Blaine walked the vineyard, later than usual, pruning and training the young spring vines. It was a late morning after a later night, and he was trying to will his body to catch up with where he'd expected to be with his work for the day.

Diego had told him to go back to bed, to take it easy, but Blaine simply harumphed, grabbed his tools and hiked to the upper reaches of Rhapsody.

Blaine had expected the previous night's run to Napa to be brief. He would watch Hummel sample the wine, answer a couple of questions and get the hell out of Yountville. But it wasn't that simple.

A tasting became a drink, and a drink became a bottle — Blaine really should have bet him that he would end up drinking it — and as the wine disappeared, they also polished off a platter of local artisan cheese.

They started talking, and not just about the elegant Syrah blend they were drinking.

The next thing he knew, they were seated at a corner table down the road at Mustards Grill, ordering burgers and Bordeaux, and talking deep into the night. 

It was the damn Sotto Voce that opened the floodgates, he realized.

He knew before he delivered the bottle that Kurt would fall for the lush red wine. Hell, he'd loved the barrel-tasting, nearly extended an invitation to this event based on wine that wasn't even ready to drink. 

Sotto Voce was a likely shoe-in to be chosen for the competition, but Blaine still wasn't sure he wanted it in the spotlight. First, he didn't have enough available stock for the demand that such exposure could prompt. He had enough to make some bottles available to his wine club, provide some as contributions to local charity auctions, give some as very select gifts and save some for himself. Occasionally, he would make a few cases of it available to a friend with a small wine shop in Petaluma, but that was it. The nature of its construction, dependent on that first, pure free run of juice out of the press, placed fairly tight limits on its production.

The competitors from Napa? They'd be ready to mass market their product — at a mark-up to account for the prestige of having been selected for this dog and pony show — after the Taste Challenge.

It wasn't official, of course. Kurt couldn't actually extend the Challenge invitation over dinner and drinks, as they shared stories of growing up, coming out and what had drawn them into the strange but often wonderful world of wine.

That news would arrive soon enough, in some gilded envelope whose delivery would be highly publicized by Taste, probably in one of Kurt's columns.

That it would arrive was hardly in doubt. What was questionable was how much time Blaine had spent thinking about this new acquaintance, and how much they actually had in common. 

Blaine snipped away at the unwelcome, leggy vines, training the plants to grow upward, leaving room for light, for photosynthesis and for eventual fruit. He snipped away, trying to clear his head. He tried to will himself back under control, leaving thoughts of eastern wine critics and an unwelcome competition out of his mind.

He didn't plan to actually like Kurt Hummel, but he stuck around, suggested dinner, ordered another bottle and talked, smiled, listened and laughed for one reason: He was enjoying himself, and the company.

The burger, of all things, had marked a turning point in their rapport. He had Kurt pegged as a foodie, someone who would insist on dining in one of Napa's Michelin Star-rated restaurants. But instead he had asked Blaine where he could get a decent burger, because he'd been having serious cravings since lunchtime.

Mustards was a local institution, with a menu to satisfy a discerning palate, but it also grilled up a mean cheeseburger — and offered a wine menu befitting a Napa restaurant.

Blaine listened intently as Kurt told him about his supportive family, his early ambitions, about falling into the business of wine when he'd really expected to write theater reviews. 

Kurt asked about the Rhapsody logo — that unusual Claddagh with the treble clefs — and the music theme that carried through each of the winery's offerings. Blaine's standard answer to the question was to reference a love of music, and how music and art shared traditions with wine. 

But somehow, this time he didn't feel inclined to give the standard answer.

So Blaine told him the truth. Sipping at the rich red wine, he shared the story of the smart kid that grew up with piano lessons and school glee clubs, who came out to his family in his early teens, and then declared his wishes to pursue music as a career. He spoke of a successful family, already uncomfortable with his sexuality, that refused to subsidize a college education that wouldn't lead to a "respectable" career, and that held both his tuition and a trust fund hostage to conformity.

He spoke of how that painful decision inadvertently led to the best and most influential moment of his life — the day he chatted up an oenology student in a Cornell chem lab, and came to realize that the science of winemaking was also an art, one that he could excel at.

"Very sneaky, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said, conspiratorially. 

"I met their conditions. They paid for my Bachelor's degree in the very respectable field of chemistry — with a specialty in oenology and viticulture. I turned 21, my trust fund was released, and I was off to California six months later."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said.

"I'm not. Your family supported you, supported who you are. My family supported me with money — so long as I didn't embarrass them, or stand out in any way. I did everything I needed for as long as I had to. When I was done, I had the education and enough of a nest egg to start a winery and make a life for myself. I didn't look back."

"Do you talk to them?"

"Only when I absolutely have to. But my brother and I stay in touch."

"Don't you miss them?"

"This is my life now, and I'm good with it."

Kurt rested his chin on his hands, touching his fingers to his lips like a professor considering a student's not-quite-right answer. He raised an eyebrow, then his eyes followed, locking on to Blaine's gaze.

"But are you happy?"

"I love what I do, and I've got a lot of good people around me. People who only judge me on my wine. At least that's how it works on the other side of the valley."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd opened up like this to someone. Santana, Patty and Diego knew the details of his prior life, but had learned it over time. But whether it was the wine or the company, or maybe something in between, Blaine felt unexpectedly comfortable spilling the details he'd carefully shielded from so many people over the years.

Kurt seemed to take in every word, keeping quiet while holding eye contact, asking the occasional question, never overstepping. He shared his fries and poured more wine, and confessed how a whip-smart boss had taken advantage of a vulnerable period in his personal life to ship him across country for a project that didn't have his full confidence.

They talked and lingered until closing time, and when they stood to leave, more wobbly than expected, Blaine called a cab rather than getting behind the wheel 

By the time they climbed into the taxi, the conversation had come to a natural halt, and they sat quietly for the short ride to Bardessono. The cab waited while Blaine walked Kurt inside. They paused in the foyer, eyes cast down and feet kicking at concrete. It felt almost like...

"Thanks, Blaine. For dinner, and the evening. For sharing your winewith me." Kurt said,  looking up. 

He extended his hand. "Thank you."

They shook, like businessmen wrapping a deal. But for Blaine, the moment played out in slow motion, and a wisp of a chill rushed up his arm at the touch.

He nodded, and pulled away. "Goodnight," he said, lingering slightly before turning back to his cab.

Yes, Blaine really needed to stop thinking about it. Just a night out. Just a talk. Just an acquaintance.That's all.

This isn't you, Anderson. Get to work. Tune it out. Let it pass. This is nothing, nothing at all.

He snipped away at the vines, and did his level best to focus his thoughts on the work at hand. By late afternoon, he'd succeeded, leaving a viridian trail in his wake until the vibration of an incoming text jarred him into consciousness.

3:32p  Kurt:  Are you alive today?

OK, I'll bite, Blaine thought.

3:34p  Blaine:  Pruning the upper deck — a little slowly. 

3:35p  Kurt: Your truck's still at Mustards 

3:36p  Blaine:  Checking up on me? 

3:36p  Kurt:  :0     NO

3:38p  Blaine:  Kidding, Kurt.

3:39p  Kurt:  You need help retrieving it?

3:40p  Blaine:  Hadn't thought about it.

3:41p  Kurt:  I have a driver.

3:42p  Blaine:  And?

3:44p  Kurt:  I could send him over.

3:45p  Blaine:  So Taste magazine's offering me a ride.

3:45p  Kurt:  Courtesy of the Napa Wine Bureau.

Blaine had to admit, he liked the irony.

3:47p  Kurt:  And there's something I need to talk to you about. I could send the car for you and maybe we can meet before you head back up the hill?

He did need his truck back.

3:48p  Blaine:  I'll need about 90 minutes to finish and clean up.

****

Blaine didn't make a habit of riding around the valley in the back of Lincoln Town Cars. The backseat was roomy and the ride smooth, but he found the entire experience an  uncomfortably poor fit.

The 40 minutes to Yountville felt like hours. He fumbled with his phone, checked his email, read the roadside signs, tapped his fingers on the armrest and checked his email again. 

Eventually, he let his mind drift. Blaine looked unfocused through the darkly tinted windows, each lengthy row of the passing vineyards blurring like earthen pinwheels as the car rushed past. 

What was last night? It started out as business, but became something a good deal more personal, and with someone he had been determined to keep boxed in the smallest, deepest compartment of his mind.

The wine had flowed, to be sure, but so had the conversation — freely, easily, comfortably, as if they had known each other for years, not days.

Their upbringings could not have been more different — Blaine, the sequestered son of a wealthy businessman; Kurt, the treasured only child of a mechanic/widower. Yet they shared so much in common. Ambitions. Ethics. Even nosy, sarcastic, meddling friends. 

He found it more and more difficult to keep Kurt — Oh god, I'm calling him by his first name, Blaine thought— relegated to that cold, tiny compartment.

He picked up his truck where he'd left it, tried unsuccessfully to tip the driver, then headed up the road to Bardessono. He found Kurt in the foyer, tapping on an iPad.

"Walls closing in on you?" Blaine said, folding his arms and leaning up against a pillar.

"Look what the chauffeur dragged in," Kurt said. "The room's fine. I just figured I'd get a little work done while I was waiting. Deadline approaches."

"Ah. Those pesky editors."

"Exactly. She's breathing down my neck for copy. Um, thanks for stopping by."

"Of course. You wanted to talk?"

"Not here. You want to grab a bite, or maybe get a glass..."

"Yes."

"How about if I have them send something over to the room? It's nice out. We can sit in the courtyard."

Minutes later, they were seated at the patio table, watching the early evening sky turn the shade of a orange sorbet, opening a '99 Franciscan Cabernet and nibbling on tapas.

"How can I help you, Mr. Hummel?"

"Who is this cooperative person? I hardly recognize him."

"Oh, what a difference a burger and a couple of bottles of wine will make," Blaine said, a smile cresting his lips.

"If I'd only known before I met you. It would have made my life so much easier."

"It wouldn't have helped. I didn't know you, and I'm still not 100 percent sold on this project of yours."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Blaine."

It turned out that Kurt had spent a sizable part of his day on the phone with Sonoma Valley wineries from the list that Santana had provided. The results, as he feared, were not ideal. His calls were met with skepticism and polite but noncommittal responses to his requests for submissions to the vetting process.

Blaine could have told him as much. The Taste Challenge had been a subject of considerable discussion at this winemaker's dinner the week before, and his peers were as leery of it as he had been. While several of them would have welcomed the publicity, they all feared it was nothing but a set-up.

"Have you talked to Santana about this?" Blaine asked.

"Yes, and she said to talk to you."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"Always helpful, isn't she?"

"I've known her for years, you know. And she's been like this since the day we met — all  rough edges and snark on the outside, but there's a good heart in there, somewhere."

"That she does her damnedest to hide."

"Always. But you know what, Blaine? Everything she does, she does for a reason. Ninety percent of the time she won't tell you what that reason is. She just gives you that look. 

Kurt mimicked the Santana sneer, drawing laughs from Blaine 

"But if you don't figure out what she's up to..." Blaine started.

"You're done for," Kurt finished, raising his glass to meet Blaine's in a toast to the acerbic leader of the Sonoma Wine Association."You know, I think she feels you may have more pull with your neighbors than she does."

"I doubt that," Blaine said. He wouldn't betray the conversation they had in Santana's office when Kurt first arrived; how she asked for his help participating, acting as a local leader. Blaine felt she'd overestimated his influence with his peers, but he also knew that he had markers he could call in — if the situation merited it.

He also suspected that Santana wouldn't hesitate to try to set them up is she thought it would further her cause, and Blaine was no longer certain that he would object.

"They're not going to line up to get you to taste their wine without meeting you, Kurt. They're not going to respond to a cold call or an email saying they should enter their wine in your contest, even if the message is from the wine editor at Taste magazine.

"They'll want to be wooed."

"Wooed?"

"Yes, wooed. In a manner of speaking, yes. This side of the valley is all about promotion, big sales. And they can afford to take the time to send a marketing team to you with a full compliment of wines to sample on your schedule, or to send a car to bring you to them. But boutique wineries? It's not so easy for us. I'm not just the owner of Rhapsody, I'm the chief winemaker, the vineyard manager, the bottling agent, the marketing director, the distributor. I've got a few guys to help me in the vineyards and around the winery. But for the most part? I'm Rhapsody wines. Me and my assistant. 

"And these small wineries that you want to recruit? They're all run exactly the same way. We don't have large staffs. Most of us don't have our own tasting rooms. We pool our resources and split time at a community tasting room, those of us who can. You need to go to them, Kurt. Let them get to know you. Give them a reason to trust you."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Blaine hesitated, and watched the last glimmers of sunlight sink below the Carneros Hills. "You understand why I was reluctant to work with you, right?"

"A crisis in confidence? Intimidated by my powerful presence?" Kurt intended a lighthearted jab, but one look at the serious look on Blaine's face and he wished he could reel the words back in, but it was too late. "I'm sorry. It's because of all this, isn't it?" he said, nodding toward the luxury suite.

"In a way. You've got to realize that to us little guys, this looks like a big set-up."

"It isn't, you know. Or it shouldn't be. I can help make sure that it isn't. I know that Quinn sees this as a marketing opportunity for the magazine, but it doesn't mean it's rigged, Blaine. It's a blind tasting. The judges will never know the Sonoma wines from the Napa wines. And I choose the wineries and the judges. I won't let the big wineries roll over you. 

"I promise."

Blaine let a moment pass, letting the words sink in. 

"I believe you," he said, his voice hushed. "But you have to earn their respect. And to do that, you have to understand where they're coming from."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You have to understand that you don't appeal to the family farm the way you do a multi-national conglomerate, Kurt. It's a different pitch."

Kurt hadn't expected a lesson in marketing from the young winemaker, but pressed for more. "But wouldn't a small winery have even more incentive to be involved in this? Wouldn't this be an opportunity for them?"

"Not necessarily, and it's certainly not the same motivation," Blaine said. "And that's what you need to zero in on."

Kurt tilted his head, covering his mouth with his hand, deep in thought. He aimlessly swirled his wine glass with the other, as if the rotation of the plummy liquid would somehow focus his train of thought.

"Blaine, I want to write about you, one of the columns. I want to feature Rhapsody, and you."

Blaine stared at the table, furrowed his brow and fidgeted with his glass.

"What?"

"My column. You. Rhapsody. I want to feature you."

"Why?" Blaine said, still appearing to concentrate more on the patio table than on Kurt.

"The Challenge isn't the only reason I'm here. You know that. Quinn expects columns — lots of columns. I'm supposed to be featuring the up-and-coming winemakers of the region. Who represents that better than you?"

"Isn't it enough that I gave you that wine, that I'm cooperating?" Blaine said, his voice sounding uncertain. 

"And why would you object, Blaine? You're in the wine business, after all. One story about you isn't going to turn you into Gallo."

"That's not what I'm concerned about."

Blaine finally looked up, his eyes a bit red, his face strained. 

"Why me, Kurt? Because I'm gay? Is that it? Profile the gay winemaker, because that's something new?"

"No! I'm didn't use the pages of Taste to come out, and I wouldn't do that to you, if that's what you're..."

"I'm out. That's not it. But, why me, Kurt?"

"Our readers haven't heard of you before," Kurt said, unconvincingly.

"Is that all?"

"You're a leader among your peers."

Blaine just stared at him.

"Because I've never met anyone like you," Kurt said.

The conversation, once smooth as oak-aged Scotch, come to a shaky halt, neither willing to move forward. Kurt finally dove into the void.

"Why did you send me that bottle of Sotto Voce, Blaine? What made you decide to submit your wine? I mean, I'm delighted you changed your mind, but I can't say I understand."

"I told you already."

"You were cryptic."

"They need me. Like I said, I'm still not crazy about this. I'm worried, too. And what if it gets that attention that you think we covet? I haven't got stock to cover that. I don't make that much wine, Kurt. And I'm not sure I want to. It's never been my goal to run a big winery. I had my chance. I turned it down. But even if this is it a set-up, someone needs to represent the small winemakers, and it's been made pretty clear that I need to help with that.

"I don't want to let my friends down. If they need me to do this, and you want me, I'm in."

"You're not doing this for Rhapsody?' 

"No."

"You're not doing this for yourself?"

"No. Not really. But if my role, whatever that might be, is to represent small wineries and artisan winemaking, then yeah, maybe I'm doing this for me, a little."

Their eyes met again, and Blaine felt the breath stutter in his throat. He looked down to his glass, running his finger along the rim, and raised his eyes to meet Kurt's again.

"Yeah, maybe I'm doing this for me."

The stilted silence still pervaded the patio, the only noise the sound of a flock of Ravens squawking in the distance. It was an 800-pound gorilla that invited itself along to their meeting, and there was no safe way to encourage it to leave.

"Blaine, until this event is over, I'm supposed to be an impartial judge. I can't... I have to be neutral. I can't do anything to even hint of a preference. I may not judge the tasting, but I do decide who competes, and I can't do anything to compromise that."

The worry lines across Blaine's forehead doubled as he pulled his brows together. He steadied his quivering breath and rose silently, half-chewing his lower lip, trying to figure what to make of the words.

"I really did enjoy dinner last night, Blaine."

Blaine nodded and picked up his keys to leave. He paused, his back to Kurt. "I'll help you with the wineries, Kurt. But the column? The feature? I just don't know if that's a good idea."

"If you're going to compete in the Challenge, then you'll have to."

"Let's cross that bridge when or if we come to it, OK?" Blaine said, and walked out without looking back.

****