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buildings, in every direction, were grapevines. They formed an endless ocean of identical rows, fading over the horizon. I couldn’t see where the vines stopped; they repeated endlessly. The structures around me stood out against their uniformity, like little islands.
    My phone buzzed once. I tapped the iMessage button and read:
    Stephen: I have a late work meeting. I’ll call you in the morning, sweetie.
    I didn’t respond. He hadn’t asked how my trip went, what Napa was like, or if I was even alive at all. It was just more of Stephen’s rhetoric, the obligatory text, the obligatory “sweetie.” They were just words—there were never any feelings or experiences to match those words. There was nothing to justify what we were doing. I closed my messages and realized it was ten after five. I was late. Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jerked and turned quickly.
    “Sorry I startled you. I’m Susan, the general manager here. You must be Kate?”
    She looked to be in her fifties. She was on the plump side with a perfectly manicured and completely gray bob. She had on a black suit and white shirt and a pair of narrow, black-framed glasses.
    “Yes, I’m here for the interview with R.J. Sorry I’m late, I had some car trouble. Jamie had to give me a ride up the hill.”
    She straightened and squared her shoulders. “Did he now?”
    “Is that a problem?”
    “Well, I had sent Jamie on an errand but I guess it’s not unlike him to get sidetracked.” She looked me up and down very slowly. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
    “Oh?”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “I actually hit Jamie’s truck with my car.” She suddenly looked very concerned. “He’s okay and he’s running your errand. I just don’t want him to get in trouble if he gets back late.”
    Her expression turned warm and then she chuckled. “Jamie’s not in any trouble, sweetheart.” She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward the door. We left my suitcase lying on the porch. Susan leaned in and said quietly, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the big boss.”
    We walked through one small room with a desk and then headed toward an open doorway. I looked in to find R.J. leaning back in his chair, already sizing me up.
    “R.J., this is Kate Corbin. Kate, this is R.J.”
    Susan immediately left the room. I approached him with my hand out but he didn’t get up. He leaned forward over his desk, shook my hand, and sat back very quickly, making me instantly uncomfortable.
    Regardless, I chose to speak confidently. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “I expected a blonde,” he said with a smirk.
    His comment stunned me. I was motionless. “Oh yeah, why is that?”
    “I’ve just always associated the name Kate with blondes.”
    I supposed there was a very general resemblance between R.J. and the twelve-year-old boy I saw in the photograph the night before: white male with brownish hair and lighter eyes. Adult R.J. had no standout features at all. His braces were gone but so was his smile, which probably answered the mystery of why he was such a recluse—he clearly had poor social skills. He wore a really boring blue suit with a pin-striped shirt and tie. His big, nerdy-chic glasses and poor style choices made sense for a computer wiz who probably spent more time alone with gadgets than with other living, breathing people.
    “I guess you’ve never heard of Kate Middleton or Katie Holmes?”
    “Oh, you’re quick.”
    “You’re inappropriate.”
    He stood up immediately, clapped his hands once, and announced, “Well I guess that wraps things up, Kate.”
    “No, I’m sorry.” I plopped down in the chair across from him. I was blowing it and knew I had to recover. “I apologize. You just threw me off. I didn’t expect any comments about my hair color.”
    He sat down but still scrutinized me with his eyes. “Let’s get on with it, then. You were late. I only have an hour and I still have to take you to the tasting