A few minutes before midnight, Bruce opened several bottles of Yakima Valley Pinot Gris Extra-Sec.
She waited for Nigel to make his usual unflattering comparison of America’s sparkling wines to French champagne. Her husband liked to claim a preference for Pol Roger, as if naming the bubbly favored by Sir Winston Churchill would convey that he, too, had an upper class background.
But he skipped the routine.
She hid a smile. He’d been on his best behavior all evening. He was smitten. He’d fallen in love with the Zachary lifestyle.
Not her. She was happy to be in bed and falling asleep before the new year was an hour old.
Waking Nigel at eight the next morning, she insisted that they leave no later than nine-thirty. She had work to do before tomorrow’s deposition. She packed their bags a
