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Definitely a bachelor pad.
The freezer holds mostly beef wrapped in white butcher paper. He also has a bag of chicken breasts and a few pints of ice cream. Funny. I wouldn’t have thought Dale the ice cream type.
A door to the left of the fridge turns out to be a pantry. The first thing to catch my eye is a massive spice rack. The man has everything from allspice to something called za’atar spice, which I’ve never heard of. In fact, he has quite a few I’ve never heard of. What the heck is ras el hanout?
I’m not overly surprised, though. Dale did say his interest in wine began with an interest in cooking and seasoning. He clearly has an amazing sense of flavor and aroma.
Which obviously makes him a master vintner.
Funny. After looking in his empty fridge, I called this place a bachelor pad. His pantry tells a much different story. Extra-virgin olive oil—three kinds, no less—and every kind of vinegar under the sun, including an ornate bottle of Steel red wine vinegar. I had no idea Steel Vineyards made vinegars. White and black truffle oils, truffle salt, and myriad kinds of dried mushrooms. Unsweetened and bittersweet chocolate. Flour, sugar, dried egg whites. Does Dale bake?
I close the pantry door. I shouldn’t be snooping around. At least not to the point of opening doors. I walk out of the kitchen and into a short hallway leading to the front door. To the right is a formal living room, complete with a baby grand piano. Does Dale play? Or is it just for show?
The Steels are billionaires, but they’re also—from what I’ve seen—very down-to-earth people. I have a hard time believing they do anything for show.
I sit down at the piano and pluck a few notes. I always wanted to play the piano, but growing up homeless on the streets of San Francisco pretty much precluded that. My elementary school music teacher let me borrow a recorder, though, and I learned to play that. A far cry from the piano, but it gave me some joy as a child.
“Do you play?”
I nearly jerk off the bench at Dale’s voice, all low and wine-red around me. His presence fills the room. His hair is damp and hangs around his shoulders. He wears a green T-shirt, and man, does it bring out the emerald in his eyes. Jeans and boots complete the picture.
My God, he could be a model.
“No,” I finally respond. “I always wanted to. Do you?”
“If I didn’t, why would I have a piano?”
My instinct was right. He plays. It seems to fit him. “How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was about twelve. Donny wanted to learn, so our parents started us both. Turned out that I had the knack for it and Donny didn’t. He quit after six months.”
“So you have a lot of artistic knacks.”
“Not a lot. I already told you I can’t draw for shit.”
“When I asked you about your creativity yesterday, you didn’t mention the piano. Why?”
“You asked how I got involved in winemaking. I told you that story. Piano didn’t really have anything to do with that.”
“All creativity is interwoven,” I say.
“Maybe, but my music isn’t part of my wine story.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to play piano,” I say wistfully, hoping he’ll offer to play something for me.
“It’s never too late.”
I sigh. “It’d be a waste of time now. I’ve chosen my path, and I’m happy with it.”
“Your path can have offshoots,” he says. “You’ve chosen wine as your career. No law says you can’t have a few hobbies. My playing has nothing to do with my career either.”
“But you’ve been playing for years. I’d have to start at the beginning.”
“Everyone starts at the beginning,” he says.
“I’d need lessons.”
“You would. I think there are about a million piano teachers out there.”
I smile and shake my head. “You and your family seem so down-to-earth. I think you are, but you’re also products of your upbringing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can’t afford piano lessons, Dale. I’m a student. I don’t have any disposable income.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stares at me, and then at the piano, and then back to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t always have this life.”
“You were adopted. I know.”
He closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them. “I try not to think about my life…you know. Before I came here.”
“Why?”
His gaze turns to a glare. “I have my reasons.”
Okay, then. I thought we were understanding each other for a hot minute. Clearly I was wrong. Makes me wonder what his life before the Steels was like. “I’m sure you do.”
“Let’s go,” he says.
So much for him offering to play something for me. Of course, I could have asked.
I nod, rise from the piano bench, and follow him out the front door. We get into his truck, and he starts the engine.
