avoided him like jug wine. Deep in the Venetian’s crowded grand ballroom, I’d anchored myself behind my winery’s pouring table in my little black dress. Chance had worn his only pair of designer jeans (the tattered Luckys) and a frumpy cotton shirt that hugged his lil’ love handles. Every time I’d looked at him, thoughts of rummage sales and travel irons had flooded my brain. Most men were sporting suits, including Paul, who was flying around the ballroom with his college girlfriend on his arm. I wanted Paul to see me with the man of my dreams—not my man of the moment. And when he did, we both had to be dressed to kill. Chance and I would soon be jetting off to the New Orleans Wine & Food Experience, held each year over Memorial Day weekend. NOWFE—as wine people call it—had always been my favorite business trip of the year, but I was dreading it like a college calculus final. I’d prayed for an act of fate to sideline his trip: a canceled flight, a bottling problem with his Cabernet, an unexpected press check on his new labels.
Once Chance finished his pizza, he collapsed against the spindles of the wooden chair. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes met mine. “Uhhh, never mind. That was my last pizza anyway. I’m going to drink Slim Fast for a week now.” I looked down at my half-eaten garden salad and pushed it aside. This guy is a hot mess. My head was spinning. I suppressed the urge to ask if he needed to borrow a tampon.
Our New Orleans weekend nosedived as fast as Debbie Gibson’s 2001 comeback album. Chance descended on the culinary mecca with magnum force, scarfing down po’ boys and beignets all day, then he lay in our hotel bed at one o’clock in the morning, whining his regrets and rubbing his belly. He asked me to go to the hotel gift shop and buy Pepto. He brought the same wrinkled shirt from Vegas and wore it twice over the four-day trip. I wore INC suits at the wine tastings. The man didn’t know how to dress to impress. When winemakers and brand managers walked by us, I didn’t grab their arms and say, “Hey, I’d like to introduce you to
Chance.” I just stuffed my head under a tasting table and pretended to reorganize wine bottles. I’d never referred to him as my “boyfriend” and didn’t plan on starting there. He pouted like a toddler when I wouldn’t leave my wine tasting stations to go walk around the convention center with him, sampling wine and food. “This is my job,” I replied, pouring another sample taste of Rancho Zabaco Zinfandel. “I’m working. Go have fun.” I shooed him away to the Commander’s Palace station for a bowl of turtle soup.
At Jackson Square, I refused to let Chance listen to my tarot card reading, which I’d been looking forward to since my last one in New Orleans. The previous year, a Willie Nelson look-a-like had fanned out the cards on his bandana-covered table and told me my house was falling, crumbling. Within twenty-four hours, a small earthquake had hit Santa Rosa. Within twelve months, the house was sold, and my divorce papers filed. This time he said I’d fall madly in love with a tall, thin man with dark hair and blue eyes—another reason why I didn’t want Chance listening to my reading. The prediction made me wonder if Diego, the Cuban from Oakland I’d recently met on Match.com, was my Mr. Right.
After the reading, I strolled in front of Saint Louis Cathedral alone. It felt empowering to walk the lively streets of the French Quarter, remembering the zany days of my first and only Mardi Gras. My path in life had zigzagged more times than a Top Gun fighter pilot. Back in Kansas, if you would have told me I’d be living in California by age thirty, working for the largest wine company in the world, I would have replied, “Yeah right, and chickens have nipples.” My grandma had insisted that a mega earthquake was going to sink half of California into the Pacific. That was the kind of crap I’d been fed between Jimmy Dean sausages and Salisbury steak boil-in-bags. I’d come so far in just one decade.
Chance installed a new motor in his hot tub, also courtesy of Craigslist. Dating a guy with a hot tub was something you must do before you die, so I accepted the invitation to what he said would be the first of many “bikini and bubbly under the stars” parties—even though I knew deep down that it might be my last.
“As long as it’s just a few people,” I said, then suggested he invite only Karl and Melanie, who’d just started dating. Melanie was a good friend of mine who worked for the Sonoma County Wineries Association (now Sonoma County Vintners) and lived in the town of Napa. I didn’t want to be alone with Chance, but I didn’t want to bounce around his house forcing smiles with a bunch of half-naked people either. I needed a wing woman.
Sitting in a hot tub drinking sparkling wine wasn’t so calming while getting the stink eye. Chance sat alone on the other side of the six-person hot tub. A small patio light glowed in the darkness, dimly lighting Chance’s knotted face. I claimed my spot in the corner farthest from his reach. I wore a long-lost bikini—the one my butt was never supposed to fit into after getting married—giving my confidence an extra boost. We all sat in the dark, sipping our glasses of J Cuvée 20 Brut, making small talk about recent crappy weather, which had affected the blooming phase of the grapevines. Melanie pulled Karl inside the house to make some popcorn. Covert operations were her thing. We had a plan.
“How have you been?” I lifted a half-empty glass to my lips. Chance and I had not seen each other since New Orleans. The sparkling wine’s yeasty pear flavors filled my nose, as I waited for my next move. I was already daydreaming of sitting in J Vineyards & Winery’s posh Bubble Room—with a guy who didn’t drink Pepto for breakfast.
“Good,” he replied flatly. “You?” Chance glared at me through the rising steam.
“Good.” I watched the warm water bubble around us. My chest tightened with anticipation. I asked questions about his wine label printing to fill the awkward spaces.
I rested the flute on the wooden frame surrounding his hot tub. “I think we should talk.” The tension in the air was as thick as the steam mixing above our heads. It felt so damn good to have the nerve to speak up—to be in complete control of a relationship. Practice makes perfect when it comes to confrontation, too. The hot tub motor hummed behind my head. We looked at each other in silence, wavy water bouncing between us. It was time for the talk that an army of men have dished out to women. And I was in command.
“Okay,” he muttered.
“You know, we’ve had a lot of fun together.” My hands skimmed the water’s surface. Jets pulsated on my lower back and calves. The deep massage relaxed my edgy nerves.
Chance stared at me, his face contorted. “We have a blast. So what’s the problem?” He chugged his Champagne flute.
I moved one hand through the water. “Yes, we have fun.” My voice began to shake, and I took a deep breath. “I just want to make sure, umm, that we’re on the same page about where this is heading.” A bead of sweat ran down my cheek. I readjusted my wet ponytail, feeling my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. I grabbed my Champagne flute and took a long sip of J, letting the zippy bubbly reenergize me. His icy-blue eyes blinked repeatedly, and he wiped his cheeks. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or just sweating too much, but he looked like he’d just watched the end of the movie, Beaches. Steam rolled off the bubbling hot tub between us.
“I like you.” My voice trembled as I pressed on. I sipped the sparkling wine, letting the lively bubbles lift my mood … like they always do. “You’re a great kisser. You’re ambitious and whole lotta fun.” I paused, inhaled, then exhaled. His eyes fixated on my lips, waiting for the next syllable. Chance’s facial expression was long and flat like Beaker on Sesame Street. He stared at my face in silence. His bottom lip bobbed. “I just don’t think getting any more serious than this is the right thing for me.” I forced my eyes to stay focused on his. A medicine ball of nerves weighed heavy inside my chest. “I want to make sure you’re okay with that.” I sat down my wine glass and plunged my shaking hands under the water. You’re doing great. Keep going. We’d been dating almost two months. I’d enjoyed the socializing, his endless energy, and the affection in and out of the bedroom. I didn’t even mind keeping the relationship going for a little bit longer, but it was time to verbalize my feelings. He kept inviting me to have dinner with his parents. I kept making work excuses. With Father’s Day approaching, I had to buck up about where the relationship was heading.
I squirmed in my corner of the hot tub, staring at his sad face. My hands moved through the water. I adjusted my bikini straps, then grabbed my wine glass and took another long sip, letting the tiny bubbles coat my throat. Chance stared at me and said nothing. I felt as uncomfortable as a Cabernet drinker at a Pink Out! wine tasting.
“I’m sorry,” I said, finally. “I feel really weird having this conversation.” I looked up to the dark sky and searched for the Big Dipper. The night I’d made out with Fernando in his truck crossed my mind. I’d find that thrill again—in another place, with another man.
“I just don’t understand what’s wrong.” Chance’s eyes pierced through me. “I think you’re awesome. We have all the things you mentioned.” He paused. “We’re great together. We both love the wine business.” His eyes searched my face for a sign.
“I don’t need any more wine in my life.” I raised my flute to my lips.
His head dropped. “If you need more space, I understand.”
“This isn’t about my divorce.” My mouth fired back faster than a riffle. I brushed my free arm through the water.
“Then what is it?” Chance stretched both arms across the edge of the hot tub. “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you want to only date me? I only want to date you.” His eyes were anchored on my face. I took another sip to stall. My mouth filled with flavors of apples and custard, my mind with empathy.
“Do you really want to hear what I have to say?” I hefted the green bottle of bubbly to my glass. Chance looked as confused as a first grader who’d been kicked off a dodge ball team. “Okay. Fine.” I emptied the bottle into my glass and took a long gulp. “There are some areas where I think we’re incompatible.”
“Like what?”
<
br /> “Well, like eating habits for a start,” I replied curtly.
“Huh?” His eyes whizzed around my face, searching for common ground. “You know I try to eat healthy just like you.”
“Chance.” I looked into his hurt eyes. “Do you want me to be honest with you?”
He bobbed in the water. “Of course.”
I took a deep breath, longer than one of Chris’s old bong hits. “Okay.” I leaned back in the hot tub. “You harp about going on diets all the time. You constantly complain about what you eat. You tell me ‘you’re bloated.’” I looked down at the bubbling water. “As a woman, that is a real turn-off. It’s not very manly.” After filing for divorce, I’d promised myself I would never hide my feelings from a guy again because I was scared of hurting him. I’d be honest and frank—even if it hurt. (Having the courage to speak my mind ended up helping my career in the long run too, not just my love life.) Chance stared down at the water, letting my words soak in.
“I…I just…I can’t…” he stuttered, throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t just have a casual relationship with you.” Our silent stare-off picked up again. “Is that all you’re ever going to want from me?” His sorrow seeped through the warm air around our sweaty faces. The tables were turned. I was seated in the chair of so many men I’d dated. He wanted more from the relationship than I did. He cared for me more than I cared for him. I felt like celebrating by flipping off the author of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. If I could have learned sooner how confident and strong taking control of my dating life would make me feel, I’d probably had started dumping guys as a teenager.
I climbed out of the hot tub and wrapped a towel around my waist. Chance’s eyes met mine one last time. As the steam rose, I watched my dream of marrying a winemaker disappear into the night.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 34
