“Oh, this one is pretty,” she said as they walked into the air-conditioned tasting room.

“The last one was lovely, too.”

There were a few patrons standing along the tasting bar, swirling wine and sipping. Most drank, where a few of them spit out their offerings.

Margaret zeroed in on one of the male servers and squinted her eyes at the man. Val didn’t consider himself a jealous man, and he knew Margaret was doing her best Hollywood performance, still he didn’t care for the attention she was turning on the young man behind the wine counter.

“What wine is this place known for?” This was how she opened the conversation?

The other man passed his eyes to Val.

“We’ve been all over the region today,” Val told the man in English.

“Our whites are award winning,” he said in English. “Not that you’ll tell the difference with all you’ve had,” he said in Italian.

Val didn’t bother pretending he didn’t understand the man.

The two of them laughed and smiled sweetly at Margaret.

“What did he say?” she asked as she slipped onto Val’s lap like the family dog.

“He said you’re lovely, cara.”

It was the attendant’s time to laugh under his smirk.

“Bring us a sample of your award winners,” Val told the man in Italian.

The attendant lined up glasses and started to pour.

Margaret swirled the white and grinned. “Am I doing it right?”

Val wanted to bite his lip, but didn’t. “Only with red, bella. Just smell.”

“Oh, OK.”

Margaret smelled and gulped.

“Tastes like roses.”

Val turned to the attendant, who shook his head with a subtle movement.

Val took his turn, spit out the wine. There wasn’t a hint of floral anything in the mix. Not to his palate in any case.

On the third taste, Margaret exclaimed, “Oak . . . I smell oak.”

Again, the attendant shook his head. “We don’t cask our white in oak.”

Margaret tossed out her bottom lip and put out her best blonde moment. “Sucks. I thought I had that one. I bet the winery up the way has oak. What was the name of it?”

“Picano. We’ll go there next, cara. No worries.”

The attendant shook his head. “They don’t have tastings,” he told them.

Margaret offered an even bigger pout. “Why not? This is Italy, isn’t it? Home of wine and love?” She nuzzled Val’s neck long enough to make the man behind the bar squirm.

“I’m not sure why they don’t host tastings.” The attendant removed a red from behind the bar and presented it to Val. “For the lady?”

Val offered a short nod and said, “I know I’ve sampled their wine in the States. Is there a place to purchase?”

If the discussion about another winery’s brand bothered the kid behind the bar, Val couldn’t tell. “Not locally. I believe they export exclusively.”

Margaret sipped the wine and listened.

“Is that normal?” Val asked.

The attendant lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think they might be intimidated by all the names surrounding them. The new owners are seldom there . . . chances are the quality isn’t where it should be.”

Margaret slid her glass to Val. “This one is good.”

Val tasted and agreed. After buying a few bottles of the red Margaret said she enjoyed, they walked back to the car.

They told Michael what they’d learned as they drove to the final surrounding vineyard to the Picano property.

“Who makes Italian wine and doesn’t sell it to Italians?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve never heard of such a practice.” Michael turned up the road to the next winery. “What’s the plan with this place?”

“I think you should go into the tasting room and gather a crowd. Val and I can take a little walk in the vineyard . . . maybe get a glimpse of Alonzo’s place.”

“Trespass?”

“Stumbling out of one vineyard to the next. They all look the same,” Margaret told Val with a tiny bat of her eyelashes.

“I knew you were more devious than my background check found on you,” Val told her.

“Life is too short to stay on the straight path all the time.”

Michael laughed. “You can say that again.”

There were several cars parked in the lot. They pulled away from the crowd and found a shade tree in the back. Michael slipped on his glasses before opening the door. “Give me five minutes.”

“Go get ’em, Mr. Hollywood.” Margaret patted his back and he slid out of the car.

They both watched him walk into the tasting room and disappear from sight. “I like your friends,” Val said.

“Michael is good people. The entire family is grounded, genuine . . . it’s hard to explain.”

“Does his family know about . . . him?” The two of them had yet to vocalize Michael’s sexuality, and Val wasn’t about to now.

“You mean the Ryder factor?”

Even Margaret skirted around the obvious.

“Yes.”

“Most. His parents are still clueless, his youngest sister. It’s only a matter of time.”

“What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “Hard to pinpoint why I feel that way. He’s changed a lot in the last few years with his brother and two of his sisters knowing. We’ve talked. He knows his secrets are a burden for his family to keep from each other. None of them want to be the one who slips and screws up . . . ya know?”