THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  KEVIN

  “FLY AWAY”

  The Black Eyed Peas

  REWIND: I’d never been to Arizona before, but the experience felt eerily familiar. My eyes bounced from the road to the scribbled paper pinched between my fingers, as cold air blasted from the car’s air-conditioning vents. I took a deep, chilled breath, a welcome recess after a long day under the desert sun with my mystery man. Following his driving directions was almost as easy as following my heart.

  Within minutes, I spotted the exit number he’d jotted on my hotel notepad and pulled off the freeway. Giant cactuses flanked the entrance to his neighborhood. I almost expected one of them to turn into Gumby and stick me in the ass for being so—well, so Harley—chasing the dream of finding my dream guy, any place, any time. Pueblo-style houses painted vibrant Southwest colors lined the streets, each with its identical, thimble-sized lot. It reminded me of tract-home communities back in California’s Central Valley.

  I parked my Toyota Camry on a cul-de-sac, then checked my hair and lipstick in the visor mirror. My eyes darted back and forth between the piece of paper and a line of streetside mailboxes. I counted the numbers on the houses, moving farther and farther down the street. When I found number 1972 at the end of circle, my heart took a long drink of adrenaline. There were only three cars on the entire street and one was mine. He’d invited me to a barbecue. I’d expected a street full of cars and a trail of dance music and laughter spilling from the backyard. I glanced down at the car key, dangling from the ignition.

  Twelve hours had passed since my flight had landed in Phoenix. I’d just finished the roughest and longest work trip of my event planning career—four days each at Food & Wine Magazine’s Classic at Aspen, the first-ever VinExpo Americas, and the Telluride Wine Festival in Colorado—and still had three days in Arizona before returning home to Santa Rosa. My muscles were sore from carrying cases of wine all day and sleeping on firm hotel mattresses all night, but I didn’t mind. I was living life by my rules, flying around the country popping corks for strangers who shared my love of wine. In the business, we call them friends. Gallo’s national sales meeting had kicked off that morning at the swanky Phoenician resort, perched at the foot of Camelback Mountain. Eight hours later, I was sitting in a rental car in the suburbs of Scottsdale about to enter the house of a man I’d just met. My white knuckles clutched the steering wheel. I exhaled, pushing my apprehension out into the painted sky of the sweltering desert. I was a thirty-year-old divorcée with Hilton Honors Diamond VIP status and a palate for Champagne—seasoned enough to know a good guy from a bad one. Kevin had been partially vetted. He had a subscription to Wine Spectator and knew the difference between Merlot and Malbec, so he’d passed the first test. Time for number two.

  I walked slowly toward the front of his terra cotta-colored house, feeling the heat radiate from the pavement into my Franco Sarto sandals. It was eight o’clock and still ninety-five degrees. My backless Bebe top stuck to my stomach. I fluffed the long layers of my hair, then tugged on the sitting wrinkles in my cream capris. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous—not sweaty and oily like I’d been when Kevin had first laid eyes on me. We’d met that morning at The Phoenician’s Olympic-sized pool, after he’d interrupted my in-depth read of Wine Spectator’s 2002 Burgundy vintage report. (After two weeks of working twelve-hour days, my idea of attending Gallo’s national sales meeting involved a chaise lounger and one of my favorite magazines—not five hours in a dark conference room.) Kevin had seen me in an old, faded bikini with no make-up and a messy ponytail sprouting atop my head like a palm tree. I’d been one tattoo and a cigarette short of trailer trash, and he’d still invited me over.

  Kevin opened the rustic, wood front door. The butterflies buzzed in my stomach. He wore a light-blue golf shirt and cargo shorts, and his tanned skin glowed under the front porch light.

  He smiled warmly. “Hey, you. Welcome to the burbs.” His perfect teeth looked even whiter when his sunburned cheeks plumped. Kevin had hazel eyes and fuzzy, light-brown hair. He was boyishly handsome like Eric Brady from Days of our Lives.

  I looked past him in the doorway. “What happened to the party?” I could only hear the hum of his central air conditioning. The bottle of wine in my hand suddenly felt like a dumbbell.

  “Well, Maya got a tummy ache on the way home from the pool.” His head wagged, as he leaned his tone body against the door. “I think she ate too many French fries.” He winked and grinned.

  I smiled back, twirling the bottle in my hands. “We did eat a lot today, didn’t we?” Kevin was a professional golfer who taught private lessons at The Phoenician; as a perk, the clubhouse manager gave Kevin access to all hotel amenities. Maya was his five-year-old daughter. I’d spent the entire afternoon with Maya and her Dora the Explorer arm floats, playing Jaws and Marco Polo under the grotto waterfall. We’d shared two orders of French fries inside their cabana.

  Kevin leaned in closer to me. “We talked a lot too.” I felt my sunburned cheeks getting warmer and looked down at my freshly painted toenails. We’d talked about life and relationships for at least three hours. We were both starting all over again in our thirties, so I’d wanted to learn more about him, but cautiously. Kevin split his time between San Diego, his primary residence where most of his wealthy clients lived, and Scottsdale, where his only child resided with her mom. Kevin had looked so adorable wrapping a towel around Maya’s tiny body before lifting a Capri Sun juice pouch to her lips. I could picture the “Baby on Board” sign dangling proudly in his car; he probably bought his ex tampons at the store too. He was unlike any man I’d ever dated.

  “I should go.” I held out the bottle of Gallo of Sonoma Barrelli Creek Cabernet Sauvignon as a peace offering. After noticing three copies of Wine Spectator on my lounge chair that day, Kevin had started up a conversation about his favorite wines. He loved Cabernets, especially those from Napa Valley and Bordeaux. I wanted to show him that Sonoma County Cabs were just as good, but not if we’d be drinking alone inside his house.

  “Don’t be silly.” He rolled his eyes with a scoff. “She’s in bed, fast asleep.” Kevin waved his arms, motioning me into the entryway. I stood on the step, looking at his hazel eyes. My mind raced. He has a daughter. He’s a good guy. I stepped through the door hesitantly and felt it close behind me. He was a perfect stranger, but he was not Matthew. And I was a different woman. I wondered if his ex might come knocking any minute. They were amidst a complicated divorce due to joint-custody negotiations. It had been dragging out for a year. She also lived in Scottsdale, not far from Kevin’s house—the house they used to share. At the pool, I’d gotten the feeling she’d officially moved out only a few months before. All of this didn’t phase me for some reason. Their situation made me realize how lucky I was to experience a divorce as swift and smooth as an eBay auction. All I had left to do was watch the clock countdown until our divorce was final in September. But that didn’t mean I was ready to meet Kevin’s wife.

  “I’m glad you came.” Kevin cradled the bottle of wine with both hands. “I was worried you wouldn’t.” His openness about his feelings tugged at my heart.

  “Why?” I looked down at the Mexican tiles fanning out around my sandals. “Because I hardly know you?” I stuffed my hands into my pockets. We stood in the entryway, smiling through the awkwardness.

  “Well, there’s that, and I have baggage.” Kevin chuckled, his laughter spilling down the hallway. The tension in my chest released as I giggled. I loved his honesty. When we weren’t playing with his daughter at the pool, we’d commiserated about our marriages and how great it felt to be starting over. Common ground had fueled our conversation all afternoon. I wanted to learn more about the guy who spent his mornings surfing La Jolla Shores before being whisked away on a private jet to play eighteen holes in Cabo San Lucas. He seemed like The Most Interesting Man in the World—minus the pet tiger and gray beard.

  I fidgeted with my purse, smirking. “We all have baggage. Men just
carry theirs better.”

  “Very funny.” Kevin extended his arm like a maître d’ and ushered me toward the great room. The hallway opened to a gigantic room with vaulted ceilings and rustic beams. An L-shaped tan sectional covered one side of the living room with a big screen TV and a floor-to-ceiling wine cellar spanning the adjacent wall. Code green! Kevin sat the bottle of wine on a granite island in the modern kitchen. Kenny G drifted from a small Bose stereo near the kitchen sink. Code yellow. My mind kept ticking off the good, and the bad, boxes. If a guy was under thirty-five and listened to Kenny G, I considered it a red flag.

  “Can I open this?” Kevin gripped the bottle’s capsule. “I haven’t drank Gallo in years.” He stood in front of his refrigerator, which was covered with crayon drawings. I glanced over at his fancy wine storage unit with its red lights flashing the numbers 45 and 56—ideal temperatures for storing white and red wines, respectively. My nerves began to relax.

  “It’s no Screaming Eagle.” I pushed my hair off my face. “But I think you’ll like it.” When I’d asked Kevin what his favorite wine was, he’d said Screaming Eagle—a Grand Canyon-sized sign that the man had great taste and money. Kevin was the type of guy who knew how to get on the mailing lists of Screaming Eagle and Harlan, something I’m still not capable of after sixteen years in the wine business. I looked around his bare home. There were no candles or pictures. No empty moving boxes. The only thing in the room besides living room furniture and the wine cellar was an overstuffed toy chest in the corner. It was like a man cave turned wine cave turned playschool. My guard flew back up, as my eyes bounced around his sterile place.

  “I know. I really need to decorate.” He shook his head. “It’s hard living in two places.” He grabbed a corkscrew from the island drawer and opened the bottle effortlessly. As quickly as he’d lose a Brownie point, he’d score one. “When I’m here, I want to spend all my time playing with Maya—not hanging pictures.”

  I picked at my fingernails to calms my nerves while he poured the inky red wine into two glasses.

  He handed me a half-full glass, the perfect amount for allowing a wine to breathe. I didn’t want to date someone in the biz, but if the guy appreciated good wine and knew how to serve it: bonus. Kevin motioned for me to follow him over to the sectional couch. He sat on the long leg of the L, so I sat on the short one, putting two cushions of space between us. My back was straight, and my legs crossed at the knee. I looked calm and collected, but my chest was humming like a sewing machine.

  Kevin pointed at the glass’s crystal base anchored between my thumb and index finger. “Isn’t this the proper way to hold a wine glass?”

  “Yes.” I moved my hands to palm the bowl of the glass. “And this is a great trick if your white wine is too cold. The body heat from your hands will increase the temperature of the wine, releasing the bouquet.” My hair bounced around my face as my hands cupped the glass. The average restaurant typically serves white wines at thirty-five degrees—the temperature of a bar cooler. “When wines are too cold, their scents are muted, but you don’t want to warm up a wine if it’s already the right temperature. That will accentuate the alcohol.”

  Kevin studied his glass and perfected his grip on the stem. “You are so interesting.” He looked over at me with his big hazel eyes and long lashes. I stuck my nose in the glass, ignoring his compliment.

  “You’re just letting me talk.” I inhaled the wine’s aromas of black cherry and cigar box. “You probably know this stuff already. Look at your cellar.” My eyes veered to the mammoth wine refrigerator. Unable to fight the pull of curiosity, I sauntered over.

  “Just because I have expensive taste in wine doesn’t mean I’m a wine expert.” Kevin’s voice rang in my ears, as I stared into the glass case holding at least 300 bottles. My eyes scanned the neatly stacked rows of bottles resting on their sides: Groth, Caymus, Jordan, Spottswoode, Silverado, Harlan, Screaming Eagle, Colgin. More than half his cellar was filled with stellar Cabernets. How can you own a bottle of Screaming Eagle and not be an expert? “I’m so glad we met today,” he said, my back still turned to him. I took a long sip of the Gallo wine, feeling his compliments echo in my head. My whole body shuddered. It was a little too much. My face was already two shades of pink after six hours at the pool with only SPF 4 lotion, but I felt my cheeks get warmer. I smiled and looked down at the ruby-red wine in my glass. Wine that might not be fine enough for his palate.

  I peered into the cooler side of the temperature-controlled unit. “I haven’t seen a cellar like this in years.” I recognized several premier cru and grand cru Champagnes and White Burgundies from my college classes and the publisher’s cellar at The Wine News.

  “Once you start collecting, you can’t stop.” Kevin spoke with an amped-up tone like a gambling addict. I turned to admire this handsome man who’d been bitten by the wine bug—his cute face, his fuzzy hair, his tanned arms cradling a wine glass. Throbbing desire began clawing at my insides. I took two sips to fight it off.

  I rested the wine glass on the coffee table. “It sure is interesting how our paths in life take unexpected detours.” I sat down and neatly placed my palms on my knees. “But it all happens for a reason. You just have to ride the wave. See where it takes you.” I shrugged and looked at the bottle of Gallo wine he’d set on the coffee table. While Maya had taken turns jumping off the pool’s edge into Kevin’s arms and mine, I’d told him about my move to Florida and how that journey had led me to a wine class in college and then a career working for the Gallos—an amazing wine family with a tenacious work ethic. Kevin had grown up in Indiana and shared at least one of my philosophies in life: live where other people vacation.

  “Everything in life happens for a reason,” Kevin murmured, nodding. My head flew to his lips. That was my mantra! I took a long sip of the Cabernet, wondering if it was a sign. “We hadn’t been to The Phoenician in two months. But for some reason, I woke up this morning and asked Maya if she wanted to go.” His hazel eyes pierced mine.

  I quickly looked down into my glass and nosed the black-fruit bouquet. The fate train had pulled into my station once again, but I wasn’t about to jump on.

  “You’re strong.” Kevin rested his glass on the coffee table. “I like that about you.” A magnum-sized grin plastered across my face. That boy could pour it on thicker than Texas chili.

  “Strength comes from defeating weakness.” I took a long sip. Flavors of cherry and cassis lingered on my palate, as I recounted the knots that had formed in my stomach before the wedding. “I chalked it up to jitters.” I shook my head. “Marrying him was easier than breaking it off.” I swirled my glass on the table. “It’s sad that I approached marriage that way, but I learned a lot from that experience.”

  Kevin grabbed the wine bottle from the coffee table and titled it toward my glass. Like a trained sommelier, he carefully spun the bottle counter-clockwise at the end of the pour, ensuring no wine dripped on the table. Impressive. I smiled and complimented him on his technique.

  “I made a list of the most important things in our relationship.” My head whipped toward him. “The first three things that popped into my head were the house, the dog and the finances.” I counted the list with my fingers, then breathed deeply. Making a list of relationship pros and cons was one of my therapist’s take-home assignments. My marital priorities were totally whacked—another realization that helped me end the relationship.

  “Divorce is always hard.” Kevin tightened his grip on the wine glass. “Divorce is so much harder when a child is involved.” He looked up at three coloring book pages taped to the wall above my head. I watched his eyes grow dark. “We’re so close to it being over.” Kevin proceeded to explain how his ex had been fighting for full custody and was using Kevin’s dual-residence lifestyle against him. My chest ached with empathy.

  “Why did it end?” I needed a clear picture of where their relationship stood and how it imploded. They were bound for life by their daughter.


  “She wasn’t the same person anymore.” His hurt eyes connected with mine. He talked about how carefree and full of life she’d been when they’d met. In the last few years, her career in medical insurance had begun to consume her life. “All she wanted to do was make more money, talk about her salary, go to cocktail parties alone and rub elbows with executives.” He took a long sip of the wine and refilled his glass. “I kept asking myself, ‘What about Maya? What about making time for your husband and daughter?” I nodded, feeling my humming heartbeat. Sounds familiar. Our parallel struggles to find happiness endeared him to me.

  I stared deep into my glass of Cab. “One of the hardest things about keeping a marriage together is that people change. Some people grow together, some people grow apart. When I was twenty-four, I just wanted someone to take care of me.” A shaky sigh left my lips with the confession. “My priorities have changed. I want to be loved for who I am.” I gazed into my wine glass again and pictured myself walking down the street. I was a proud workaholic with more moles, scars and baggage than I could count, and some man out there would love all of me—because I finally did. “There were so many things I learned from my marriage, but understanding the type of nurturing I need was one of the most important. I don’t give a shit if you do my laundry or wash my car.” I squeezed the wine stem between my fingers, feeling a wisp of anger breeze through me.

  Kevin nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “When you’re with the wrong person, your head will tell you.” My eyes stayed fixed on my glass. “If you don’t listen, your body will send you a message.” I took a sip of Cabernet, letting the silky tannins coat my tongue. “The subconscious is such a powerful force.” A look of enlightenment flashed across his face; I soaked up his interest in my failed marriage and pressed on. “I was constantly sick when we were married.” I leaned toward Kevin. I talked about my battle with chronic colds during the last years living with Paul, and skipped over the myriad infections my OBGYN could only chalk up to “your body chemistry just doesn’t work with his.” Even my body had rejected Paul! As soon as I’d filed for divorce, my health had immediately improved. Staying in a bad relationship is like taking drugs. It fucks with your mind and your body, but you can rehab yourself. To this day, I totally believe this.