Blaine had planned a simple, productive afternoon: Pick up a shipment of cork at a local supplier, stop by a neighboring winery to lend his expertise and support on a problematic fermentation cycle and dinner with local winemakers on the Square, the closest thing to a city center in the Sonoma Valley. 

Instead, his afternoon was turned upside-down by the sudden appearance of Taste magazine's wine editor.

He knew who Kurt Hummel was. Virtually everyone in the wine industry did. Blaine had even been warned that he would be in town and might be headed his way, though he had actively discouraged that suggestion. 

And he needed no introduction to know who was behind the wheel of that tiny rental car nearly stuck in the soft dirt at the main entrance to his vineyard that afternoon. The driver looked too city, too fashionable, too elegant to belong in a working vineyard. Blaine shook his head as if to purge not just the thought, but also the memory of how good those inappropriately fashionable clothes looked on his visitor.

Tourists didn't make their way to Rhapsody, and that was by design. If you found yourself on that dirt trail, you had business at the winery or the vineyard. And if you had business at the vineyard, you didn't show up dressed in Marc Jacobs. 

Blaine had no use for pretentious east coast wine "experts". They catered to a clientele he knew all too well, and gone to great lengths to escape. But his choice of professions occasionally placed them right back in his face again, try as he may to avoid them.

Winemaking was his living, but it was also his craft. It was his contribution to art, and magazines like Taste existed for one reason and one reason alone: To name the flavor of the week, and Blaine Anderson intended to leave his mark on the industry not as a brand, but as a contributor to the art, the craft and the science of winemaking. 

When necessity dictated that his childhood dreams of music be shelved for a "serious" career in science, oenology and viticulture almost miraculously introduced themselves, letting Blaine keep a pledge that allowed him to fund an Ivy League education — and keep his trust fund — and also let him stay true to his first love, the arts.

He considered himself forever indebted to winemaking, and because of it, had dedicated himself to its art, its aesthetic and the natural delicacy of its science. Plenty of winemakers concentrated on branding, on marketing, on selling the next Two Buck Chuck and deepening their fortunes on the tails of cheap, crap wine. 

Blaine was using his small fortune to create the best possible wine he could, and help others improve their craft.

No wine critic or trendy magazine had anything to offer him that he would find attractive, he thought.

The fact that Santana had clearly ignored his admonition and directed Hummel straight to his property pissed him off to no end, and he was now blowing off his plans to blow off some steam. 

"Santana!" he called out, just loud enough to make it clear he meant business. "Quit hiding — I saw your car out back."

She appeared in the doorway to the back office, not shrinking from the vocal threat, but standing up to it. Her clothes — urban, darkly monochromatic — and  her body language both saying I give as good as I get.

"What's your problem, Anderson? You don't come in here yelling..."

"And you don't go sending people up to my property that I expressly told you I didn't want around," Blaine hissed back.

"What? Hummel? He found it? Frankly, I'm surprised — and surprised at you. You're usually Mr. Manners. What's the big deal? Wine writers are a part of the business."

"Not my business," he said.

"I really don't understand your problem, Blaine. If the wine editor at Taste Magazine shows an interest in your wine, you should show an interest in the wine editor at Taste Magazine."

"Excuse me?"

"Not like that, Anderson. Although..."

"Don't even go there, Santana."

"When was the last time you..."

"That's none of your business and completely irrelevant."

"Because he's single..."

"Drop it."

"Not going to let Auntie 'Tana set you up?"

"I thought this was about some sort of project he was working on."

"Oh, it is," she said, walking over to the coffee maker and nosing in the direction in the cups, her way of offering Blaine a liquid peace offering. "You still take cream and sugar?"

She walked him back to the conference room, a quiet spot where she could shut the door and drop pretenses. She'd known Blaine as long as anyone in the valley, and considered him an ally. 

And she needed his help.

"Look, Blaine. There's more to this than I first told you," Santana's voice dropped. The bite gone, she sounded stressed, maybe even a little defeated. "Yes, Kurt's looking to feature individual wineries and winemakers here in both counties and yes, Taste is planning an event around them. But what they're planning... can either really help us or really hurt us."

Blaine raised his eyes from his coffee cup to Santana's face, meeting her gaze.

"What are they up to?"

Santana went on to repeat, in detail, Kurt's outline for his year in the valley project: The ubiquitous reviews, and features of up-and-coming winemakers in both Sonoma and Napa — profiles of long-established wineries, the brand names of Napa versus the boutique wineries of neighboring Sonoma.

But the stories, the tastings, were also research for the penultimate project — the blind tasting between select major "name" Napa wines versus small unknowns from Sonoma.

"It's supposed to be a David versus Goliath competition," she said.

"That's not really anything new," Blaine said. "We're always compared to them. It's an old theme, a cliché. So what?"

"Two things, short stuff. First, they're pitting us against them. The biggest of the big versus us."

"Our wines stand up to theirs. There's no reason to be afraid of that," Blaine said.

"Not on its own, no, but there is when you factor in why Taste is doing this in the first place."

"Because they need stories for their magazine?"

"No, Blaine. Because they're trying to lock down the owners of the biggest Napa wineries as long-term advertisers. David doesn't win this fight — Goliath does."

As far as Blaine was concerned, that was all the more reason to keep Taste and its wine editor at arm's length. "Then why do you want to do this at all?"

"Think about it. If we say no, they've already won. They win by default. They win through intimidation. They win by reputation — and we can't let that happen. We have to go into the fight, to protect our reputation."

Then she aimed for what she knew to be Blaine's emotional soft spots: History, tradition, the art of winemaking, the international corporations that had virtually pushed American farmers and artisan winemakers out of Napa.

"Think about who we're up against, who owns those Napa vineyards, Blaine. There's a luggage company, a Swiss investment firm, an English distillery. One of the biggest landowners runs an Italian cement company. Cement, Blaine. How many of these people actually make wine? Sure they hire people to make wine and run their vineyards, but they have no experience in it, or in this valley. They're outsiders who've invested in California wine because it’s lucrative."

"Some people would say that's me," he said.

"That's bullshit and you know it. This valley, the landowners are still winemakers, or most of them are. Even the ones that are newer to the valley come here to grow their own grapes, make their own wine. People like you, Blaine. Even some of our biggest wineries are run by families that have been making wines here for decades."

"There are still families on the Napa side," Blaine said.

"Who, Mondavi? They may technically be owned by the family, but even with some of their finest wines, they're more about mass production than about actual winemaking, Blaine."

"Gallo's here. How's that different?"

"Gallo's everywhere, Blaine. And they're based out of Modesto. Doesn't count. Look this isn't just about Sonoma defending it's honor, it's about showing the world the importance of the family farm, of the art and craft of winemaking. And even if you didn't grow up in this valley, you're one of our very best, and this entire community respects you. You're a leader, whether you like it or not. And they need you.

"Now, tell anyone that I said that and not only will I deny it, but I'll hunt you down in the middle of the night."

Santana smiled one of her smirky smiles, the one that said, I've got your back but don't you even think of crossing me. Blaine found them perplexing, and decided it best not to test her. 

He leaned back in his chair and looked at every corner in the smallish room. He looked everywhere but at the chair where Santana sat, finally heaving a dramatic sigh.

"What would you need from me?"

"Your cooperation. Your support... and your wine."

****

Blaine walked out of the Bureau office confused, annoyed and unhappily committed to helping Santana. He understood her dilemma, and the impact it could have on the local wine community. He had 45 minutes to kill before meeting his colleagues for an early dinner, so he walked the Square, absorbing the last rays of the day's sun and clearing his head as he strolled past the jewelry stores and tasting rooms.

Santana had played him smart. Had she simply tried to sell him on the "upside" of the proposal — the branding opportunities, the exposure — his answer would have been a flat and unequivocal no

He had no idea why she trusted Hummel the way she did. As far as Blaine was concerned, he was just another posh outsider looking to make a buck and a name off of the artisan winemakers of the Sonoma Valley. He had known too many Kurt Hummels in his life, and he wasn't interested in spending any more time with this one than was absolutely necessary, no matter how single he might be or how good he had looked in that suit.

Blaine had had to overcome that same image when he first packed his bags and his trust fund and moved west. Despite his Ivy League pedigree — perhaps because of it — he had to fight like hell to be accepted in the tight knit community, for his neighbors and peers to think of him as anything more than a transplanted New Yorker looking to hop on board the latest, chicest investment trend.  

They didn't know the things he'd had to give up and the life he had left in the dust in order to be here, not at first.

His initial reception in the valley had been guarded to the point of chilly. His education should have helped open doors — the Bachelor's from Cornell, the just-finished Master's from UC Davis, both in their respective, prestigious EVO programs. It didn't matter that he had completed not one but two internships with well-known Napa wineries, both of which had tried to hire him. If anything, he learned later, they were strikes against him.

But the biggest strike against him was that he was an outsider, a New Yorker, a very young New Yorker, who had opened his wallet and bought his first 25 acres of Sonoma soil without having earned it.

He would go so far as to say he had been shunned, but he figured out quickly that he needed to prove that he belonged, to prove his worth, to this tight community.

Even Diego, Blaine's vineyard lieutenant who had been at his side from day one, once made it clear that Blaine was an outsider until proven otherwise. The son of a vineyard manager who could have been a top-flight winemaker in his own right — if he had the money — Diego had grown up among the vines, his extensive knowledge of winemaking formed in the outdoors, not the classroom. So when Blaine started spouting theory and science and formulas, Diego put him in his place.

"You people. You think you can just buy your way into this?" he said, staring Blaine down. "Take some lessons? Grow some grapes? You might  make a decent wine, but it's not in your blood.

"You think this is about technology? About science? It's about the soil, Blaine. It's about the vine. People were making and drinking wine centuries ago — drinking it when they couldn't trust the water. They didn't use malolactic fermentation or measure the merits of adding this yeast strain versus another. They tended their vineyards, crushed their grapes and let them ferment. Period.

"You'll never be a part of this land, not until the soil is wedged so deep under your nails that it looks like you were born with it there."

Diego also made it painfully clear that they were easily equals in the art of winemaking, and but for the luck of the financial draw, he might be running a winery.

Blaine had committed the verbal beat down to memory, and instilled it as a life lesson. Respect the vine. Honor the valley's origins. Listen to those who preceded you.

He had dedicated himself not only to growing and building a classic winery, but to becoming a valued member of the winemaking community. He joined the Wine Bureau. He offered his help to anyone who needed it. Need extra hands harvesting those grapes? Done. Can I help with a chemical analysis? Done. Interested in a new trellising technique? I can help you with that.

It wasn't long before Blaine was not only a trusted colleague, but also an undisputed and beloved leader in the valley's circle of viticulturists and oenologists. 

And he couldn't help but wonder if he had served them well this afternoon, or somehow sold them out. He'd find out soon enough.

****

It may have been a winemaker's dinner, but when Blaine arrived at the Girl and the Fig, he headed straight for the bar. Right now, he had enough wine on the brain. He didn't want it on his palette.

"Well, hello stranger. Been awhile," bellowed the voice behind the bar. Patty, a 30-something water scientist-turned-barkeep, had come to the valley for a career in agricultural engineering. She gave it up to pour wine and tell lies deep into the night, and never looked back.

Patty knew everyone who was anyone in town, and knew most of their secrets, too. You don't get that kind of juice in a lab, she reminded herself, each and every payday. And  every time she saw Blaine Anderson, she had to remind herself: Not on your team, sweetheart.

"I thought you were here for the little confab, but it looks like you're here for a drink," she said, holding a wine glass in one hand and a small tumbler in the other, as if to ask, This? Or this?

Blaine nosed toward the whiskey glass.

"Macallan 18. Make it neat, and make it a double."

"Mmmmm. It sounds delicious, but it doesn't sound good," she said, pouring that, and maybe a little more. "Boyfriend trouble?"

"You know better."

"You deserve better. You do, you know, if it's about..."

"It's not. Really, it's not," he said, pulling back quickly, softening his tone. He shook his head, just a little. Then he smiled, for the first time in hours, and raised his glass. "To Patty, the only woman who's ever made me feel truly loved."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to do that in about 30 minutes. 

"Aaaah, must be that Taste magazine guy."

"You already know about that? Wait. Don't even answer. Of course you do."

"It doesn't strike me as the sort of thing you're drawn to."

"It's the sort of thing that repels me. I don't want to be involved in some advertising ploy. I don't want to cater to pretentious assholes who only appreciate the wine they're told to like by some equally pretentious writer who probably doesn't know shit about making wine."

"The cute, pretentious writer who tells people what to like."

The gorgeous, pretentious writer who tells people what to like, Blaine thought, disgusted with himself.

****