“And you wanted to sample more of my wines?”
“I’ll pay of course,” I blurted.
“No, no. The wine is on me, but I recommend the beef short ribs because you’re going to be sampling a cabernet,” she said as she gestured to a booth nearby. “I’ve partnered with the restaurant, so they’ll let you try the wines as long as you’re buying food.”
“I really appreciate your meeting me. I couldn’t—” I stopped myself. I didn’t need to tell Marisol that I couldn’t take any more of the very people who’d flown me out to California.
“Couldn’t stand the fake anymore?” she supplied.
I heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, but I shouldn’t say that. I should be grateful. You don’t mind if we do a video and some pictures?”
Maybe Moe was right about my lack of Instagram. If so, there was no reason I couldn’t learn something from her snark.
Marisol smiled widely. “I looked you up after you called and watched some of your videos. I don’t mind at all, but I feel I should warn you that I’m not one of the official winemakers for Vine Friends. That happened to be my regularly scheduled night at the hotel, and they decided to order a few finger foods to go with the wines I was already offering.”
“They didn’t pay you?”
She laughed out loud, a rich sound. “No, dear. No one pays me except for the kind souls who buy my wine. I have an arrangement with the hotel, but even those winemakers you probably met with today were paying Vine Friends to be included in their service. They approached me once, but I couldn’t afford their fees.”
“Oh.”
They must’ve been using the money from the wineries to pay for my trip. In exchange, I would make videos or put up Instagram posts. That was the quid pro quo I had agreed to. Similar to Busy Mom Cosmetics, but it somehow felt more ... convoluted?
“I guess they’ll be expecting a lot from me for this weekend, huh?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Tell me more about your wines.”
Marisol shifted into business gear. She had the waitress bring us one of their sparkling wines, then told my viewers that she’d named the wine after Zora Neale Hurston because one of her fellow writers had written of her that wherever she went, shewasthe party.
Then we each ate a strawberry-and-spinach salad paired with a dry rosé that Marisol called the Sandra, named after an author with the last name Cisneros.
“How did you get into the winemaking business?” I asked.
She grinned. “My father worked as a winemaker for years, and he told me I couldn’t do it.”
“So ... spite. I can respect that.”
“Just wait until you try the Toni.”
Sure enough, the Toni—as in Morrison—was her crown jewel, a cabernet sauvignon that would’ve met with Rachel’s approval, so named because it aged well, and Toni Morrison apparently hadn’t published her first novel until she was thirty-nine.
Who knew that I’d be learning about American authors tonight? I would’ve liked English class a lot better if I’d been able to drink wine while taking it. Of course, my retention skills might’ve been impacted, but it would’ve been a lot of fun.
The waitress tried to talk me into dessert, but I could not eat another bite. I’d been so absorbed in the beef short ribs and mashed potatoes that I’d even forgotten to ask Marisol any more questions. I turned to my phone, which I’d put on a little tripod on the table in order to record. “Well, Mom Scouts. We’ve just achieved our SommelierBadge and our American Literature Badge all in one evening. I’ll be sure to put a link to Lit Wines my bio. Thank you so much for joining me, Marisol. It has been a pleasure.”
“Likewise.”
I quit recording and leaned back into my booth with a satisfied groan. “I’m so glad I met you and got to try your wines. Could I order a couple of bottles on the spot and ship them?”
“Absolutely.” She drew order forms from her purse, and I picked out three wines for Rachel.
Well, for all of us, really. Hopefully.
Afterward, Marisol and I made small talk all the way to the parking lot. She stopped to study me. “Thank you, Vivian. I feel like you’ve really seen me.”
“I could say the same,” I said.
