As I mentally made a note of all the wines I’d be bringing back, I listened to their chatter.
“I was thinking maybe we should stay in tonight,” one of them said. “Maybe drink some of the wine we bought and order in.”
“Sounds good. Should I cancel the dinner reservations, then? What about that bar we were thinking to check out?”
“Let’s do that tomorrow night. After the vodka roadies, I’m not sure I’ll make it tonight.”
Against my better judgment, I had to ask.
“Did you just say vodka roadies?”
“Um.” The blonde pointed at her friend. Look at that, not on her phone for a change. “It was Brooke’s idea.”
Brooke. The name suited her perfectly, somehow.
“Apparently there’s a law against drinking in a car,” the blonde said. I couldn’t wait to see where this was going. “Even a rental. With a driver.”
Her voice was deeper than I would have expected. God help me, I really should stay away from this one. But I didn’t. Of course.
“I have to know. What does hiring a driver have to do with it?”
“I mean, I can see if you’re driving yourself, obviously. But if you rent a limo or a big SUV to drive around the wineries for the day, I think you should be allowed to drink as a passenger.”
Cosimo, don’t ask. You have a ton of work to do.
“Count me curious,” I said anyway. “Why do you need to drink in the car on a wine tour?”
She rolled her eyes. Literally. “Yesterday some of the wineries were really far apart. Like a half hour.”
“And?”
The other women watched us as if it were a ping-pong competition. Their heads turned back and forth as I shot questions at Brooke and she answered.
“And we were losing our buzz.”
“In a half hour?”
“Maybe.”
“I see.” They were hardcore if nothing else. “And the vodka roadies?”
“Well, we asked the driver yesterday about drinking in the back seat, and he said we couldn’t. So we put a little vodka and some grape water flavoring in our water bottles, and voilà.”
Her phone buzzed. She looked down.
I was done with her.
“Well ladies, I hope you can actually taste the wine after your roadies, because you saved the best for last.” Being at the top of the lake, we were often at the beginning or the end of tour days. “Let me go grab your wines. Enjoy the view,” I said to Brooke, who was, once again, on her phone.
She didn’t even hear me.
“Sounds great,” Marian said. One of the others had mentioned her name, and I never forgot a name.
Not even two steps away from the table, I heard, “Holy shit. Did you see that guy? He’s like an even better-looking Clark Kent.”
For the first time all afternoon, I smiled. I might not have been interested in fraternizing with the clientele, but I wasn’t made of cardboard either. A compliment was a compliment, and I’d take it.
“Better-looking than Henry Cavill?”