Kurt heard the buzz of an incoming text promptly at 6:38 am. He grabbed blindly at the bedside table until his fingers gripped the edge of his vibrating smartphone. He squinted until his eyes pulled into focus. Oh, what the actual hell, Quinn?

6:38a Quinn:  We need to talk about your columns this morning.

6:42a Kurt: Do you know what time it is?

6:43a  Quinn: You owe me some column inches.

6:45a  Kurt: Am I allowed to slip into consciousness first?

6:46a  Quinn: Expect a call in 15 minutes.

You have got to be kidding me, Kurt thought.

The only thing that pulled Kurt out of the feather bed was the distant aroma of brewing coffee. He rolled his body up slowly, huffed a breath, then swore under it, and dragged himself out of bed.

He followed his senses, or at least his nose, to the main house, where Blaine had brewed a pot of dark Kona. He stood at the kitchen counter, already dressed in Levis and a T-shirt, chopping vegetables.

"Hey, sleepy," he said, collecting chopped tomatoes into a pile. "Omelet?"

"How are you even awake?" Kurt croaked.

"Hydration, Kurt. And I'm an early riser. Force of habit."

Kurt, rumpled in the t-shirt and sweatpants Blaine had loaned him and eyes only half-open, looked incredulous.

"Vineyard, Kurt," Blaine said, gesturing out the window. "If you run a vineyard, you're going to be in for some early mornings."

"Writer," Kurt said, managing to point a finger at his chest. "Not farmer."

Blaine smirked to himself and opened an overhead cabinet, pulling out a coffee mug. "Coffee, then?"

"Oh god yes."

Moments later, his phone jumped to life again, a photograph of a classic beauty — blonde-haired, green-eyed and female — flashing on its screen, the ringtone blaring The Bitch is Back. Blaine gave it, then Kurt, an inquisitive look.

"The boss," Kurt said, grabbing the phone, then the coffee, and ducking out of the room.

"You're not at your hotel," Quinn said, the inference a little too obvious for Kurt.

"Late night in Sonoma," Kurt said. "I stayed in someone's guest house."

"Well, nice to know you're making progress on something. Tell me about your columns."

Kurt, annoyed but gradually waking up, detailed his work on the Challenge — that he had narrowed the Napa contenders to finalists, but that Sonoma had taken more time than expected. Thanks to some local help, he was finally on his way and had several tastings scheduled in the area, he said.

"And the columns? I've only got one, Kurt, and it's already published."

"You have my outline."

"But I don't have your words. So I'm going to help you out."

Oh, holy hell, Kurt thought. Here we go.

Quinn, who had reviewed, edited and flat-out rejected parts of Kurt's outline for the Year in the Wine Country series, detailed her thoughts for additional columns and articles for the series: the influence of California in the global wine market; revisiting the original Paris tasting winners, Chateau Montelena and Stag's Leap, in the lead-up to the Taste Challenge; and profiles of up-and-coming winemakers in both Napa and Sonoma.

"I like Smythe and this Anderson guy for that one. That's a natural. Same college, both young. Both making names for themselves, but in such different ways. That one's a priority, Kurt."

He cringed.

"So much so, that I had a little conversation with the good folks at Dalton the other day, and we've arranged for you to spend some quality time getting to know their new chief winemaker. Today."

"You did what? Quinn, I have mee—"

"Not now, you don't. You have a one o'clock appointment over at Dalton. I couldn't reach  Anderson, but I expect a mirror column on him and his little Sonoma operation. Your deadline is in 10 days. And I'm being generous with that."

"Fine."

"And Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"I'll see you soon."

Kurt shut the phone down as he walked back into the kitchen. Blaine was busy at the cooktop, sautéing peppers, onions and mushrooms, some herbed chèvre and whisked eggs set off to one side. He had a look of ease and comfort in his surroundings that often seemed to elude him. 

"Winemaker and master chef?"

"Well, winemaker and former short-order cook," Blaine said, garnering a raised eyebrow in response. "I can manage a pretty good omelet. So, what do you like? Veggies? Cheese? I have some Prosciutto I can toss in there, if you like."

"I like," Kurt said. "Whatever you're having is fine. Smells delicious. That must have been one fancy diner."

"The ingredients change, but the method remains the same," Blaine responded.

Kurt poured himself another cup of coffee, and leaned into the kitchen counter, watching Blaine pour the egg mixture into two heated frying pans.

"Wine emergency?" Blaine said, smiling to himself.

"More like an editor who is determined to act like a scheduling assistant," Kurt said. "I'm afraid I have a change in plans this afternoon. Someone took it upon herself to make an appointment for me over on the other side."

Blaine bit his lip and concentrated on the cooktop. "You had a couple of meetings set up over here today..."

"I tried to tell her. I'm going to have to reschedule. Sorry."

Blaine added the last of the ingredients into both omelets, folded the eggs together like two envelopes, slid them on to waiting plates, then topped both with fresh avocado slices. He went to the refrigerator, took some sliced cantaloupe and set it on the plates, carrying both to the breakfast nook.

"Oh my god, that looks delicious," Kurt said.

"Special occasion. I usually just grab a bagel. But it's kind of nice to cook for a change." He took a measured beat, never taking his eyes off of Kurt. "What time do you need to be back in Napa?"

"I've got a one o'clock."

"I thought you were done over there."

"I'm done with the tastings, but Quinn wants to see more progress on the series. And since she didn't have all the columns she wanted long before any deadline, she took it upon herself to not only to assign one, but to schedule an interview for it, too."

"Advertiser, eh?"

"Mmmm. Worse. A prospective advertiser, and a big name at that — Dalton. She wants me to profile their new head winemaker. I think you know him — Sebastian Smythe?"

Blaine blanched, then pushed the food around his plate with his fork.

"How's the omelet?" he asked without glancing up.

Kurt looked at his near-empty plate, looked back up at Blaine and gave him a You do see that I have decimated this breakfast, right? look. 

"Would you like to see the grounds? Do you have time?" Blaine asked, changing gears again. "I need to go up to the upper vineyard and help with a little first-year pruning. I thought maybe it would be a good chance for you to see the property, and how we work around here."

"I'd love it."

"I can loan you some boots, maybe a shirt if you'd like. Trust me, Brooks Brothers wingtips and the vineyard don't mix."

"How did you know—"

"Just because you've only seen me in work clothes doesn't mean I don't know how to dress, Kurt. I have the same pair in black — and I don't let them get anywhere near the vineyard. I've got some spare boots in the barn. What are you, an 11?"

"Twelve," Kurt said, responding a bit too quickly.

Blaine bit back a grin.

"I've got a pair of slop boots that'll fit you. But if you're going to be spending quality time around vines this year, you might want to consider investing in a good pair of work shoes. If you're going to play winemaker, you might as well dress the part."

****

They walked the property, Blaine in his work clothes, Kurt in his closest approximation of them. Blaine loaned him a clean shirt, then another when he discovered that Kurt's chest was bigger than his own.

They stopped first at the winery where Kurt had first sampled Rhapsody wines. The barn-like structure was charming in a rough sort of way, simple from the outside but spotlessly housing 500-gallon stainless fermentation vessels and winemaking equipment within. Deeper into the building, a "cool room" was shut off from the rest of the structure, housing test wines in various stages of fermentation. 

"Don't go in there for too long," Blaine warned at the door of the cool room. "It's a bit much."

"I know the smell's strong, but I can take it," Kurt responded.

"No, Kurt, you can't. There's CO2 buildup in there, and it needs time to vent off. Seriously, it can kill you. A short stop just to look, OK?"

Kurt did as he was instructed, poked his head in the door to see several large, white  plastic paint buckets partially filled with red grape must. The smell in the air was harshly acrid, with a hint of grape and a sledgehammer of alcohol.

He pulled back rapidly. "Isn't it a little late in the year for fermentation?"

"For regular seasonal wines, yes. I'm playing with a late season harvest and high alcohol concentrations — dessert wine, basically. One section of the vineyard didn't mature at the same rate as the rest, so I let it sit on the vine for a while. This lot didn't get harvested until late December."

The batch may just as likely be destined to be poured down a sink as to be bottled, Blaine explained, but he didn't want the grapes to go to waste, so he thought he'd experiment with the harvest anomaly.

He locked up the barn behind them, and turned back to the trail, where the dog Kurt had seen the day before sat, as if waiting for their arrival. It trotted comfortably at Blaine's side.

"Constant companion?"

"Something like that, yep. She's a working dog, but she likes people, too."

The dog knew where to go, it seemed, and led them a short distance down the path, to what looked like a small lake hidden amid rows of Syrah.

"It's beautiful," Kurt said. "Is this by design?"

"It's really a reservoir, backup water for the dry months," Blaine said. "We're not too dependent on it. Half the time it's just a swimming hole. It's a nice place to cool off on a hot day."

"So, not your drinking water..."

"We're a little more advanced than that around here, Kurt. It's a backup irrigation supply. Once the vines are growing, they really don't require much water. You want to starve them out a bit, actually. Make them work for it. A lazy grape makes for bad wine. But if we have a heat wave or a drought? Then it's here, just in case."

"And it doubles as a swimming pool?"

"Not officially, but... It's just a nice place to take break sometimes, a good lunch spot, and when it's hot and you've been working in the vines all day... Let's just say people have been known to sneak a quick dip."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Hmm?"

"That you..."

"I'm not exactly working the fields in swimwear, Kurt."

And with that, Blaine turned and continued up the trail toward the upper reaches of the vineyard, leaving Kurt and his dropped jaw in the dust.

"So, how much acreage do you have here?" Kurt asked, catching up.

"I bought 15, and planted the last of it a year ago. That's what the guys are preparing to prune today."

"And that's it?"

"I have the option on another 10 adjoining the west end of the property, and first rights at it if someone else wants to make an offer."

"And you haven't bought it?"

"Not everyone is trying to build a conglomerate."

"Twenty-five acres hardly turns you into a multi-national. Rhapsody would still be considered 'small', right?"

"True. I'm just not sure. And reinvestment has been going toward equipment, not land."

"You should think about it, Blaine."

"I do."

"It really is beautiful up here," Kurt said. "But do you ever feel a little... isolated?"

"Nature of the business. You can't grow grapes without acres to plant them on."

"That's not exactly what I meant. You have this lovely, big, empty house on this big—"

"Not that big—"

"—big enough, Blaine. It feels so isolated out here. You can't even see your neighbors from here, and no family. It can't be easy to be single and living like this."

"I like my life, Kurt."

As they approached the upper reaches of the vineyard, they heard voices and the increasing volume of a Spanish-language radio station playing music that sounded to Kurt strangely like an oompah band.

"We found 'em!" Blaine said, grinning.

"Is that a tuba?"

"It's Banda, Kurt. If I'm not mistaken, that's the soulful sound of Jorge Luis Cabrera singing Musica Romantica, accompanied by the vineyard crew."

"...and a tuba."

"No tuba, no Banda."

Blaine grinned and walked ahead, happily slapping the shoulder of the crew chief, the same man Kurt had met at the barn the day before. Blaine clearly knew the crew well, and they were laughing and speaking Spanish in what sounded to Kurt like teasing one-upmanship, though he really had no way of knowing.

"¿Oye jefe, nos vas a dar una serenata hoy?" ("You going to serenade us today, chief?")

called out a crew member, the one who appeared to be leading the sing-a-long.

"No, hoy no. Además, ustedes saben que prefiero la música tejana." ("Not today, not today. You know I prefer Tejano music anyway.")

The crew appeared to good-naturedly mock Blaine's response.

"Ay, no mames con tu pinche música tejana!" ("Oh, get out of our vines with your lousy Tejano.") the singer responded, laughing.

Blaine nodded and laughed, before pulling the crew chief aside for a moment and pointing out a couple of young, rangy-looking vines. Kurt could tell by the small size of the stock that these were the one-year vines Blaine had mentioned. The leaves had long since died back, but the remaining long, stringy vines looked completely unkept, unlike the rest of the neatly-pruned vineyard.

Pruning shears in hand, Blaine knelt at one of the young trellised vines, pulling the length out, thumbing at sections of it. He took the long tendril, and snapped it off with the clippers — then another, and another, tossing the remains off to the side. 

Then he stood up and stepped back, hands on hips, inspecting his work and pointing something out.

After a few minutes, Blaine approached Kurt with the crew chief, a young Latino, younger than Blaine, with a serious demeanor.

"Kurt, I'd like you to meet Diego, my vineyard manager. Diego grew up with the vines, and knows them better than just about anyone I know — with the possible exception of his father."

"My father would definitely agree with you on that last part," Diego said, extending a hand. "We met already. You're the guy from the magazine?"

Kurt nodded as he shook Diego's hand. "Guilty as charged."

"For the record, we're gonna kick their ass."

"Duly noted."

The statement earned rounds affirmative shouts from the small crew, who went on laughing, pruning and singing along to the strains of the Banda station playing on the radio. Blaine excused himself, spun the shears on his fingers and joined them.

"Is that normal?" Kurt asked, standing and watching with Diego.

"What?"

"The owner of the winery going out and pruning the vines with the grounds crew?"

Diego laughed. "I dare you to find anyone named Beringer doing it — unless there's a camera along. Blaine likes to be involved. He works the vines as much as I do."

Somehow, Kurt wasn't surprised. Blaine looked like he belonged out there, laughing and singing with the workers, speaking Spanish like he'd spent a lifetime doing it, looking... happy, energized... at home. It wasn't anywhere close to the first impression he'd had of him, but he had a feeling it was considerably more accurate.

No wonder he sequesters himself away up here, Kurt thought, surveying the blue sky, and rolling valley of vineyard and oak below.

"So, what exactly is happening up here today? I realize you're pruning the young vines, but how is that any different than the rest of the vineyard?"

"They're first year vines. They have a year's worth of growth on them. They're allowed to grow without a cut that first year. Then it's like a first haircut. What you do with it today shapes what they become, how they look, for years to come," Diego said. "You only get one chance to get it right."

Kurt nodded, and gave Diego a half-hearted smile. "Thanks."

"Hey Kurt! You want to learn how to do this?" Blaine called up from the vines. "Maybe I'll hire you if this whole writing thing doesn't work out for you."

Kurt picked up a pair of pruning shears.

"It's nice to know I have career options."

****

About two hours later, they were on the road, headed back to Yountville, to Bardessono, and to Kurt's reorganized schedule.

"So, you never did answer my question earlier," Kurt said.

"What's that?" Blaine responded, playing with the radio dial.

"What do you know about this Sebastian Smythe character?"

Blaine pulled up to a red light, looked over to Kurt, then stared straight ahead.

"What do you want to know?"

"You both went to Cornell. He said you two met in college."

"A couple of labs."

"Quinn wants me to feature him and Dalton."

"Mmm."

"She also wants me to write about you and Rhapsody."

He looked over at Kurt again, but said nothing.

"It makes sense, when you think about it," Kurt said, hoping to draw him out. "You're about the same age, went to the same school, knew each other before coming to California..."

"And?"

"And you represent two different sides of the coin, probable opponents in the Challenge."

"Anything else?"

"They're supposed to be profiles, Blaine. It's about getting to know the winemaker, what makes you tick."

"Ah. She wants you to go there."

"She demands that I go there. Blaine, they're profiles. These aren't just stories about the wine. They're features about who you are and what makes you special, and different in this industry. You two have parallel stories that end up in different places."

Blaine huffed to himself. Kurt was fairly certain he heard a mumbled What makes me special.

"She was apparently talking to the Dalton people yesterday, and now I've got an interview with Smythe this afternoon."

"You can't do that for yourself?"

"She was in a hurry."

There was no doubt in Kurt's mind. Blaine was anxious or annoyed, perhaps even a little pissed off. The lighthearted banter was long gone, and had been replaced with the moodiness Blaine had displayed when Kurt first met him.

"What's wrong, Blaine? Is it this profile? Or last night? I thought we were OK. Can we talk about this, whatever it is?"

Blaine looked up, literally side-eyeing Kurt, and refocused on the road. 

"Is it Smythe? Is that what has you upset?"

"Not upset."

"What's wrong?"

"I just don't like him very much, that's all."

"You don't want me to write about him? Is that it?"

Blaine snapped. "I don't care what you do with him, Kurt."

Kurt recoiled, grabbed the arm rest and hunched down into the truck's bench seat. He wanted to choose his words carefully.

"Blaine, I don't understand what's going on here, but I have to tell you that I'm having a hard time holding on to this roller coaster. We have a great day followed by silence. We have a — a moment — and the next thing I know, I suddenly feel like I'm the enemy. I don't understand. I want to be your friend, Blaine, but you're making it pretty difficult. You can't just shut people out like that."

"I can do anything I damn well please."

"Something's clearly set you off, and it started the moment I mentioned Smythe. That day I met him during the tastings at Bardessono, he was pretty obnoxious."

Blaine huffed indignantly.

"He said you two knew each other."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"He, um, hinted that maybe you knew each other... well."

Blaine stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"Sometimes, I think I need to remind myself that I'm talking to a reporter. This is probably a good time for that."

"I'm not here as a reporter, Blaine."

"I thought we were talking about your column."

"I can be discreet."

"That's not what reporters are paid to do."

They drove in silence. Kurt didn't bring it up again. He didn't want to think that what Smythe had inferred was true, but Blaine didn't deny it, either. Maybe he just hated the guy. That was easy enough to imagine. He couldn't imagine two more different or less complimentary personalities. 

And he certainly couldn't picture Blaine with the smarmy, arrogant winemaker from Dalton.

****