One Foot in the Grape by Carlene O'Neil Page A

here.”
    Outside, a web stretched from the window frame to the potted marigolds. As a trapped honeybee struggled, a spider descended the spindled thread.
    Joanne watched for a moment, then shuddered and turned away. “At least, they never have before.”

Ten

    â€œT O fully appreciate the bouquet, twirl the glass several times. This allows the undertones of fruit, in this case pear, to rise from the glass.” Connor held the glass up to the light. “Also, notice the faint amber hue of this wine. This is caused by using more of the Cabernet grapes.”
    I poured a glass from the bottle in front of me, picking up where Connor had left off. “In this Syrah, on the other hand, you can see the difference in the color, which is a clear, true burgundy.”
    On the first Tuesday evening of every month, Connor and I teach wine-tasting classes in town at the Cypress Cove Civic Center. The class is just an overview of what many consider an art and a lifelong study, but it helps when trying to distinguish between different labels and vintages. The tourists enjoy it, and it keeps our labels fresh in their minds when they return home and wander down the wine aisles in their local markets. In anyevent, Connor and I enjoy sharing our knowledge. The evenings can be fun.
    When tasting, you’re supposed to refrain from drinking the entire taste. You empty the remainder in the vessel provided and move on to the next selection. In classes given on wine appreciation at the college, I’ve actually seen that happen.
    Here, though, you have a roomful of tourists on vacation. They don’t grasp we often have six or seven bottles to taste and, by the third or fourth glass, they don’t care. Sometimes you get large parties. Those are the most fun. Tonight it was the Ferrari Club, which had driven the coastal route up from Los Angeles. Twice yearly they came and took over the town for a long weekend. You could tell when those weekends occurred just by the number of times you saw the familiar black horse rearing up, the Ferrari logo, emblazoned on every imaginable piece of clothing.
    Halfway through the tasting, Stephen Martinelli appeared in the back of the room. The Martinellis frequently gave classes at the civic center as well. Todd had run the classes, and I wondered who would take over. Stephen must have been checking on when they were scheduled next. He looked up and I caught his eye. I waved briefly and got a slight nod in return.
    How did Veronica let him walk around dressed like that? This evening’s ensemble consisted of a drab green sport coat and weird pink tie combination.
    I nodded to Connor to continue, scooted off the platform and weaved through the Ferrari Club members. Stephen saw me as I worked my way toward him, but that didn’t stop him from trying to leave. I caught up to him just as he was about to depart through the fire exit. He would rather set off the alarm than talk to me. Great.
    â€œHi, Stephen. Got a minute?” I wedged in between him and the door.
    â€œUh, sure.” He glanced around the room. His hands were in his pockets, and as he shifted his weight from side to side, I was struck again by how someone as vital as Antonia could have produced someone so, well, bland. Maybe that was why he wore those ghastly color combinations. Otherwise, he would have completely matched the brown wall behind him. Actually the wall had more color. And more personality.
    â€œGood group tonight.” That’s me. Master conversationalist.
    â€œUh, yes, it looked like it was.” Silence.
    Well, that was fun. Let’s try that again. “Did Martinelli have a seminar today too?”
    â€œNo. We had one scheduled for tomorrow, but the person teaching was supposed to be Todd . . .”
    Silence. He wiped his brow and avoided my gaze.
    â€œStephen, do you mind if we talk about last night?”
    â€œI guess not, but I don’t know what there is to say.