Seduced by Sunday

“We leave with a full belly and a few cases of wine,” Val finished her sentence.

Chapter Twenty-One

The man was sexy, confident . . . and completely in his element as he negotiated with the rental car company before they set off from the hotel. Seemed Michael and Val had something in common when it came to cars that moved. Of course that meant Meg was stuck in the backseat of a car that barely had one as Val sped over the highways and byways of Italy. While the road signs weren’t completely foreign, they did take a minute or two for her brain to process. Val, on the other hand, shifted gears, veered left and right as if he was right at home.

It didn’t take long for the city to fall behind them and the countryside to open to massive space and yes . . . vineyards.

Michael hadn’t stopped smiling since they left the hotel.

“It’s like midstate California, only better,” Meg voiced from the backseat.

Michael nodded. “Optimal grape production. California produces over eighty percent of America’s wine. But this is where wine was born . . . well, here and France.”

“But no one likes the French.” Val’s joke made everyone laugh.

Meg didn’t know anyone who was uniquely French, and didn’t hold an opinion.

“It’s the history . . . the years of production that make each region unique. New winemakers study it . . . make it their business to know the subtle differences.”

Val liked to drive fast. He made the swift curves of the road his as he guided the sporty coupe to his whims. “You’re an actor . . . what do you know of the subtle differences?” Val questioned.

“Hollywood.”

Val managed a peek at Michael before returning his eyes to the road.

“Before I was old enough to drink, Hollywood was offering me everything. I was twenty when I shot my first film. When we wrapped up production there were lines of coke and shots of Patrón on the bar.”

Meg hadn’t heard this story. Knew for a fact her best friend Judy hadn’t heard it, either. She leaned in to hear every syllable.

“The coke wasn’t an option. Didn’t even look at it twice, but the tequila . . . that’s another story.”

Meg laughed. “Bit you in the ass, did it?”

Michael shook his head as if remembering the pain. “I don’t know what people see in that crap. I was sick for a week. After that the after-parties continued and I noticed wine, champagne . . . all lined up with the drugs and hard stuff. I wanted to be grown-up but didn’t want to burn for a week after. Hollywood could afford decent wine. I soon learned what I liked and what I didn’t.”

Meg smiled, liking the fact that Michael shared a personal story with them. “So why do you hide your love for wine? Your wine cellar is stocked yet you drink beer in public.”

“My image drinks beer.”

Meg snorted. “Maybe it’s time to change your image. Beer is a cheap man’s drink. Wine . . . and even Patrón, is for people with money.”

Michael seemed to consider her words.

“Unless you like beer,” Val said.

“Can’t stand it.”

“Life is too short to drink something you don’t like.”

Meg agreed. Here she was in wine country, and she didn’t like the stuff. A stiff whiskey was just fine, thank you very much . . . wine?

Blah.

They drove through the countryside until they hit the Umbria region and the winery that produced what Michael insisted tasted exactly like Alonzo’s label.

There was no doubt by their stance walking into the tasting room that they were on a mission.

Thankfully, Michael’s face was known everywhere. The employees scrambled to help them, asked for autographs, and offered them more attention than anyone else in the room.

It didn’t take long for the proprietors of the winery to work their way to Michael’s side. His natural charisma and charm opened doors like no one else Meg knew.

“My friends,” Michael opened up the conversation to the two of them, “Miss Rosenthal and Mr. Masini.”

Val shook the proprietor’s hand and spoke in Italian. The incognito understanding of the language was waiting until they reached Alonzo’s region. Here, Val had free rein to speak whatever he needed to in order to find the answers they wanted.

“So you want to know more about our wine,” their host said.

“I’m afraid our famous friend has us at a disadvantage. He said you were the best. We’re here to find out why.”

Luciano, who went by Luc, pulled the three of them to the back of the tasting room for a private tour. Meg wondered, briefly, if anyone ever turned Michael away.

The rock-laden walls of the passageway opened to a larger room that housed a few tables and hundreds of bottles of wine. The cool space stood in stark contrast to the room above them where the average taster stood sipping wine.

Luc told them how old the winery was . . . spoke of his ancestors who had owned the winery before him. He would turn every so often and say something in Italian to Val, and then continue as if every one of them understood him.

“O-four was a fabulous year.” Luc reached a top shelf in the cool cellar and wiped off the bottle, which was already dust free. “This is the year you told me you enjoyed, yes?”

Michael studied the label briefly before handing it back to their host. “I have several bottles in my collection.”

Luc dipped his head as if in appreciation of Michael’s patronage. “Tell me what you want to know, signor. You already enjoy my wine.” He placed his hand over his chest. “Seems you’re here to perhaps find a new favorite?”