Ava had to smile as she watched her son. Dressed in his makeshift pajamas of sweatpants and tee shirt, his mussed dark hair haloed by the morning rays streaming through the kitchen windows, he wore a look of satisfaction few Wine World reviews had ever provided any Winsted. "The 1999 Suncrest Cabernet Sauvignon," he read, "serves up dazzling layers of tightly focused currant, anise, and blackberry. Excellent structure, remarkable focus, richly elegant. An extraordinary effort." Max slapped the magazine and let out a whoop. "You can say that again!" Ava arched a brow, leaning her robed back against the long granite-topped center island. "Are you taking credit for the winemaking now?" "Nope. But I am taking credit for this review." And he gave her that lopsided grin again, like a mischievous imp daring her to contradict him. But she couldn't. Not this time. Ava's slippered feet padded over to the stovetop as the teakettle began to whistle. How could Max's "schmoozing"—as he put it—not be credited for this best-ever Wine World review?
