Tabitha leaned back in the chair, her head against the wall behind her, feeling the adrenaline drip out of her system, fade out of her fingertips and her toes. She’d done fine. It was fine. She was fine. Everything was just fine. Two days down and the competition was nearly over; now she just had to get through her final tasting, and then she could go home and forget all about this place, and stop using the word fine.

The seat next to her shifted, but she didn’t open her eyes to see who had joined her. She needed just a few more seconds to convince herself it had gone well and that she wasn’t a total dumpster fire.

The person next to her evidently had infinite patience, because he or she didn’t move or make a sound while waiting for Tabitha’s acknowledgment. Maybe he or she was also exhausted after this long day of competition. Maybe he or she had a fried brain, sore feet, aching cheeks from wearing a polite smile for too long. She sighed.

“Thinking about all that delicious wine?” the man next to her asked.

She opened one eye and saw Mark. He held a glass of red wine in his hands—she guessed a Cab , given the inky red tone and the oily way it coated the glass—and was studying it carefully, holding it up in front of him and watching the hotel lobby light shine through it.

“No,” she replied. “Thinking about a burger. And fries. And a beer.”

“What kind of beer do you want?”

“Something sharp and carbonated. Bitter as hell.”

He nodded. “Guess this all gets a little tiring.”

“A change of pace does me good.”

“How is it going for you so far?” He looked toward the ballroom door she had emerged from a few minutes earlier.

“I don’t know. During the service test today one guy ordered a particular Bonarda that I can’t stand, and I told him it was like Janis Joplin at Woodstock mixed with an Australian rugby match.”

He choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How did that go over?”

“What would you think a wine tasted like if I said that to you?”

Mark gazed up at the ceiling for a moment. “It makes me think of a lot of things. Pot smoke and war protests and guitar strings played by bloody fingers. Grass and sweat and dirt. Noise.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what the wine tastes like.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It is terrible. I hate the wine he asked for. It’s just loud and obnoxious. All volume, no finesse. The finish is like drinking straight vinegar.”

“What did you recommend instead?”

She thought for a minute. She had served so many wines today but could recall this one perfectly. “I recommended the same wine, but from Hormigas Valley, because it tastes like the exact moment when Bob Dylan plugged in his guitar.”

He nodded and didn’t reply. She studied him for a moment.

“I’d love to flatter myself that you’re here because you find me charming, but I have a feeling there is more to your visit.”

“I do find you charming,” he said. “Maybe I just want to get more detail about your methods for the profile I’m writing about you.”

“You already published that profile. It was delightful. Now everyone calls me the Rock and Roll Somm.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

“Seriously, Mark.” She sat up straight and faced him. “Why are you here?”

“I just needed to rest. It’s been a long day for me too, you know.”

Tabitha narrowed her eyes. “There are twenty-five empty seats in this hallway. You chose the one next to me for a reason.”

He did not turn to face her, but his voice lowered. Just a notch.

“I was wondering if you want to go to dinner with Liz and me tonight. Just to talk.”

“About Bob Dylan?”

“Sure, we can talk about Bob Dylan if you want. I was never much of a fan myself, but if that’s your gig, we can. Or we can talk about the way your husband has rigged this entire competition.”

His expression hadn’t changed; his tone remained calm. But Tabitha’s blood turned to ice in her veins.

“Ex-husband,” she said, her words hollow in her mouth.

“Yes of course. Ex-husband. Co-owner, with you, of your current place of business. Filled with all of your coworkers. Some of whom I would assume are still friends.”

She still hadn’t turned her phone back on, but Tabitha could feel it suddenly, a brick in her blazer pocket. Weighed down with a long string of friendly texts and expectations, from people whose livelihoods were suddenly jeopardized.

“Look, Mark. We’ve been through this. I’ve already told you I’m clueless. What are you going to do? Prosecute me for not knowing what he was up to on the side? What else do you need from me?”

“Nobody said anything about prosecution. I have what I need about him. Trust me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“This is your chance to do the right thing. He’s going to win this competition. You know how I know that? Because he’s fixed it that way. I’ve got a paper trail a mile long that shows how he’s been fixing every competition he’s been involved in for the last ten years. Long before he even met you.”

“That’s not possible. He’s the best somm in the country. Everyone says that. You’ve said that, in your magazine.”

“Wrong. I’ve said he’s the self-proclaimed best somm in the country. People think he’s a cheat, and they’re not wrong.”

“Who thinks he’s a cheat? Besides you?”

Mark didn’t reply, only leveled a gaze at her.

“Well,” said Tabitha, “if you’ve known he’s a cheater for so long, why haven’t you gone after him before now?”

“Because of you.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with it.” Her volume was rising, becoming hysterical.

People started to file out of the ballroom now, but Mark did not change his tone.

“I know. Believe me, I know. I’ve looked at every public business dealing you’ve had. You’re as clean as soap. That’s what kept most of us from writing about him. It’s what kept me from writing about him. I guess I can’t speak for anyone else. But I know that everyone likes you, and everyone trusts you. If I took him down, it meant taking you down, too, and I didn’t want to do that. It didn’t feel right to me.”

“So, what’s stopping you now? We’re not married anymore.”

“I want your help.”

“You said you already have everything you need.”

“I do. But you could confirm some things. Names, dates, events. Your input would give it more weight.”

Tabitha opened and closed her mouth. “I can’t do that. Everyone who works at that winery is my friend. I can’t participate in something that’s going to hurt them.”

“You already did. You were married to the sleaziest guy in the business for the last five years.”

Tabitha kept her eyes on her feet, not wanting to meet the gaze of anyone else who came out of the room.

“You want him to win this way? As a cheat? As a liar? Because he greased the palm of every judge in the room? You’re the one with the talent, and everyone knows it. But he’s going to win because he threatens and bullies and bribes everyone. That’s the only reason El Zop has any stickers, and I know you agree with that even if you’d never say it. If you tasted those wines coming out of any other winery in the world, you’d lose your mind. Start talking about the way pumpkins smell the day after Halloween when they start rotting and you’re sick from eating too many Twix bars. Or something like that.”

Tabitha scoffed. “I would never describe a wine like that.”

“That’s exactly how you talk about wine.”

She rolled her eyes and looked away, but he continued. “Aren’t there other wineries you care about? Other winemakers, maybe?”

Tabitha shot a look at him, but his gaze remained impassive. He couldn’t possibly be talking about Giovanni, could he? No, even Mark wasn’t that talented of a sleuth.

“Let’s say Royal wins,” she finally said, speaking slowly, as if testing out her thoughts. “Let’s just say he does win. So what?”

“You’ll be happy with that?”

“No, of course not. But that’s what he does. He wins everything. Until now, I’ve always thought it was because he was better at things.”

“You’re saying you don’t mind if he wins because that’s what you expected? And if it turns out that whatever the reason he wins—because he’s better or because he cheats—you don’t mind, because either way, he was always going to win?”

“Yes, I guess that is what I am saying.”

The room had mostly cleared; only a few people lingered in the hall, laughing in exhausted, staccato bursts. The door to the ballroom opened one last time and Royal stepped out, his dark blue suit as crisp as if he’d just put it on.

Tabitha took a deep breath and spoke in a low voice. “If what you are saying is true, then everything I have done—every single thing I have worked for—is a lie. I can’t live with that.”

Royal scanned the hall, and his eyes landed on Tabitha first. She saw them darken, saw him hesitate for a moment and start to turn away. But then he noticed Mark. He cocked his head to the side and paused. She watched him calculate; it was only a few seconds, but she could practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing something, judging his next move, planning the checkmate.

She straightened up in her chair and hoped Royal wouldn’t come near them. Just this once, she prayed, let him pass by this confrontation and leave them all unscathed. Tabitha held her breath, tried to keep her body as still as Mark.

Royal sauntered across the hall to them, eyeing Mark as he walked but angling himself toward Tabitha.

“How did you do?” He nodded to her when he reached them.

Mark did not rise to greet him, and for that, Tabitha was grateful. She remained in her seat and nodded back at Royal. “Fine, thanks. You?”

“Hard to tell. The service test was particularly challenging, wasn’t it?”

She refused to let herself engage in this with him, refused to participate in the usual post-competition debrief as if they had anything except animosity for each other. Her head pounded with Mark’s accusations. He had to be wrong. The was no way any one person could be so blind to her husband’s misdeeds.

“I meant to tell you how much I enjoyed your article about the Wachau valley,” Royal addressed Mark when Tabitha didn’t reply. “It made me want to try my hand at a Gruner Veltliner.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad you liked it.”

The two men stared at each other. Royal’s chic veneer never cracked, and Mark hardly blinked against his flinty gaze. He remained in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, as comfortable as a man on a picnic, unflinching and seemingly uncaring about Royal’s attempt at intimidation.

“You’re here this week writing about the SommFest?” Royal said, finally breaking the silence.

“I am, yes,” Mark replied. “I write about it every year.”

“Ah, yes. Well, it’s a very important affair, isn’t it? I know the wineries always appreciate the publicity from you and other magazines.”

Mark shrugged. “I only write about wineries if there is an interesting story there. Usually, I am more interested in the people.”

“How so?”

Tabitha’s eyes darted between the two men. It didn’t look like a tennis match as much as one person hitting a ball against an immovable wall. She could see the tension building in Royal—the tiniest clench in the back of his jaw; the way he leaned back just a fraction. For a brief, terrifying moment, she wondered if this might end in a fistfight, if one of the men would end the verbal standoff and just take a swing at the other.

“How people win is what makes them interesting,” Mark said. “How hard they work, how they value the work, what it means to them. Those are always the profiles that interest our readers the most. That’s why I profiled most of the SommFest competitors this year. Everyone likes a hero.”

“You’re not looking to this one for heroic stories, are you?” Royal grinned his most ingratiating grin at Mark while tilting his head toward Tabitha. “Ex-wives rarely tell the entire truth of any situation.”

“Tabitha and I are talking about rugby. And she hasn’t told me anything I don’t already know.”

Tabitha saw Royal’s gaze drift over to her, and she smiled her most beatific smile at him. She didn’t know what it meant, but let him wonder.

“Yes. Well. Lovely to meet you. Hope to, ah, talk to you again some time.”

Royal turned and walked away, and Tabitha and Mark didn’t talk until the elevator doors closed behind him.

“That was weird,” Tabitha said, her heart slowing to its normal pace. “For a second, I thought you might come to blows.”

“I could take him. I’ve gotten into a few fights in my life, you know.”

“Seriously?” She looked at him with renewed interest. “You seem too nice to punch people.”

“Back in the day, I knocked a few guys out.” He smirked. “Got my ass handed to me once or twice, too. But I’d never waste a fight on someone like him nowadays.”

“Because your pen is mightier than your fists?”

“Something like that.” Mark finished the last of his wine. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you a glass of this. It was delicious.”

“What was it?”

“The Shaffer Select Napa Cab.”

“Mmmm. I always thought that one tasted like the beginning part of ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem.”

Mark stared at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Please tell me what that means. I mean, seriously. Explain to me how your mind gets there.”

“You know how that song is a little scratchy at the beginning, like an old record you listened to at your grandmother’s house? That’s the plum and berry you get right off the bat. Familiar, with that little tinkling piano that feels so comfortable, even though you know something big is coming. And then a pounding beat starts, and that’s the backbone of this wine. It’s like it announces to you that it’s taking the old-fashioned, making it new, and not going to let go of you. It’s young and pissed off, but you know it’s ultimately smarter than you are. And you feel like you should talk about how smart it is, but then it’s just so damn good you just hang out and enjoy it.”

Mark’s brow furrowed a little bit as he regarded her, a smile spreading across his face. “You see what I’m saying? How do you do that?”

Tabitha hardly had the energy to be charming anymore. “I don’t know. It’s just how I think. It doesn’t go over all that well with the wine judges. As you might guess.”

“But you’re killing it with regular people who just want to enjoy a glass of wine.”

He stood, exhaling a beleaguered sigh as he did so. “Come on, Rock and Roll Somm. Have dinner with Liz and me. I promise I will not discuss your husband or your winery or anything or any winemaker or any wine or grapes.”

“Ex-husband.” She didn’t move from her seat, where she’d slouched back against the wall. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I can’t face another farm-to-table Napa meal. Squid ink baby greens bullshit, name the farmer, introduce you to the live lobster before you eat it.”

He laughed and held out his hand. “Well, you are in luck, because we are sick of that too. We’re leaving town and going to a taco truck in Healdsburg.”

“Can I bring a date?”

“Not if it’s your ex-husband.”

“Nope. I think we’ll let Sir Saggy Balls fend for himself tonight.”