Vintage Attraction by Charles Blackstone

be concerned?”
    â€œYou? No. You definitely should not be. You should enjoy yourself.” She ran her hand down the buttons of my shirt. “And let me enjoy yourself before this next damn talk.”
    â€œOn today’s episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fermented ,” I said in Leach parody.
    â€œSeriously, Hapworth, are you ready for this?”
    â€œYou’re kind of stuck with me now.”
    â€œWhat do you think brought us together?” Izzy asked. The question surprised me. “Like, do you think it was fate?”
    â€œDo you believe in that?”
    â€œSometimes,” she said. She turned her head to the chandelier that loomed over us. “And other times I think things just happen.” Then her eyes came back to me. “Or is that the same thing?”
    My inner English major was tempted to debate connotations, but I offered a humble shrug.
    â€œYou sit through my songs and dances.”
    â€œI happen to think you’re amazing. Though,” I teased, “that could just be an effect of Kohler’s intoxicating charms.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful here, isn’t it? Hapworth, what if we could leave our lives behind and stay here forever?”
    â€œSomeone would probably miss us.”
    â€œYou know who I really miss?” she asked.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œIshiguro.”
    The Kohler Experience attendees cooed in mock deference around Izzy, but you could tell, above all, they were here to be entertained. They hadn’t spent thousands merely to come learn about Spanish Monastrell and Rhone-style blends from the Languedoc, alternatives to fifty-dollar Napa Valley Cabernet that could be had at a third of the price. It created a very skewed power dynamic within the proceedings. The second presentation consisted of an hour and a half talk through a tasting, almost identical to the earlier installment. Following that, Izzy answered myriad idiotic questions. “Which wines should I decanter?” “’97 Robert Mondavi. Drink or sell? Saving a mag since my son’s ‘destination’ wedding—Oakville—still paying that bad boy off—it’s a reserve.” Didn’t foodies know how to use Google, too? Then— then —came another twenty minutes of autograph signing, picture taking, and a barrage of even more puerile interrogations than those given before the full room. The numerous sips I hadn’t spit steeled me for the outlandishness of some propositions: “I got a whole vertical of Opus One. Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Bryant. The best. The best! And a guesthouse! Anytime you want to come down to Wichita, say the word. We’ll get hammered!”
    A few tarrying Window Tables, glass holsters swinging, finally shambled off elsewhere for more eating, drinking, and bragging about the depth and breadth of their basement cellars. Their purple-lipped wives followed behind with their festival tote bags jammed with trade wine spec sheets that might as well have been printed in Greek for all the use they had for them. From a phone in the empty lecture hall, Chef Dominique called for the complimentary shuttle service. Within a few moments, a black hybrid Lexus sedan skated halfway through the circular driveway at the entrance. The driver delivered us to the Kohler Waters Spa, in the Carriage House next door to the American Club, where Izzy had made a massage appointment. Chef Dominique said he was going to the sauna. I thought about wandering the town—I doubted I’d get very far beyond the hotels, as the paved walking paths were almost nonexistent—or returning to Riverbend to stare at the crimson and green and gold leaves that had fallen to the ground and scattered picturesquely from a comfortable chaise on the patio, but when Izzy suggested I join Chef Dominique, I cheerfully agreed. Even though sweating in a small airless chamber with the chef was probably just about the last thing I could have