Seduced by Sunday
Page 50
Michael left the bag on the step and kissed both of her cheeks. “Last-minute decision. I hope it’s OK.”
Natalie was all of five feet four inches tall, her good cooking evident by her slightly plump frame. She opened the door to the house and welcomed him in. “You’re always welcome.”
He stepped into the air-conditioned foyer and followed her into the back of the house.
“Chuck is in the field with the foreman. He should be along shortly.”
The Windons’ kitchen was built for someone who loved to cook. Natalie had been a master chef before she met her husband. Together they decided to buy the winery nearly twenty years ago. Now, with their children grown, one son following in his father’s wine-making business, and the other at a university on the East Coast, the house was quiet.
“You’re just in time for lunch.” Natalie moved to the stove, stirred a massive pot, and dipped a tasting spoon inside. She held it up for Michael to taste.
A broth soup with a hint of spice, a chunk of sausage, and potato. “Mmm, so good. What is it?”
“Portuguese sausage soup. Lovely, yes?”
“Perfect.”
Michael pulled out a chair at the kitchen counter and made himself at home. “Can I help with anything?”
Natalie glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Wine or tea?”
“Tea.”
She moved around the kitchen, collecting bowls, removing bread and fresh butter.
“How does the harvest look?”
“The drought has given us a hit so the quantity will be down.”
“But you’re doing all right?”
“We’ll be fine, Michael.”
He sipped his iced tea while they talked grapes, wine, and the weather.
Handshakes and back patting commenced when Chuck entered the house. They caught up during lunch, talked about college kids and future movies.
When Natalie left them on the back veranda, which overlooked the row upon row of grapevines, Chuck kicked back with his feet up on a cushioned chair. “I don’t think you drove all the way up here for lunch and a visit.”
“Lunch was divine,” Michael said.
“No argument there.”
Michael reached into the bag at his side and removed a bottle of wine before handing it to Chuck.
“What’s this?” Chuck sat forward and peered at the bottle.
“Have you heard of this label?”
Chuck turned the wine around to read the back. “No. Why?”
Michael took the liberty of stepping to the wine cart and grabbing two glasses and a wine opener. If there was a partner in wine crime, Chuck was it. The man knew more than God on the subject.
With practiced ease, Chuck took the offered sample, swirled, swished, sniffed, and finally sipped. An appreciative smile slid over his face. He picked up the bottle again. His smile fell to a puzzled squinting of his eyes.
“You taught me wine by regions. Where is this one from?” Michael asked.
“Umbria. No doubt.” Chuck circled the wine bottle again. “But I’ve been all over that area and don’t know this name. Is the winery newly acquired?”
Michael leaned against the outside serving station and poured a splash of Alonzo’s wine into a glass. “I’m not sure of the age of the winery, but the man behind the bottle told me this is from Campania.”
“No, no . . . unless the grapes were grown in Umbria and processed in Campania.”
Like any bum on the street, Michael opened a second bottle of wine and kept the label hidden inside a plain paper bag. He poured a splash of the new vintage in a glass and handed it to Chuck.
Swirl, smell, sip, spit. “It’s identical.”
Michael offered a short shake of his head while he pulled the second bottle out of the bag and showed it to Chuck.
“How can that be?”
“Wine can taste the same.”
“When they’re from the same region, maybe. But smell the oak?” Chuck shoved his nose deep in the glass and closed his eyes. “Umbria. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
It was nice to have his doubts justified, now the question was why . . . why did Alonzo Picano claim his vineyard, in Campania, grew the grapes used to make the wine in Michael’s hands? And how was it the wine tasted identical to a much larger winery, with a solid reputation?
Chapter Nineteen
Val accompanied Rick back to California. His mother took a much-needed extended trip to visit her sister in New York while the weather was still warm. The island was functioning as normal without any new pictures showing up online or off. Security had been doubled, and everything was painfully quiet.
He didn’t tell Margaret that he was returning with Rick. If Val needed an excuse, he would use the desire to accompany his sister back to the Keys.
Judy picked them up at the airport. She nudged her husband. “You didn’t tell me he was coming with you.”
“You didn’t ask.” Rick kissed his wife and whispered something in her ear. Her gaze fell on Val and didn’t shake loose.
“So you flew all the way here to see Meg?” Judy asked as they wove through hoards of people en route to baggage claim.
“I was hoping to surprise her.”
Judy started to laugh.
Rick narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?”
They found the circular baggage drop and waited for the conveyer belt to start emptying the cargo hold of the commercial airline.
“Well,” Judy looked at her watch. “You’re about an hour late.”
“An hour late for what?”
“Meg and Mike flew out an hour ago.”
Natalie was all of five feet four inches tall, her good cooking evident by her slightly plump frame. She opened the door to the house and welcomed him in. “You’re always welcome.”
He stepped into the air-conditioned foyer and followed her into the back of the house.
“Chuck is in the field with the foreman. He should be along shortly.”
The Windons’ kitchen was built for someone who loved to cook. Natalie had been a master chef before she met her husband. Together they decided to buy the winery nearly twenty years ago. Now, with their children grown, one son following in his father’s wine-making business, and the other at a university on the East Coast, the house was quiet.
“You’re just in time for lunch.” Natalie moved to the stove, stirred a massive pot, and dipped a tasting spoon inside. She held it up for Michael to taste.
A broth soup with a hint of spice, a chunk of sausage, and potato. “Mmm, so good. What is it?”
“Portuguese sausage soup. Lovely, yes?”
“Perfect.”
Michael pulled out a chair at the kitchen counter and made himself at home. “Can I help with anything?”
Natalie glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Wine or tea?”
“Tea.”
She moved around the kitchen, collecting bowls, removing bread and fresh butter.
“How does the harvest look?”
“The drought has given us a hit so the quantity will be down.”
“But you’re doing all right?”
“We’ll be fine, Michael.”
He sipped his iced tea while they talked grapes, wine, and the weather.
Handshakes and back patting commenced when Chuck entered the house. They caught up during lunch, talked about college kids and future movies.
When Natalie left them on the back veranda, which overlooked the row upon row of grapevines, Chuck kicked back with his feet up on a cushioned chair. “I don’t think you drove all the way up here for lunch and a visit.”
“Lunch was divine,” Michael said.
“No argument there.”
Michael reached into the bag at his side and removed a bottle of wine before handing it to Chuck.
“What’s this?” Chuck sat forward and peered at the bottle.
“Have you heard of this label?”
Chuck turned the wine around to read the back. “No. Why?”
Michael took the liberty of stepping to the wine cart and grabbing two glasses and a wine opener. If there was a partner in wine crime, Chuck was it. The man knew more than God on the subject.
With practiced ease, Chuck took the offered sample, swirled, swished, sniffed, and finally sipped. An appreciative smile slid over his face. He picked up the bottle again. His smile fell to a puzzled squinting of his eyes.
“You taught me wine by regions. Where is this one from?” Michael asked.
“Umbria. No doubt.” Chuck circled the wine bottle again. “But I’ve been all over that area and don’t know this name. Is the winery newly acquired?”
Michael leaned against the outside serving station and poured a splash of Alonzo’s wine into a glass. “I’m not sure of the age of the winery, but the man behind the bottle told me this is from Campania.”
“No, no . . . unless the grapes were grown in Umbria and processed in Campania.”
Like any bum on the street, Michael opened a second bottle of wine and kept the label hidden inside a plain paper bag. He poured a splash of the new vintage in a glass and handed it to Chuck.
Swirl, smell, sip, spit. “It’s identical.”
Michael offered a short shake of his head while he pulled the second bottle out of the bag and showed it to Chuck.
“How can that be?”
“Wine can taste the same.”
“When they’re from the same region, maybe. But smell the oak?” Chuck shoved his nose deep in the glass and closed his eyes. “Umbria. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
It was nice to have his doubts justified, now the question was why . . . why did Alonzo Picano claim his vineyard, in Campania, grew the grapes used to make the wine in Michael’s hands? And how was it the wine tasted identical to a much larger winery, with a solid reputation?
Chapter Nineteen
Val accompanied Rick back to California. His mother took a much-needed extended trip to visit her sister in New York while the weather was still warm. The island was functioning as normal without any new pictures showing up online or off. Security had been doubled, and everything was painfully quiet.
He didn’t tell Margaret that he was returning with Rick. If Val needed an excuse, he would use the desire to accompany his sister back to the Keys.
Judy picked them up at the airport. She nudged her husband. “You didn’t tell me he was coming with you.”
“You didn’t ask.” Rick kissed his wife and whispered something in her ear. Her gaze fell on Val and didn’t shake loose.
“So you flew all the way here to see Meg?” Judy asked as they wove through hoards of people en route to baggage claim.
“I was hoping to surprise her.”
Judy started to laugh.
Rick narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?”
They found the circular baggage drop and waited for the conveyer belt to start emptying the cargo hold of the commercial airline.
“Well,” Judy looked at her watch. “You’re about an hour late.”
“An hour late for what?”
“Meg and Mike flew out an hour ago.”
