Santana didnt have much patience for goodbyes. She stood next to the open door of her BMW, drumming her lacquered nails on the roof.

Blaine eyed her with friendly wariness, and ushered Kurt to the city with a kiss on the cheek and a hushed, "Try to be good."  

Moments later, they were off, Santana peeling out from the driveway and leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Blaine would have rather have spent a quiet day with his husband. He had little on his calendar, and Kurt would leave for New York in two days. But the alternative — being dragged from gallery to trendy boutique along Fillmore Street to fighting the holiday season crowds outside Macys on Union Square — appealed to him even less.

And frankly, a day in San Francisco might serve Kurt well — so long as he made it home in one piece.

Blaine soon found himself puttering around the house — cleaning, pacing, pretending to work — focused more on Kurts trip east than on household chores. He had little doubt that Kurts former boss had plans to woo him back to work. And Quinn Fabray knew that one way to Kurts heart was through dinners at top restaurants with world-class wine lists.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and let his mind go blank, looking out the window, down the hill toward the vineyard entrance. A puff of dust suddenly rose from the road.

Kurt and Santana werent supposed to return until evening, and no crew members were scheduled to work until the following week. He had no deliveries scheduled.

Blaine grabbed his keys and sunglasses, and made quick work of the dirt drive.

Near the entrance, he saw the visitors approaching: a black Mercedes executive coach, the sort used to shepherd small groups on tours of valley wineries.

"Oh no they dont," he muttered to himself, pulling his truck into a modified J-turn, blocking the shuttles path.

The door of the coach opened and a middle-aged man in black slacks, loafers and a logod polo shirt stepped out. Blaine remained seated, folding his arms over the steering wheel.

"Hi there! Youre just who were looking for..."

"Get back in your van, put it in reverse, and get off the property," Blaine said calmly.

"Honestly, we would have called to set this up, but this wasnt planned."

"No doubt," Blaine said. "Rhapsody isnt open for tours."

"Come on. Help a guy out? I know you dont do this normally, but Ive got a bus full of VIPs over there who insisted that I drive them up here. What was I supposed to do?"

"Tell them no," Blaine said. "Show them that sign that says private property as you drive away."

"I swear, if youll just... just greet them? Maybe let them try one wine? Theyll buy cases, I swear. And if they dont, I will."

"Youre the same people that were here last week, arent you?"

"Well pay you for your trouble."

Blaine had heard enough. He switched off the ignition, set the brake and jumped out of the truck. 

"Thanks, man," the driver said.

"I dont think you understand," Blaine said. "I dont want your money. And I promise you, any greeting I give that van full of tourists wont earn you any tips. Its time for you to leave. Now."

Blaine could hear muffled voices from inside the coach, where the passengers had started to gather around the open door and drivers side window.

"Thats him."

"Whats the problem?"

"Hes hot."

"What an asshole."

Blaine grinned.

"Time for you to leave. Tell your group that they can try the Mezzo and the Allegrezza at The Girl and The Fig down on the square. 

"And the next time you try to bring a group up here, Im calling the cops."

****

The day passed in an aggravated blur. Blaine answered emails, then he swore under his breath. He pulled Kurts suitcase — the big one — out of storage, then he stared at the wall.

He decided to distract himself by running errands. He could use some additional trellis supplies, and that would give him an excuse to clear his head in the warm, open air of the International Scout.

He whistled for the dog, removed the roof and jumped behind the wheel, muttering as he nosed past the front entrance, "Im going to have to buy a fucking security gate."

Blaine tuned out the stress with winding roads and James Brown, but it didnt help, not much. His mind drifted, and he thought about the past year — the past two —and the checklist of events and changes that may have added up to too much, too fast.

Santana might harass him about it, but he wasnt comfortable being the public face of Sonomas wine industry. Its one thing to offer help or even leadership behind the scenes. Its another entirely to be made the poster child — or president — of the local trade association. And Santana had pushed — hard — for just that. Blaine didnt enjoy the recognition hed earned by winning that wine competition, and now the world was trying to capitalize on it, even if Blaine himself wasnt on board.

Then there was the vineyard, his baby. Sure, he had plans to expand it — eventually. But Rhapsodys sudden rise to fame had forced his hand. His neighbor had tried to cash in on Rhapsodys notoriety and offered the adjoining land up for sale long before Blaine hoped to acquire it. It was a big investment, and the only way to control the cost — and protect his privacy — was to buy it years before he had hoped to. This wasnt the plan, he thought to himself.

There had been so many adjustments to make, and not just for him. Blaine could see Kurt struggling to accept a pace that maybe, just maybe, wasnt a part of his DNA. He would never be a winemaker, despite his efforts to learn the business, and hadnt quite filled the professional void since leaving Taste.

Blaine couldnt help but wonder if he had pushed too far, too fast.

Kurt had stayed on as wine editor emeritus at Taste Magazine for another six months after their marriage. Technically, he still held the title.

He had shepherded the second Taste Challenge to success, written a few columns and traveled — lightly — on behalf of the publication for a few months. Then one evening, as they stood in the kitchen washing dishes, Kurt put the last of the plates in the cupboard, set down his dish towel and announced that he was leaving the magazine, for good.  

"I want to do more here," he said. "I want to help you."

Blaines efforts to teach him winemaking simply hadnt fully connected. Kurt was a master of the product, but the process was another matter. It was probably too much like chemistry class, he reasoned. And Kurt hated chemistry class.

"I can help manage the business end, and that would free you up to spend more time actually making wine," he had told Blaine. "And then Ill drink it."

Kurt had transitioned without complaint, but Blaine could see it, and sense it. Sometimes, Kurt just had to get out of the house. Blaine could already see his husband of less than a year getting bound and stifled by country living.

And what had Blaine given up in the deal? Not much, he thought to himself, hitting the gas and turning up the trucks stereo.

Blaine could feel his blood pressure rise and his attention shrink as he navigated the last of Sonomas winding roads before merging on to the open span of highway north. 

****

Laughing and juggling shopping bags, Santana and Kurt stumbled through the door around 8 p.m.

"Husband!" Kurt bellowed.

"Ven aqui, chaparro!"  Santana shouted, earning a cocked eyebrow from Kurt.

"Im warning you now, Santana. One of these days, Im going to learn Spanish."

Blaine rounded the corner from the kitchen, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

"Sounds like you two had fun," he said. "Coffee? Dinner? Ibuprofen?"

Kurt dropped his bags in the foyer and sauntered up to Blaine. "Coffee, tea or me?" he giggled, awkwardly trying to plant a kiss on Blaines cheek, but grazing it instead when he misjudged the distance between them.

"Oh, please," Santana said. "Ill have you know your man here dragged me all over the city today."

"Ill bet. It looks like we have enough to decorate the entire square."

"No, but when youre starting from scratch and have a tree that size, its going to take some raw materials," Kurt said. "Want to see?"

Kurt fetched the bags and began unpacking ornament boxes and bubble-wrapped trinkets while Santana glanced down at her phone, already bored.

"Ive got to go," she said. "You two have fun. And Blaine, Im putting you on the Bureau ballot. Deal with it."

"But..."

Before he could even begin to articulate his case, Santana breezed back out of the house and to her car. She wasnt about to give Blaine a chance to say no.

He looked at Kurt, ruffled, and shook his head.

"You know Im going to kill her," Blaine said, his voice picking up tempo and strain with each syllable. "Im going to kill her, and Im going to hide the body, and youre not going to say anything or testify against me because Im your husband."

Kurt pursed his lips, stifling the smile that was fighting to break out, and nodded.

Blaine closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "Im gonna kill her."

"Of course you are. We all are, or swear we will at one point or another."

Kurt took his hand.

"Bad day?"

"Oh this?" Blaine said, waving his hand at the front door, Vanna White-style, "This is just dessert."

"Its not that much responsibility, is it? The Bureau position is just a figurehead. I mean a speech or two? Greeting the occasional VIP?" Kurt tried to make it sound painless, mundane, but the look on Blaines face was etched in disgust.

"We had another tour group stop by today."

"Oh no."

"Same company as the one three days ago."

"Same result?"

"MmmHmm."

"Oh shit."

"It doesnt matter if I call and talk to management, or write letters, or point out the Private Property sign. They just keep coming back. Im going to have to install a security gate if this keeps up.

Kurt pulled behind Blaine, kissed his temple, and then brought his hands to his husbands shoulders, slowly kneading the tension knots along the top of his spine.

"And someone called today wondering if they could book a wedding reception. I mean, the balls..."

Kurt dragged his thumbs in slow, deep concentric circles at the base of Blaines neck, occasionally dotting his shoulder with a breath of a kiss.

"Youre a local celebrity. Itll die down."

"I was so worked up, I nearly missed a curve on the road to Santa Rosa today."

Kurts hands jolted to an abrupt halt.

"What? Were you in an accident? Are you okay?"

"No, no. I corrected in time. But there was a cop on the other side of the road," Blaine said.

"Oh no."

"He let me off with a verbal warning when he recognized me."

"See?" Kurt said. "The benefits of celebrity."

"I dont want that, Kurt. In fact, I seem to remember saying something to that effect nearly two years ago. If the price of selling more wine is our privacy, then I dont need to sell more wine."

"Sssshhh. Its okay," Kurt said softly. "Itll settle down. I promise."

"Sure."

"Hey, you want to see what I got you today?"

"Im breathless with anticipation," Blaine said.

"Hey, dont blame the husband," Kurt said, giving Blaine a quick kiss before settling among the bags, patting a spot on the floor beside him. "Come here."

He pulled a couple of large shopping bags in front of him.

The first bag contained vintage ornaments of gold and burgundy glass that Kurt had found in a small boutique. A splash of color to set the tone, he said — the deep red the color of fine wine, the shimmery gold reminiscent of the gilded letters on the labels of Rhapsody wines. 

Blaine nodded, and peeked into another sack, this one containing wide-gauge wired netting, a variegated swath of gold, peach and crimson. He furrowed his brow.

"Just trust me," Kurt said, "and hand me that bag."

Blaine mouthed, "okay," and did as he was told, handing Kurt an oversized shopping bag filled with at least a dozen symmetrical boxes. "Where are these from?" he asked.

"Nope. Its a surprise." Kurt said, pulling box after box from the bag, finally handing one to Blaine. "Go ahead."

He opened the simple black box to tissue paper emblazoned with the logo of the San Francisco Symphony store. He unfolded it to find a small wooden ornament, a miniature mandolin.

"Forgive me. I shopped at a gift store," Kurt said, shrugging.

The next box held a tiny flute. The next, a drum set. Then tympani, a harp, an oboe. By the time he had opened the boxes, Blaine nearly had a miniature orchestra of his own.

"One more," Kurt said, stretching to reach for a small, dark blue, embossed bag. The enclosed leather-wrapped box looked like it was from a jewelry store. Blaine looked at Kurt quizzically before he opened it silently, his jaw going slack and his eyes hazy in the moment of recognition.

"Merry Christmas," Kurt said.

"How...?"

"I sent them the design over a month ago," Kurt said. "You like it?"

"Kurt. ..." Blaine looked up to meet Kurts eyes, then looked down again at the box. He pulled the hand-crafted bauble from its satin nest and carefully turned it over in his hand.

The artist had cast a perfect three-dimensional recreation of Rhapsodys logo, the Claddagh made from two inverted treble clefs, in 14-karat gold. 

"Youve been planning this for a while, havent you?"

Kurt simply smiled.

"Its perfect."

Hours later, Blaine stood back to take in the tree that he had finally been persuaded to help decorate.

Not bad. 

Kurt had outdone himself with the tree — an old-fashioned, well-coordinated nod to Rhapsody, without the kitsch of wine country gift store decorations. There was not a grape, nor glass nor bottle to be found, yet the tree was a crystal clear reflection of its home.

"Its beautiful," Blaine said. "And you spent a fortune."

"Yes. Yes, I did," Kurt said, adjusting an ornament so the light hit it, just so. He stood back, Proud of himself. "Will you ever question my ideas again?" 

"Absolutely," Blaine said, leaning in for a kiss. "Always."

"I told you Id get this done before I left for New York."

Blaine waited a beat to answer. "That you did," he said, suddenly sounding like he had again lost his enthusiasm for the effort.

Kurt could hear the stress creep back into his voice. The distraction of tree decorating had run its course.

"Whats going on in there?" he asked, brushing some stray hair off of Blaines forehead. 

"It looks beautiful," Blaine said, staring at the tree.

"You said that already. Now, what are you really thinking about?"

"Hmm?"

"Come here," Kurt said, taking Blaine by the hand and leading him to the couch. He sat close and rested his head against Blaines shoulder.

"I know youve had a day. But I also know this voice. My Brooding Blaine is back. And dont get me wrong, Brooding Blaines hot, but it also makes me worry. Whats wrong?"

Blaine sighed and kept his eye on the tree, finally leaning his head back against the back of the couch and looking up at the ceiling.

Minutes passed before he spoke.

"Kurt, are you happy?"

****