Okay, weird moment. Girl Whose Name I Don't Know Yet sits with Other Girl Whose Name I Don't Know Yet in front of a roaring fire (totally necessary for Malibu during the months of...never), while Christina from Florida sits next to L'il Orphan Andy on the couch. And the only reason I could even remember who Christina from Florida was is because I ran a control-F on the words "cat's cradle," and she and her dress were what helpfully popped up. Anyway, Other Girl Whose Name I Don't Know Yet asks out of seeming nowhere, "Are you a hunter? Do you hunt?" Andy cops to a distinction I don't understand: "I shoot, but I don't hunt." What is that, poorly translated ancient logic from the teachings of Zen-Tsu's The Art of Skeet? Christina takes offense: "No animals?" Andy admits to shooting birds, and Christina frets, "I'm a major animal lover." Dial it down, Judgy the Whale. Let's not forget who the decision rests with here. Regardless, though, Andy hems and haws, admitting in a subsequent (or so we're led to believe) interview, "Numerous times I felt like a bumbling idiot." You? Stop it!
Background noise. Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, peas and carrots, elephant shoes, etc. Somewhere in that cacophony, a rumor is organically planted without the slightest intervention from any producers whatsoever. And this rumor, according to bird enthusiast Christina, speaking by the pool: "The word is so far that he comes from this extremely wealthy family." I think Andy just got a whole lot more appealing to Christina. And this kind-hearted animal lover wouldn't need a mink from her man, when she could just as easily have a coat made entirely of currency. "Love my money coat! Kiss my money coat!" she might say.
But seriously, why be so coy? Andy explains to a gaggle of girls that he splits his time between San Francisco and Santa Barbara, and that they "make wine" in his family. Outside, Amy with the cool, choppy hair guesses that Andrew's a Coppola, maybe, and Amber, looking weirdly less pretty all of a sudden, says that she knows he's important but that she doesn't know who he is. Yet Still Another Girl Whose Name I Don't Know Yet asks him point blank, "Are you a Gallo?" A Gallo? Are they a royal wine family? I bring Gallo wine to shitty parties when I stop at the liquor store on my way to the subway. It costs eight dollars. It would be like one of them becoming totally enamored of a Bachelor who was all, "You may recognize me from the royal winemaking hyphenated family of Turning-Leaf" or "We own a winery on a stretch of unsoiled land known around the world as Boon's Farm." Hating tact for being such a conversational inhibitor (particularly after what seems like several glasses of that smooth Firestone wine!), Brooke dives right in out on the lanai: "So, Andrew, what's your last name?" A moment of oh-Christ-he's-rich passes over the faces of the assemblage after he responds, and we cut inside the house to a mounted black-and-white photograph of Andy's grand-grandpappy sitting around with Edison, Ford, and Schwab. This dude is obsessed with the cachet he assumes the Schwab family name carries, I think. Good thing there was the secondary source material of that photo just coincidentally hanging in the house so that Andrew was better able to illustrate the characters in the dark family history I thought he was working so hard to hide. Say, folks? Question: what's worse than fretting about woman wanting you for your cash when they find out you've been hiding your family's monied legacy? Answer: not being a millionaire. So cram it, Andy.