Seduced by Sunday (26 page)

“And when the time is right, you can ask all the right questions to the locals. It’s worth a shot. Worse case—”

“We leave with a full belly and a few cases of wine,” Val finished her sentence.

Chapter Twenty-One

The man was sexy, confident . . . and completely in his element as he negotiated with the rental car company before they set off from the hotel. Seemed Michael and Val had something in common when it came to cars that moved. Of course that meant Meg was stuck in the backseat of a car that barely had one as Val sped over the highways and byways of Italy. While the road signs weren’t completely foreign, they did take a minute or two for her brain to process. Val, on the other hand, shifted gears, veered left and right as if he was right at home.

It didn’t take long for the city to fall behind them and the countryside to open to massive space and yes . . . vineyards.

Michael hadn’t stopped smiling since they left the hotel.

“It’s like midstate California, only better,” Meg voiced from the backseat.

Michael nodded. “Optimal grape production. California produces over eighty percent of America’s wine. But this is where wine was born . . . well, here and France.”

“But no one likes the French.” Val’s joke made everyone laugh.

Meg didn’t know anyone who was uniquely French, and didn’t hold an opinion.

“It’s the history . . . the years of production that make each region unique. New winemakers study it . . . make it their business to know the subtle differences.”

Val liked to drive fast. He made the swift curves of the road his as he guided the sporty coupe to his whims. “You’re an actor . . . what do you know of the subtle differences?” Val questioned.

“Hollywood.”

Val managed a peek at Michael before returning his eyes to the road.

“Before I was old enough to drink, Hollywood was offering me everything. I was twenty when I shot my first film. When we wrapped up production there were lines of coke and shots of Patrón on the bar.”

Meg hadn’t heard this story. Knew for a fact her best friend Judy hadn’t heard it, either. She leaned in to hear every syllable.

“The coke wasn’t an option. Didn’t even look at it twice, but the tequila . . . that’s another story.”

Meg laughed. “Bit you in the ass, did it?”

Michael shook his head as if remembering the pain. “I don’t know what people see in that crap. I was sick for a week. After that the after-parties continued and I noticed wine, champagne . . . all lined up with the drugs and hard stuff. I wanted to be grown-up but didn’t want to burn for a week after. Hollywood could afford decent wine. I soon learned what I liked and what I didn’t.”

Meg smiled, liking the fact that Michael shared a personal story with them. “So why do you hide your love for wine? Your wine cellar is stocked yet you drink beer in public.”

“My image drinks beer.”

Meg snorted. “Maybe it’s time to change your image. Beer is a cheap man’s drink. Wine . . . and even Patrón, is for people with money.”

Michael seemed to consider her words.

“Unless you like beer,” Val said.

“Can’t stand it.”

“Life is too short to drink something you don’t like.”

Meg agreed. Here she was in wine country, and she didn’t like the stuff. A stiff whiskey was just fine, thank you very much . . . wine?

Blah.

They drove through the countryside until they hit the Umbria region and the winery that produced what Michael insisted tasted exactly like Alonzo’s label.

There was no doubt by their stance walking into the tasting room that they were on a mission.

Thankfully, Michael’s face was known everywhere. The employees scrambled to help them, asked for autographs, and offered them more attention than anyone else in the room.

It didn’t take long for the proprietors of the winery to work their way to Michael’s side. His natural charisma and charm opened doors like no one else Meg knew.

“My friends,” Michael opened up the conversation to the two of them, “Miss Rosenthal and Mr. Masini.”

Val shook the proprietor’s hand and spoke in Italian. The incognito understanding of the language was waiting until they reached Alonzo’s region. Here, Val had free rein to speak whatever he needed to in order to find the answers they wanted.

“So you want to know more about our wine,” their host said.

“I’m afraid our famous friend has us at a disadvantage. He said you were the best. We’re here to find out why.”

Luciano, who went by Luc, pulled the three of them to the back of the tasting room for a private tour. Meg wondered, briefly, if anyone ever turned Michael away.

The rock-laden walls of the passageway opened to a larger room that housed a few tables and hundreds of bottles of wine. The cool space stood in stark contrast to the room above them where the average taster stood sipping wine.

Luc told them how old the winery was . . . spoke of his ancestors who had owned the winery before him. He would turn every so often and say something in Italian to Val, and then continue as if every one of them understood him.

“O-four was a fabulous year.” Luc reached a top shelf in the cool cellar and wiped off the bottle, which was already dust free. “This is the year you told me you enjoyed, yes?”

Michael studied the label briefly before handing it back to their host. “I have several bottles in my collection.”

Luc dipped his head as if in appreciation of Michael’s patronage. “Tell me what you want to know,
signor
. You already enjoy my wine.” He placed his hand over his chest. “Seems you’re here to perhaps find a new favorite?”

“I would love to sample more, of course, but I also want to educate my friends on your varieties and learn what sets them apart from other wines here in Italy.”

Luc extended a hand to encourage them to sit while he used a simple intercom to request help from his employees. Before Meg could scoot her chair in, three employees walked into the room and started setting up wineglass after glass. Luc pulled bottles from his collection while others were brought from the room above. A tray of crackers, cheese, olives, and a few things Meg couldn’t identify was placed on their table.

“The weather in o-four was perfection. We had hoped the next year would do just as well, but as it was, the rain the next season gave us a small yield.” While Luc explained weather conditions, he poured a tiny amount of wine into three glasses.

Instead of picking up the glass and following Michael and Val’s
lead, Meg turned her attention to Luc. “I’d love to fake my way through a tasting, Luc . . . but that seems a shame. Please tell me what I’m looking and smelling for.”

“My pleasure,
signorina
.” Luc talked about color, and thickness of the wine. She expected the man to dip his nose deep in the glass, but instead he simply hovered the glass under his nose and drew in the scent. Luc spoke of what to be aware of when smelling wine . . . the bad things in any event. “But you won’t find any of that here,” he said. “Now . . . can you smell the oak?” Meg wasn’t sure if it was oak she drew into her nose or not. “We age this vintage in our oldest barrels.”

“You reuse them?” Meg asked.

“Yes. Many times over. New barrels have an entirely different scent.”

By the time they were ready to sip, Meg was actually anxious to taste the oak-smelling, not too thick, red but not purple wine.

She and Michael both swallowed the pleasing taste, where Val used the spittoon provided for them.

They tasted a few different blends and varieties, each time nibbling on crackers in between. Finally, the question that was burning for all of them was asked.

“What makes this wine unique to this region, Luc?” Michael asked.

“I would love to take all the credit, but the truth is too well known to fake. The unique flavor comes from sagrantino. The grape grows in this region almost exclusively.”

“Do all your blends have this grape in it?” Val asked.

“Not all, but during this year of production, we did use more of it.”

It was time for Meg to ask the obvious questions. “So we won’t find wine that tastes like this in let’s say . . . the Campania region?”

Luc offered a placating smile. “It’s not possible,
signorina
. Some wines might come close, but they will not match. Not to the educated
in any event. For someone like yourself, who doesn’t yet know the subtle differences, you may never tell the change in regions.”

“I’ll bet Michael could tell the difference,” she said.

Luc turned his eyes to Michael. “Shall we test your palate?”

“I’m up to the challenge.”

Luc tilted his head and spoke in hushed tones to one of his servers, who disappeared only to return with several bottles hidden in sleeves.

Val and Meg sat back and watched as glasses were removed and new ones took their place.

Michael swirled, swished, sipped, and spit without any words. He wrote his answer to the region and placed it facedown in front of the anonymous bottle before moving on to the next.

“He certainly looks like he knows what he’s doing,” Val whispered in her ear.

Meg shrugged. She could tell the difference in some whiskeys, so it stood to reason that Michael could tell the difference with wine.

Michael hesitated on the last bottle, sipped it twice, letting the vintage down his throat instead of spitting it out. “Nice try,” he said to Luc.

“Let’s see how you did.” Luc uncovered the first bottle, tilted it toward Michael. “Veneto region.” He turned over Michael’s answer and smiled. “One for one.”

The second bottle was Toscana, the third was one of Luc’s, the forth from Campania, the fifth Sicilia. “And the last one?” Luc asked with a strange look of pride.

“Napa.” Michael laughed.

“I think we can safely say that Michael knows his wine regions,” Meg told Val.

With the confirmation of Michael’s taste buds, it was truly time to doubt Alonzo’s wine.

Luc drew them from the private tasting room and encouraged them to stay for dinner. Considering all the time they’d been given, it would have been an insult to run off.

They stayed for dinner, drank more wine, and when they finally left, Michael and Val had placed large orders of Luc’s collection to be sent back to the States.

“Now what?” Meg asked as they drove back to the hotel.

“We drive south tomorrow.”

“To Alonzo’s winery?” Meg wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

“Adjacent properties. Learn what we can from his neighbors,” Val suggested.

Worry swam over Val’s eyes. Meg placed a hand on his leg as he drove. He kissed her fingers before placing her hand back.

Why was Alonzo passing off someone else’s wine as his own?

Meg’s thoughts went to Gabi. Something told her that her friend wouldn’t be wearing a wedding dress anytime soon. From the look on Val’s face, if half of their thoughts were true, he’d toss Gabi in an ivory tower before he’d let a lying man wed his sister.

The ceremony had been brief. Gabi wanted to think it went quickly because often the good things in life passed quickly. Between the sun, the sea, and the enormity of the commitment she was making, her head swam. When the captain told Alonzo to kiss the bride, her husband wrapped her in his arms and engulfed her.

One of the shipmates snapped a few pictures during the brief ceremony and again when they toasted their promise to each other.

Gabi remembered signing a paper and wondering how Alonzo had managed a marriage certificate in the middle of the ocean. Then he had swept her away to his cabin.

Hours later, she woke with a headache and a roll in her stomach. Like before, Alonzo wasn’t at her side. The sun was setting with a cool breeze that helped clear her head when she emerged from their bed.

Alonzo was holding on to the rail, overlooking the ocean as the sun set. “There you are,” she said as she slid her hands around his waist.

He covered her hand with his and kissed the top of her head. “You were so peaceful, Mrs. Picano. It was my husbandly duty to let you sleep.”

“And miss the sunset?”

He pulled her close.

Once in the crook of his arm, she said, “We’re really married.”