She flew along the coast highway, the windows of her coupe down, the air rushing through her car and whipping her hair around her head. Tabitha could smell the ocean breeze in the air from her home in Paso Robles, but most days she didn’t actually see the beach. She loved the opportunity to drive north up the coast and enjoy the ocean air. The morning fog had burned off, and the sun warmed her skin. She hung her left elbow out the window, tapping the window frame along with the music, trying to focus her thoughts on the day ahead. She cranked up her speakers—the Beastie Boys, “No Sleep Till Brooklyn.” As she listened, her mouth watered for buttered popcorn, which she always craved when she heard this song. She was grateful for the drive, as she needed to think about what the reporter had just told her. The music helped her focus.

Her life was unsettled now, in the best possible way. Unsettled. Like the sediment inside a champagne bottle, being turned on its side. Riddled, they called it in winemaking. No more husband. No more staying in one spot for work every day, no more prim clothes. Her life had been riddled, like a fine champagne, and after it settled, she would only be finer.

That would have been a good thing to tell Mark from Wine Life. But, she never thought of the right phrase at the right moment. Royal would have thought of the proper thing to say. Instead, she talked about Taylor Swift and Tuesday night orgies.

Tabitha pressed the brakes as the northbound traffic slowed. She loved these coastal drives she got to make lately. Visiting other wineries in hopes of representing their brands, visiting restaurants to give demonstrations and sell wine. She moved around more, talked to people. It seemed so much more inclusive.

This afternoon, Tabitha was headed to a private home to give an in-home wine demonstration for OWNS. The in-home demos were where she could shine. Inevitably, a host explained in advance that he or she absolutely, positively, hated a wine—Chardonnay, for most of the men, Cabernet for the young drinkers. Tabitha always brought them what they wanted, but managed to sneak in a bottle or two of the supposedly loathed flavor profile. There was nothing as fun to her as usurping a taster’s expectations. Only last week, she’d convinced a group of golfers that they would enjoy a rosé by asking them to blind-taste it.

Today’s event was a younger crowd. The hostess worked at a social activism startup and was hosting her friends for an evening of “Drinktivism.” Tabitha would provide the wine, one of the other guests was providing postcards, and they would spend the evening tasting new wines and writing letters to their senator. The hostess, Lisette, a pansexual anti-gun activist with a shaved head, blue lipstick, and combat boots, hadn’t specified a favorite wine. “We’re kind of new to it all,” she had explained to Tabitha. “We mostly drink Pinot Grigio from the grocery store. But nothing expensive. And no zin. Ugh. That’s old-people wine.” Tabitha thrilled at the challenge of introducing someone to their first real wine. She’d packed some organic wines out of the Loire Valley that would be perfect for a crowd like this. Lots of flavor profiles, because the millennials loved variety. A socially conscious business practice, so they could feel good about their wine’s impact on the earth. And not too expensive. These were young people, after all. It was unlikely any of them had any real money to spend on wine.

At this stage, it was about getting them to understand the possibilities in front of them. The wine world was huge, satisfying, a lifelong pleasure—if, and only if, she introduced it correctly. If she scared them off with expensive bottles, rare, unfindable vintages, or intimidating words like oeno-fetishism, they’d never pick up a bottle again.

She glanced down at her speedometer and realized she’d sped up when the traffic cleared. She eased her foot off the pedal. She always got excited when she thought about teaching.

She pulled off the coast highway into an unassuming, though pleasant area of Big Sur. She turned her music down to listen to the directions. It was an Australian male accent she’d installed on her GPS. Because why wouldn’t a single woman want a sexy Australian to give her directions around the Central Valley? She called her GPS Croc, and she was certain he was shirtless all the time and had loose beach-blond hair and a perpetual tan. He sounded eternally pleasant, perennially cheerful, even when she missed a turn and had to double back on her way to a destination. A stark contrast to when she used to drive with Royal. Not that he let her drive that often, but on the rare occasions she did drive, he barked orders from the passenger seat and fumed every time she made a wrong turn.

Just as she exited the freeway, both the music and her GPS were interrupted by an incoming call.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Tabby? I saw you called this morning. Sorry. Really busy, couldn’t call you back.”

“I’m frankly surprised you called back at all. Hope it’s not interrupting Tea and Strumpets.”

She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. It seemed like they hadn’t had a single civil conversation since the morning they’d fought about the Meritage. In retrospect, she wondered how many pleasant conversations they had ever had, even while they were married. But that was neither here nor there.

“What can I do for you?”

As if she were a business call and not his ex-wife.

“You’re going to SommFest?”

“Who told you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’ll wanna make a uey at the next light,” said Croc over her speaker.

“Is someone with you?”

“No. Yes. That’s none of your business.” Who is with you? she wanted to ask. Honestly, it could be almost any female in California.

She heard him sigh, in that maddeningly patient way he had. A slow exhale of breath, more like a steady leak through a pinhole than real exasperation, the way a normal human would react.

Control. Royal was made of it.

“Yes. I am competing at SommFest. You knew that.” His voice was clipped, even, with space between each word, as if Royal thought he was speaking to a child.

“How would I know that?”

“I thought for sure I told you.”

“When?”

“Tabby,” he said slowly, “I was invited. Okay? They contacted me. They wanted some more Americans in the competition, and I was their first choice. Evidently.”

“You’re not even American. And they already had me.”

“They wanted more. They wanted someone who has already made a name for himself.”

“We both have a name. The same name.” This was not, strictly speaking, true anymore, as she had dropped his last name the day she walked out of his house. But as far as the wine world was concerned, they shared a last name.

“Look, Tabby, I—”

“Stop calling me Tabby,” she interrupted. “I fucking hate when you call me that.”

Croc repeated his instructions. “You’ll want to make a uey at the next light.” She’d been driving up and down the same street since Royal called, unable to concentrate on the road. Now she pulled into the parking lot of a Whole Foods and took a deep breath. She kept her hands on the steering wheel in front of her, as if prepared to speed away at the slightest provocation.

“Royal. You knew this was my thing. You helped me fill out the application. Why would you enter? That’s the part I don’t understand. What are you trying to prove?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything, Tabby. Tabitha. And I don’t need to run my career choices past you, either.”

“Career choices? Since when does winning a stupid competition matter in a career like yours? You own a prestigious winery.”

“You also own a prestigious winery, and as I recall you hardly thought it was a stupid competition when you agonized over the application.”

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, watching her knuckles whiten.

“Anyway,” he continued, “that doesn’t matter. This distinction would not only help me, but it would also help the winery. I realize you are having a lot of fun with this little freelancing job of yours.” She could practically hear him making air quotes around the word. “But my primary focus is still the winery. Employees. Healthcare benefits. I don’t have the luxury of traipsing all over town, drinking wine with book groups.”

“That is not what I—”

“It can’t be changed. We both want the same thing; only one of us can get it. It’s the basis of every great story.”

“But Royal, can’t you please just—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to argue this,” he interrupted. “Did you need to talk about anything else? Anything that I can help you with, for example?”

Tabitha loosened her grip, let her hands fall on her lap. She leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Tabitha. Are you still there?”

“What exactly are you up to?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You don’t get to screw me in bed anymore, so now you want to screw me at the SommFest.”

He snorted. “I used to appreciate your uniquely American vulgarity.”

“Tell me the truth, Royal. What are you up to? People are talking.”

“What people?” His voice had gone flinty, that tone she recognized from their married days. She’d crossed into territory he wasn’t interested in discussing, but would make sure he controlled the narrative of everyone else talking. Watch yourself, Tabitha.

“People. In the industry. Our industry. You are up to something. What is it?”

“I’m not up to anything.”

“Sometimes I just wonder—”

“Tabitha.” That tone again. Steely blue. “You know about everything I’ve ever done. Everything.”

“Is that a joke? Do you mean like how I knew about all the women you slept with? Because I’m sorry, I did not know about any of them until Vagina Morning. Believe me, everything would have been different in our marriage. We would not have even had a marriage.” She paused, and Royal did not reply. They’d been down this road so many times, in phone calls and sitting across from each other in mediators’ offices. Another thought dawned on her, one that made her blood run cold. “Or do you mean—”

“You know what I mean. You know everything about our business.”

“Until this moment, it was always very important to you to make it clear that it was your business, Royal. I was only a co-owner of what you created.”

He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted him. “If anyone is spreading rumors—lies—about me, I would think you of all people would defend me.”

Tabitha scoffed. “Me, of all people? The ex-wife you cheated on? Why would I defend—”

“It involves you, doesn’t it? Everything that the winery does has your fingerprints all over it.”

“Yeah, but I never—”

“Think it through, Tabitha.”

Tabitha paused, her thoughts jumbled with confusion.

“There is nothing going on. You know that. We both know that. I think the best thing to do would be to approach this competition as a team.”

“As a team? Does that mean I have to share my victory with you if I win?”

He chuckled. “Sure. Let’s say that. You’re going to win.”

Tabitha pressed the heels of her palms to her pounding temples.

“Mark from Wine Life said I’m the person to beat.” Dammit. Why was she sinking to his level? She needed to keep her mouth shut.

“Sure you are. And I expect you to give me as much credit as I would give you in that situation.”

“Oh please. As if the great Royal Hamilton would give me credit after he won an international prize? I doubt you’ll even give credit to whatever girl you have on your arm that day.”

The sigh. Again, the too-patient, too-aggrieved sigh.

“I expect that either one of us will give the other one some credit. That’s just common decency. I also expect that either one of us will defend the other, in case of negative rumors or”—a pause—“unfortunate insinuation.”

“Nobody’s talking about me,” she barked at him.

“Yet,” he replied evenly. “Nobody’s talking about you yet. Don’t be naïve. We both know this business too well. Any rumor that hurts me will inevitably hurt you. And, I might add, people you care about. Do you want to risk that?”

“Risk what? Royal, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not talking about anything, Tabitha. Just be careful who you listen to. To whom you listen,” he corrected himself.

Smug prick.

“Or?”

“We have reputations, jobs, businesses to uphold. I realize you don’t want to lose what you have going on—sipping bubbles at rich supper parties. But I have an entire business to keep afloat. Including a whole lot of people you care about. Do you want all of them to be jobless in this economy? So few wineries even pay a living wage; it would be unfortunate if your sister had to raise her precious little Micah on the meager funds another winery paid, instead of enjoying the continued benefits of our fine institution.”

Tabitha opened her mouth to reply, but before she could find the words, Royal continued, as smooth and unreadable as always.

“You won’t hurt the winery, Tabitha. I know you better than that. You’re mad at me, and that is”—he paused, as if searching for the emotion he would allow her—“that is to be expected. But there is no reason we can’t continue as colleagues, wish each other well, and work together for the continued benefit of our shared business. That seems only fair, don’t you think? Is there anything else we need to discuss? No? I’ll sign off, then. Lovely to hear from you. As always. Cheers.”

The line clicked to dead air, and the music came through her speaker again. Tabitha remained seated, watching patrons lugging bags of groceries out of the store in front of her. She glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes to get to the Drunktivism party. The rich supper party, as Royal had called it, condescension dripping out of his mouth like poisonous honey.

She pulled out onto the main road, much to Croc’s apparent delight—“Ah yeah, we’ll be theah in no time, ay?”—and pondered what Royal had meant. It had been a low blow to bring up Tabitha’s nephew Micah. Her former husband knew how to inflict a wound without even touching her.

But what could he be doing that would put the winery at risk? How could she not know about that?

Simple. Royal had his own way of doing things. To him, everything made sense. Or got in his way. It was an easy equation in his mind.

She didn’t know exactly what was going on at the winery, but she sensed something wrong in her gut. How she was involved was another question. She’d trusted blindly. It had ruined her marriage. Now it was going to ruin her career.

According to Royal Hamilton, the Vagina King.