“It’s so nice to finally meet the rock and roll queen of the wine world in person.” Mark McClintock leaned across the table, eyeing Tabitha with what she hoped was amusement.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Why on earth had she worn this outfit? She’d thought she looked so stylish and comfortable when she left the house this morning. Long, loose pink tulle skirt, denim biker jacket, every ring she owned. She felt tough and fearless standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom. Now, sitting in front of the head columnist for Wine Life Magazine, she just felt foolish. Mark wore a button-down shirt and khaki pants, his wire-rimmed glasses framing his eyes and his shock of prematurely grey hair giving a sense of rumpled authority to his boyish face.

“No, it’s cool. I mean it as a compliment. Lately, I’ve been noticing you say what you want. You aren’t toeing the company line anymore. No one expected this out of Jillie Jones Lawson’s daughter.”

“Do you know my mom?”

“A bit,” he said. “I worked for her, briefly. I was a waiter at Crystale in college, and she was director of wine operations there at the time. She scared me to death.”

Tabitha laughed. “She scares everyone to death. She writes for you now, doesn’t she?”

“A monthly column. It seems that she is still indomitable.”

“Yep. That’s one way to describe her.”

“So, you’re the daughter of the woman who literally makes the rules for wine drinkers around the world. Did you dye your hair pink as a coming-out party?”

“What does that mean?” Her stack of silver bangles clanged down her arm as she fingered her bright pink hair self-consciously.

“It means lately you are shaking things up a little bit.”

“Well, I’m not trying to shake anything up. I was the good girl for a long time. But being the good girl sort of stifled me after a while. I was working too hard for someone else’s dreams. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” he replied. “We didn’t know what to expect when you came out of the academy: fall in line with your mother or burn it all down. And then you joined Royal at El Zop.”

Tabitha flinched but recovered quickly. Doubtless her name would be connected to El Zopilote del Mar, the Thief of the Sea Winery, and Royal Hamilton, Thief of Her Dignity Husband, for the rest of her life. She shouldn’t shy from the association; she worked her ass off there and was proud of her reputation. But it stung just a little bit.

Mark either didn’t notice her hesitation, or he pretended not to. “Then,” he continued, “instead of shaking things up, you turned into a pretty standard red-with-meat, white-with-fish kind of wine lady. But lately, I’m seeing wine reviews that sound like the old Tabitha.” He scrolled his phone and read aloud from her Facebook post. “For example, you called this Carménère ‘a sin with no punishment, a Tuesday night orgy with strangers, a bank robbery with no guns and a quick getaway.’ I mean, what does that even mean?”

“Yeah, I guess I let that description get away from me. I was trying to say that it was a great weekend wine, full of debauchery, but I drank it on a weeknight with a grilled cheese sandwich and no regrets whatsoever.”

He laughed. “Don’t get me wrong—I went out and bought a bottle the minute I read your review. I didn’t even know what it would taste like; I just knew I had to try it. I grilled steaks on the patio, and my wife and I drank and watched the stars all night.”

“See? That means I did my job. And I didn’t even have to say anything fancy like pyrazine.”

“But this was not a big-deal wine. Unknown label, small provenance. I was impressed that you pushed it.”

“I’m not pushing anything. I mean, obviously, when I’m at El Zopilote, I sell our wines. But when I leave the office, I just want to tell wine drinkers what I like, and maybe they will like it, too. And to be honest, I’m not interested in impressing the label whores anymore. I did that for too long, and I’m done. Their stupid bald eagle labels and six-month waiting lists—I’m over it, you know? I want to do my thing, bring great wine to everyone else. Enough of the trophy collectors. Let them have it. The rest of us just want to have fun.”

“What are you drinking these days?”

“Dude, really? I’d think you, of all people, wouldn’t ask me for my favorite wine.”

“Come on. I have to ask. You know that.”

“I’m obsessed with a few Spanish Monastrells. Whenever I meet someone who claims not to like red wine, I say, ‘Let me introduce you to a sexy Spaniard,’ and they change their mind pretty quickly.”

He regarded her for a few moments before jotting down some notes and then continuing. “What prompted all these changes?”

Tabitha chewed her bottom lip for a moment. She knew what he was asking, but she had to tread carefully.

“Well, I wanted to branch out.” She used vague terms, not naming anyone as if there were any possibility that Mark, and all of his readers, wouldn’t know what she meant. “I’m still part owner of El Zopilote, and I love what we do there. But I’d forgotten how good I am at being a somm. I can bring all kinds of good wine to people. Why wouldn’t I want to do that more?” She smiled at Mark. “And wearing a business suit every day is a pain in the ass, so I decided to change my clothes and hair, too.”

“Let’s talk about SommFest. How do you feel?”

“I feel great. Ready for it.”

“Your mom won in, what was it? Eighty-seven?”

“That’s right. I was five.”

“You feeling pressure to live up to her legacy?”

Tabitha leaned back in her chair and searched the ceiling of the coffee shop for an answer to his question. Pressure was just a hiss of air against rubber, eased by opening a valve. Too weak a word for the combined complications of the Lawson clan.

“I mean, she was the youngest person ever to win, and she was the first woman. I’m already too old to beat that. And then, after she won it once, she said it was impossible to compete at that level with a family, so she quit competing.”

“She blamed you?”

Tabitha waved her hand as if the notion didn’t hurt her. “Me and my sister, I guess. I don’t know. She was full of it, obviously. Almost everyone I know in the wine world has a stable family. It’s a happy business.”

“So why didn’t you stay married?”

Because I married a cheater who liked to look at other women’s vaginas?

Tabitha let this reply play out in her head, and wondered if it would be the pull quote on the cover of the magazine. Ex-Husband of Rock and Roll Sommelier Likes Other Vaginas! Full Story Inside!

She’d pay almost any amount of money to see the look on Royal Hamilton, the Duke of Muffordshire’s face when he saw the article. Someone would tell him about it in advance; one of his minion assistants would scurry to him with the news, or maybe Mark himself would contact Royal and ask for a response.

But no, she couldn’t do it. Revenge only tasted sweet at first, and then it turned sour in the belly almost immediately. Like an over-fermented Porto, attractive only to wasps and flies. And the fact was that Royal still had a whole lot more influence with other vintners than she did. It was bad enough to be divorced from him; to taunt him publicly would be career suicide. Not yet. Not when she was finally making a name for herself outside his sphere of influence.

She smiled her most benign and wise smile and tilted her head to the side as if they were discussing a toddler who wouldn’t behave. “We tried, for a long time. But as you know, winery hours are nonstop. We both got a little consumed by the work. It’s a very sad divorce, but what are you going to do?”

By sad divorce, of course, she meant it was the smartest divorce she’d ever have. But Mark didn’t need to know that.

“Tell me this. How are you different from your mom?”

“Well, my mom is old school,” Tabitha answered slowly, considering the repercussions carefully before she continued. “She always presumed a basic knowledge of wine when she served it, and she didn’t have much time for, um, let’s call them dilettantes.”

“That’s how the wine world operated, back in her day.”

“Right. But it’s different now. Not so rigid. A lot of people just want to enjoy a glass of wine. They don’t need the stress of a somm in a tuxedo judging their choices.”

“Let’s pretend I don’t know anything about wine. How would you pick one out for me?”

She glanced down at his cup. “I’d decide by your coffee. You got the darkest roast. That tells me you like bold and bitter, old-world style. You added real cream, but just a few drops, so you like strong flavor, but you don’t like anything harsh or astringent. I’d pick out a wine that stays true to varietal, something that tastes like seventies rock music. But I’d encourage you to try something that wasn’t as well known here in the States. Maybe a South African Pinotage.”

A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “What about her?” He tilted his head to the table next to them, where a woman in mom jeans sat reading a novel and sipping green tea.

“She’s into self-care,” Tabitha replied. “I’d steer her away from the Chards and the Chenins she’s used to. Maybe I’d give her a peachy-grassy-tasting Mauzac out of Languedoc.”

“That’s a pretty esoteric choice.”

“She listens to the Avett Brothers.” Tabitha tilted her head toward the woman’s phone, where they could see the music choice. “She looks like someone who likes new things and that would be just bright enough, refreshing, and soothing on the surface, but a lot of depth when you stop and pay attention.”

“This is fun.” He indicated a table behind her. “What would you do for them?”

She glanced at the young women leaning in toward each other and laughing loudly, and turned back to him with a smirk. “A heavy-handed fruit bomb. Something that tastes like Taylor Swift songs on repeat at the end of your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.” Royal’s least favorite customers but most favorite body types, she wanted to crack. But she restrained herself.

“Your brain is odd. You think differently than most somms. It’s almost like you have some kind of musical wine synesthesia.”

Tabitha shrugged. “I guess so. I can’t explain it. All I can tell you is when I taste certain things, I hear music in my head. And when I hear music, it makes me crave certain flavors. I don’t know what it is, but it’s much easier for me to explain wine that way than it is to say oaky or vanilla or tannic.”

“What’s happening next at El Zopilote?”

“Next year is going to be spectacular.” That was, so far, the only outright lie she had told in this interview. The new vintage was going to be an exploding California-style jam jar, just like the wine Royal made every year but more so. A Frappuccino in a wine glass. The soccer moms and the Botoxed cougars would suck it down, like always, and post selfies with Royal from the winery, like always. Tabitha loathed the new wines.

But there was no way to explain this to the reporter without throwing her business, and all of her employees, under the bus. She just had to get the winery’s books back in the black again, make sure the employees were taken care of, and she would get the hell out of there.

You do you, Royal Hamilton. I won’t ever have to pretend to like your milkshake of a wine ever again.

Mark stood up, drained the rest of his coffee, and reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you again for your time, Ms. Lawson. I’m glad I finally got to meet you after all these years.”

“Thank you. It’s been my pleasure. Let me know when the article is published, won’t you?” As if I won’t be stalking your website every single day so I can buy fifty copies of my own, she thought.

“I’ll be in touch. I’ve run a monthly profile of each of the SommFest contestants all year. I’ve enjoyed getting to know all the competitors.” He checked his watch and stood up. “Can I just ask you one more personal question? Will it be strange, at SommFest?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, competing against your ex-husband.”

She opened and closed her mouth several times, like a gaping fish, and Mark looked surprised.

“Didn’t you hear? Only two somms from California. You’re one. Royal Hamilton is the other one.”

“He knew I was competing this year,” she finally said, her voice low and hoarse. “He helped me with my initial application, way back when we were still married.”

“You didn’t know he was doing this?”

She shook her head, trying to make sense of the information. “How would I know? This was my thing. He knew it was my thing. Why would he want to compete against me?”

“That, I don’t know. But I would be careful.”

It took her a full minute to absorb this comment.

“Be careful? Why? Has he put out a hit on me or something?”

Mark laughed. “Not that I know of. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to order a hit. Still, I think he’s… Well. Let’s just say there has been some talk.”

“Talk about what?”

Mark pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Talk about his methods. I’m not at liberty to say much. But I’m not sure he’s entirely honest.”

Tabitha could only stare at him.

“Look, it’s probably nothing. Jealous rumors. I wouldn’t worry about it. Everyone knows you are the one to beat this year.”

“They do?”

“They do. Talk to you soon, Rock and Roll Somm.”