For the headache that his first, brief venture into Sonoma had been, and future trips could very well be, Napa clearly intended to be a soothing balm.

The Napa Wine Board had made all the arrangements Kurt could have dreamed of: a driver, appointments with winemakers and teams from major wineries and a conference room at his disposal to meet with and taste the wares of lesser-known Napa winemakers. 

They'd also made arrangements for him to move from the AmeriSuites in Rohnert Park to a luxury suite, deeply discounted on his behalf, at Bardessono in Yountville. It was located at the center of the valley and the heart of Napa's culinary culture, where the biggest names in food had established some of the most exclusive restaurants in the country, restaurants with two-month waiting lists for reservations and diners armed with cameras in hopes of grabbing a snapshot with a celebrity chef.

Bardessono dripped with modern luxuries, and catered to exactly the clientele that subscribed to Taste. Starkly modern, the hotel and spa focused on Zen, using natural woods and stone to accent the sleek interiors. No luxury had been spared in Kurt's suite, either. A private courtyard, with a stone hot tub and outdoor shower — When am I going to use that, really? — an indoor steam shower and spa tub; a fireplace that opened into both the bedroom and the living room; a built-in massage table, for god's sake.

That's not to say he was complaining. He would happily take Napa's largesse, and spend quality time at Bardessono over AmeriSuites for as long as they would allow.

Napa had jumped into this game gunning to win, its gilded weapons taking the form of chauffeured Town Cars and heated stone bathroom floors.

On his first day in Napa, his driver ran him up the valley -- to Chandon, to Mondavi, to Sterling. Each was lovely in its own right, meticulously designed to replicate Italian villas, French chateaux, Roman ruins and more. Each with a theme, some with a history, andg all with an experienced team capable of producing a product that had been successfully cultivated, processed and marketed.

Andretti invited him into a private tasting room exquisitely faux-marbled to resemble an aging villa, where he sampled the Barolo and met with the marketing team. Domaine Chandon whisked him past the crowds lined three-deep in the Tasting Lounge for samplings of its finest reserve sparkling wines. Beringer escorted him directly to the upstairs reserve room of its iconic Rhine House Mansion, which had been cordoned off from tourists so that he could sample the finer single vineyard reds that weren't normally equated with the massive label's brand.

They were full and familiar flavors at each and every tasting room. Cabernets with deep tannins, warm Chardonnays with a hint of French Oak, signature Meritages that struck a balance of plum with a touch of earth to ground it. They were quality wines, without question, some of the best on the market, with reputations and price tags to match.

They were wines designed to impress at special events, at state dinners, at weddings, at pairings. Their creators had well-established and equally well-documented reputations. 

Their financial backers were also either existing or potential advertisers in Taste magazine.

But they were also so familiar, so frequently reviewed, so frequently recognized, that Kurt knew they added little to the ultimate outcome of his effort.

He kept looking, setting up shop in a quiet conference room at the hotel, with the Napa Wine Bureau hustling winery teams and their samples in for a talk, a taste and a quick judgement.

Swirl. Stare. Sniff. Sample. Spit.

Kurt's day was a rapid repetition of tasting protocol, followed by note-taking and a brief question-and-answer with the winemaker. 

"Tell me about your blend." 

"Are these your grapes, or are they sourced?" 

"French, Hungarian or American Oak?" 

"How would you ideally pair it?"

The winemakers had answers, and stories, and jokes, and gifts, anything to ingratiate themselves with the influential critic. They all brought wine, of course, but many brought much more: Magnums of reserve vintages, gift certificates to their partner restaurants, gourmet cheeses.

Kurt politely turned them down, one and all, knowing it amounted to little more than graft. A hotel's willingness to discount a room was one thing, a gift from a winery seeking to compete in the Challenge was something else entirely. Their sample wine he took, opened and followed the same meticulous protocol with each fresh corkage.

He inspected each bottle, scanning the labels for information on blends, vineyards or even processes. He opened them himself, though the hotel had offered the services of its sommelier. He inspected the cork for wine penetration and any sign of oxygen contamination or worse, mold.

Then came the real trial. He poured a small sample in the appropriate glass -- a big Bordeaux bell for reds, a smaller Chardonnay glass for whites -- and held the glass up for inspection, pointing it toward the white-walled room to get the best read he could for color and clarity.

He would then set the glass down on his conference table, placing two fingers along the base, swirling the contents like chemist would a beaker. He held the glass up again, inspecting the wine legs' tight grip to the sides of the glass. He lowered the glass and only then dipped his nose just inside the rim, taking a judicious breath with eyes closed, concentrating on its nose: some earthen or leather, others bright, harkening fruit, grass, spice or even floral aromas.

With a sense of each vintage's nose, he would then, and only then, take a small sip, holding the rich liquid on his tongue.

He rarely swallowed. A long day of tasting ahead, he did everything he could to keep control of his senses. Instead, he spat the wine into a silver bucket, and followed it with a sip of water.

But after hours of tasting, judging and interviewing, even without drinking the wine, he felt his head clouding, and both his palate and concentration compromised. He broke from the amassed collection of bottles, collected his scribbled notes and walked, taking in the warm afternoon sun.

He walked past gourmet shops and four-star restaurants, considering the wines he'd tasted and the winemakers he'd met, and dreaming up his perfect competitor for the Taste Challenge.

And his thoughts drifted to Blaine Anderson, who was exactly who he was looking for, yet so stubbornly unwilling to even discuss the possibility of offering himself up for the Challenge.  

He thought about the hillside winery. Could he call it a winery, compared to these palaces of Napa, when it was little more than an oversized, temperature-controlled barn? Rhapsody, so young, yet so connected to the rich history of the appellation, alone on a fog-tipped hillside shaded by rows of ancient oak trees.

And its owner? Its muse? Its savant? Kurt didn't know what to make of him. He was rude and churlish. He was anti-social and a west coast elitist and everything Kurt normally tried to avoid. But he was also smart, layered in ways he tried not to let on about, and respectful of the valley's deep vineyard roots. 

He also seemed to have a stellar reputation among his peers for reasons Kurt couldn't quite begin to fathom. He got the impression that Santana adored him, a rarity, and high praise from the woman who preferred that the world not know her soft side, what little of it existed.

Kurt tried to shut it out of his head. Damn Santana. She knew what she was doing, insisting that the very first place he visited be run by someone straight out of an Ralph Lauren ad.

There was something about a rugged outdoors type, but with an edge of refinement, so contrary to the men Kurt normally met: the tanned skin, the khakis, the denim shirt fitted just so over a lean torso. Even that damned open air truck just enhanced the image.

There was clearly some brainpower there, too. Between Santana's unprompted backgrounding -- and Kurt's subsequent online research — Kurt knew that Blaine was actually a New Yorker, an Ivy Leaguer at that, having graduated near the top of his class at Cornell's prestigious viticulture and oenology program. He then got snapped up quickly for graduate studies at UC Davis' Mondavi Institute — a spot coveted by winemakers from around the world.  

He could easily have charted a course to become chief winemaker at any number of top-flight, big name Napa wineries -- and was probably recruited to do just that -- but opted to buy a small parcel of land land and start up Rhapsody instead. It didn't make much sense, but it made Kurt want to learn more about the enigmatic winemaker.

Blaine Anderson was a puzzle that Kurt wanted to solve, piece by immaculate piece.

****

"Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt had hardly stepped into the foyer of the hotel when the front desk clerk waved him over.

"Mr. Hummel? I have a couple of messages for you, and a delivery."

Kurt stepped over to the desk as the clerk keyed the request into her computer. 

"First, your afternoon appointments are ready and waiting for you in the Harvest Room. And second, there was a package delivered. One moment."

She stepped into the manager's office and returned with a cardboard box, roughly the size of a wine shipment.

Another, Kurt thought to himself caustically. 

"This was delivered with it," she added, handing him a small envelope.

Kurt thanked her, took the package and the card, and made his way to the Harvest Room. If this was yet another Napa Cab, he'd add it to the growing list of wines to be sampled.

He walked over to the Harvest Room having opened neither the box nor the envelope. Upon seeing the meeting room's foyer, crowded with winemakers and marketing teams from close to a dozen venues, he set the delivery aside and quickly made his way to the head of the banquet table that had been set up with water, notepads, spit bucket and stemware for the tasting.

Before he could sit, he felt a hand at his elbow. Bob Devries, head of the Napa Wine Bureau, pulled him aside. Devries cut an imposing figure, tall and husky, and breathless in his promotion of Napa's signature industry. He'd grown up in the valley, but had spent years as the news reader for the valley's leading — and only — FM radio station.

His deejay baritone still oozed small market radio, and it struck Kurt as thoroughly disingenuous.

"Before you start up again, there's someone I think you ought to meet," he said. "I'm pretty sure we've got exactly who you're looking for."

Devries glanced toward the back of the room, where a lanky young man in a dark blazer and an endless smirk stood, arms crossed.

"Who is he?" Kurt asked.

"His name's—"

"Sebastian Smythe," the man interrupted, extending his hand as he approached Kurt. He had a prep school wardrobe and a used-car salesman's 800-watt smile. "I'm the new head winemaker at Dalton."

Kurt stared for a moment. Dalton Wines was an established, old school winery rich in tradition, considered elite, conservative and unlikely to hire someone as young as the Smythe character to spearhead its winemaking efforts.

"What's your background?" Kurt asked.

"I'm from the east originally, but I was recruited to Napa after I finished my Masters at Cornell a couple of years ago," he said.

Cornell? Kurt's attention picked up. "I just met someone who was at Cornell about the same time you were. Maybe you know him? Bl— "

"Blaine Anderson," he interrupted again, sounding like he was ready to savor a rich dessert. "Oh yes. I know him well."

Kurt nearly changed he subject, but couldn't resist. "You had classes together?"

"Huh. Classes? Yeah, we had classes."

Everything this Smythe guy said, even if it was innocent or honest — both which he doubted — struck Kurt as overtly sexual. He couldn't change the subject fast enough.

"Tell me about the wine you're submitting."

"Submitting? Let's just say if this contest of yours is what I think it is, I'm exactly what you need."

Kurt gave him a once-over and a withering glance before settling back with his notebook.

"The wine, Mr. Smythe. Tell me about the wine. What's new at Dalton?"

Smythe offered a wicked lopsided grin, and then, finally, settled into his business. A "recalibrated" Meritage, with a new blend of Bordeaux varietals intended to reflect a "fresh, new generational harmony" in the staid Napa institution -- whatever that was supposed to mean. No doubt it was drafted by Dalton's marketing team, which probably had an equal hand in the gelled height of Smythe's prep school pompadour.

The wine itself, Kurt had to admit, was good. A bit of a fresh take on Dalton tradition. More fruit forward, without compromising its complex structure. All in all, solid. A competitor. And while he could not be more turned off by the brashness of Sebastian Smythe, he had to admit the winemaker was cut from the exact mold of Taste's demographic.

Appalling or not, he was on the Napa short list of competitors.

****

About three hours of meeting, swirling, sipping and spitting later, Kurt wrapped up for the day. He said his goodbyes, begged out of a group dinner and prepared to head to his room for the night. Frankly, he didn't need county French cuisine tonight. All he really wanted was a good burger. And water. Lots of water.

He grabbed his satchel and began to head out the door when something caught his eye: The package, delivered during lunch to the front desk.

Just one more, he thought, setting his things down and picking up the cardboard box.

He set the box aside momentarily and opened the card, embossed with a modern Claddagh, two inverted treble clefs forming the central heart -- the Rhapsody logo.

The note was to the point.

You win.

Kurt gasped. Then he scrambled, looking for something to cut through the packing tape on the delivery.

He sliced it open with a ballpoint pen. When he opened the box, he unearthed a treasure. 

The bottle was simple, devoid of the gilded or colorful artwork he'd seen on so many samples that day. On the bottle's back, a brief description, a federal liquor disclosure statement and the Rhapsody logo. On the front, the wine's name in a simple script:

Sotto Voce.