be concerned?â
âYou? No. You definitely should not be. You should enjoy yourself.â She ran her hand down the buttons of my shirt. âAnd let me enjoy yourself before this next damn talk.â
âOn todayâs episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fermented ,â I said in Leach parody.
âSeriously, Hapworth, are you ready for this?â
âYouâre kind of stuck with me now.â
âWhat do you think brought us together?â Izzy asked. The question surprised me. âLike, do you think it was fate?â
âDo you believe in that?â
âSometimes,â she said. She turned her head to the chandelier that loomed over us. âAnd other times I think things just happen.â Then her eyes came back to me. âOr is that the same thing?â
My inner English major was tempted to debate connotations, but I offered a humble shrug.
âYou sit through my songs and dances.â
âI happen to think youâre amazing. Though,â I teased, âthat could just be an effect of Kohlerâs intoxicating charms.â
âItâs beautiful here, isnât it? Hapworth, what if we could leave our lives behind and stay here forever?â
âSomeone would probably miss us.â
âYou know who I really miss?â she asked.
âWho?â
âIshiguro.â
The Kohler Experience attendees cooed in mock deference around Izzy, but you could tell, above all, they were here to be entertained. They hadnât 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. âWhich wines should I decanter?â ââ97 Robert Mondavi. Drink or sell? Saving a mag since my sonâs âdestinationâ weddingâOakvilleâstill paying that bad boy offâitâs a reserve.â Didnât foodies know how to use Google, too? Thenâ then âcame 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 hadnât spit steeled me for the outlandishness of some propositions: âI 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. Weâll get hammered!â
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 townâI doubted Iâd get very far beyond the hotels, as the paved walking paths were almost nonexistentâor 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
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