six

pairing suggestion: lambrusco—emilia-romagna, italy

A sparkling red wine that ranges from sweet, Dulce, to dry, Secco.

-

When I returned to my apartment near Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, the first thing I saw was the vase of half dead flowers still sitting on the counter. My dad’s new wife, Natasha, had sent them when I passed the Certified Exam as a way to reach out and mend the relationship. It was a sweet gesture and although she had signed his name, I knew there had been nothing from my father. After learning a few months ago that it should have been me who was jailed as a teenager instead of my friend Tessa, he had stopped speaking to me. A cop’s daughter didn’t get arrested, but more importantly, a cop’s daughter didn’t break the law in the first place.

We didn’t have the best relationship to begin with, never quite seeing eye to eye since my mother passed away, but his silence about the exam definitely stung. Even though I knew in my heart that he was proud of me for becoming Certified, until I had confirmation with a call, an email, or even a text, I couldn’t be sure. At least Natasha had reached out, which is why I couldn’t bear to throw away the flowers even though they were past the wilted stage. They were a constant yet almost sour reminder. And maybe I needed that. A reminder that not everything is perfect. Everything needs work.

Though I would never tell them, I always compared people in my life to wine. My dad was a Barolo, a wine with gripping tannins, due to his strong and stoic disposition, and my best friend Tessa was a Merlot, thanks to her previously damaged reputation. But I was still figuring out Natasha. I had only met her a handful of times, three to be exact, and I didn’t really know her. The first time was when I went to Los Angeles and my dad invited her over to dinner and shared that they were dating. The second time was when they visited San Francisco and my dad announced that they were engaged. And the third was at my cousin’s wedding, months after their own wedding which had taken place in Santa Barbara. Apparently it had been a small occasion at the courthouse. One might think even a small wedding would be a family affair, but I was the family and I wasn’t invited. My dad said it was easier for everyone involved if they just got married at the courthouse. So they did. An elopement, so to speak.

Our three interactions had given me enough of an impression that Natasha made my dad happy and was in no way trying to replace my mom.

I stared at the white lilies, or at least what was left of them. My dad mentioned Natasha had come from a tough life, yet I hadn’t found out what exactly. But she was very sweet and she accepted me immediately.

Riesling. Natasha was a German Riesling. Grown in the steep slopes of the Mosel in slate soil. Sweetness born out of rocks. And definitely a strong contrast to Barolo. A contrast that I welcomed.

I moved the flowers a little closer to the edge, in front of the stack of bills, two in the dreaded red envelopes that signified final notices. If I didn’t get a handle on my finances, I would be forced to move away from the city. I loved San Francisco, I loved my job, and I loved my blind tasting group. Moving was not going to happen. Not if I could help it.

My eyes drifted to the Certified Sommelier certificate on my bulletin board. It signified the victory after studying so hard for the test and not passing it the first time. Next to it was a yellow stickie note with Dean’s number.

Dean. Even though I had never called him back, I had taken the time to write down his number from his messages. And even though I had kept it, there was something to be said that I never entered it in my phone. It remained on a piece of paper, easily lost or thrown away. Always keeping a distance from everything.

I took the brightly colored index cards out of my purse and placed them on top of my flash card binder in the bookcase. And then there was Cooper. A gentle and compassionate guy I had never really taken the time to get to know, now vanished from this world. My breathing became uneven and I knew anxiety was rearing its ugly head.

I needed something to calm me but the only thing that usually worked was to go to a vineyard and stare at the organized lines of the vines, ready to create the magic that becomes a bottle of wine to be uncorked, swirled, sniffed, sipped, and eventually savored. But I didn’t have a vineyard nearby; I was in the middle of San Francisco.

I had an idea. I pulled out the binder and started flipping through the pages of flash cards until I reached my hand drawn maps of the wine regions. But the tightness in my chest remained.

I continued to the photos taken during my travels in France. There were the organized rows I needed. I stared at the pages and then closed my eyes, imagining I was back in the vineyards with the smell of the vines, the warm sun on my face, and the breeze in my hair.

My breathing calmed until my memory returned to the events of the evening. The Chateau Clair Bleu and Cooper. I told him there was something wrong with the wine, he went to investigate and ended up dead. Part of me didn’t believe it was a coincidence.