Sour Grapes, page 28
“You weren’t there, Lily. You don’t know.”
I had told Lily that my assistant winemaker and I had had sex. But I’d downplayed the nature of my relationship with Lucia, probably out of self-preservation. I hadn’t shared with her our all-night conversations. I hadn’t revealed how sensitive Lucia had been to my anxiety or how she’d comforted me when I made mistake after mistake on the vineyard. I hadn’t told her how protected and special Lucia had made me feel.
Isaiah returned to our table before I could disassemble. He brought two red wine glasses along with the previously referenced bottle of red wine. I didn’t recognize the label, but that didn’t mean much; it’s not like I’d become a sommelier over the past few months.
Isaiah presented us with the unopened bottle. “It’s from a new label. The grapes are old,” he qualified, “but the label is new. The distributor was really adamant that I give this place a try because they’re one of the only cooperatives in Napa Valley.”
“Cooperative?” Lily echoed.
“The workers all own a share of the profits,” I said, almost automatically, “from the cellar rat who cleans the fermentation tanks, to the arthritic field hand, all the way up to the head winemaker.”
Lily looked mildly impressed. “I guess you did learn something up there.”
Isaiah uncorked the bottle and poured a few ounces in each of our glasses. “It’s a three-year-old cabernet franc,” he announced.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a cabernet franc,” Lily noted as she stared at the purple liquid in her glass. “Is it related to cabernet sauvignon?”
“It’s thinner and less tannic than a cabernet sauvignon,” I recited. “It’s relatively rare, so it’s typically used in blends. There’s only about 3,000 acres planted in the whole world, and most of them are in Italy.”
“This should be a treat then,” Isaiah noted. “Let me know what you think.”
I grabbed the wine stem of my glass and took an experimental sniff. Lily noticed my actions and didn’t immediately dive into her own wine.
“Teach me how to drink wine, June,” my friend implored.
“It’s not that hard,” I said. “Just follow four steps: look, smell, taste, think.”
Lily held her glass up to the overhead light. “I’m looking.” She stuck her nose into the bell of the glass and audibly inhaled as she breathed in the wine’s aromas. “Smelling,” she said, almost like checking off a To Do list. “And now for the taste.” I half expected her to down all of the liquid in her glass like it was a shot of alcohol, but to her credit, she only took a small sip.
I took a measured sip myself, enough that I could pass the liquid across my tongue and tastebuds. I was going to tell Lily about Lucia’s fun fact that women were genetically better tasters than men—I thought she’d get a kick out of that nugget—but a familiar flavor had me pausing.
I smacked my lips, more in thought than from the wine itself. “It almost tastes like …” I brought the glass to my nose again and inhaled. “It almost reminds me of …”
Lily was the one to vocalize my thoughts: “Bell pepper?”
My mouth suddenly felt dry, and it wasn’t from the tannins. “Can I see the bottle?”
Isaiah readily forfeited the bottle to me. I held it so I could better inspect the label. Natalie had once told me you could learn everything you needed to know about a wine just from its label. 2019 cabernet franc. It was advertised as an estate wine from Napa Valley, which meant that all of the grapes had been grown on their property and hadn’t been purchased from someone or someplace else.
The vineyard was named Huelga, which struck me as unusual or at least unique. Typically Napa wineries had a more romantic-sounding name that evoked a high class or luxurious experience. All of my thoughts collided, however, when I finally read the wine’s actual name.
“Does that bottle say ‘Alex?’” Lily had also taken note of the distinct name scrawled across the label. “Wow,” my friend marveled. “What are the odds?”
I continued to stare at the bottle. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The old signage along the side of the county highway had been replaced and updated. A wistful smile crept onto my lips. I hadn’t been particularly attached to the vineyard’s previous name, but the new name and new sign were a visual reminder of how much had changed in a short amount of time. The vineyard looked much the same as when I’d first stepped onto the property as its newly appointed owner earlier in the year. Only a few dead leaves and shriveled up berries remained on the vines. It hurt that I hadn’t been able to participate in the harvest, but that had been my own fault.
It was a Tuesday, so I was surprised to see so many strange vehicles parked in the normally vacant lot adjacent to the tasting barn. Some larger spots were occupied by conversion vans and extended SUVs with the name of a wine tour company screen printed on the side. Another electric vehicle was plugged into the charger I’d argued with Lucia about installing, so I was forced to park in a regular spot.
I could have called ahead, but I wasn’t confident that she would agree to meet with me. I could have been blindsiding her, just showing up unannounced, but then again she might not even be there. She’d told me many times about her lack of roots. Once the grapes had been harvested and their juices set to fermentation, she would be off to another part of the world where it was still growing season.
I slid open the wide barn door and stepped inside. The air was warm on my face and the low din of an assembled crowd filled the enclosed space. I would have guessed I’d interrupted some kind of party, but there’d been no signage to indicate the barn was closed for a private event. I scanned the tasting room for any familiar faces. Groups of female friends and mixed couples gathered around old French oak casks that had been repurposed into high-top tables. I smiled at the thought that maybe Carlos and Oscar had made the new furniture.
Staff whom I didn’t recognize rang up wine bottle purchases on one side of the tasting room. Shelving had been constructed to convert the far corner of the barn into a small retail store where guests could purchase full bottles of the wines they had tasted along with various wine-related items like corkscrews and coasters.
Amongst the sea of strangers, I finally spotted a familiar face. Natalie’s warm smile welcomed patrons at a separate station that resembled a small wine bar. A few empty stools were positioned in front of the short bar along with what appeared to be beer taps. As I moved closer to the bar I realized that the bar tappers weren’t connected to beer kegs, but rather to wine kegs. The few varieties on tap were written on a small chalkboard that hung over the bar.
I stepped toward the bar and waited for my turn. Natalie, unsurprisingly, was affable and gracious to each new patron. She greeted each guest like a life-long friend. When I reached the front of the line, she was busy closing out the previous sale.
“Hey there, what can I get you?”
I waited for her head to raise and for our eyes to meet. “Hey, Nat.”
“June! Oh my word! I didn’t expect to see you back here!”
Her words had me hanging my head. “I was in the neighborhood…” I trailed off.
Natalie immediately rounded the small bar and left her station. She pulled me into a tight hug and her familiar perfume invaded my senses.
“You’re so busy!” I remarked.
“I know! Lucia’s been working nonstop to get more foot traffic to the winery ever since she took over.”
“Lucia?” I echoed.
“Oh, right. You wouldn’t have known,” she seemed to scold herself. “After you left, the new owners sold the property to Lucia. She wrote up a business plan and everything to get a loan from the bank. She changed the winery’s name, transformed the tasting room, and has been promoting the hell out of this place ever since.”
I blinked as I took in the new information.
“Legally it’s her name on the mortgage,” Natalie continued, “but we’re a cooperative now. All of the profits are divided amongst the employees. Once we got our story out there, things kind of exploded. It turns out people want to support businesses who treat their employees well.”
I shook my head. “Imagine that.”
“She’s in the wine cellar if you want to see her.”
“Oh, I-I couldn’t,” I stammered.
“Yes you could, and yes you should,” Natalie all but chastised me. “I’ve got a bunch of thirsty customers to tend to, so you go on. You know the way.”
I wanted to resist more, but there was no point. I didn’t need to deny it. I wanted to see Lucia.
I gave Natalie another quick hug before I left her to return to work. I slipped past the crowds and unobtrusively maneuvered around the flimsy barriers that read Employees Only. I walked past the giant steel fermentation tanks and the other winemaking machines. Everything smelled clean and disinfected. I silently lamented that I hadn’t had the opportunity to see the winemaking apparatus at work. I’d missed out on the vast buckets of grapes being sent through the crusher destemmer. I hadn’t gotten to witness the giant juicer pressing the tonnage of berries. I hadn’t been able to help break up the pomace cap when the juice was first fermenting. The machines were silent now, but as I walked through the industrial space, I imaged the movement and orchestrated chaos necessary to transform the early fall harvest into its final product.
The temperature dropped a few degrees as I descended the brick steps to the wine caves below the barn. The underground hallways could be a complicated labyrinth; there was a very real possibility that I wouldn’t find Lucia. She might finish whatever tasks she had in the cellar and return above ground before I could discover her. That thought put me somewhat at ease. I wanted to see her again, but I had no idea what I’d say to her. I wished she had been in the tasting room so I could have observed her from afar before deciding my next move.
I’d always had a hard time finding Lucia in the wine cellar, so it was only appropriate that I found her right away on the one instance I wanted to avoid her. She stood amongst a mountain of French oak casks. My steps had been light and imperceptible, but I doubted she would have registered my presence if I’d tap danced down the stone corridor. She held onto a clear graduated cylinder in one hand and a wine thief in the other. Her features were pinched with her forehead furrowed in deep thought.
Her hair was pulled back in its usual braid which fell down the center of her back. She wore her typical uniform of blue denim button-up shirt with dark green pants and sturdy-looking leather boots. She’d rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. Her short nails were perceptively stained red around the cuticles. I wondered if I would be able to taste the wine on her fingers if I sucked them into my mouth.
I unintentionally cleared my throat, not to bring attention to myself, but rather to clear the explicit images from my thoughts.
My body jerked when she spoke: “Carlos, this cask is going to need more Oenococcus Oeni for the MLF.”
I wet my lips. “I’ll let him know if I see him.”
Lucia looked up sharply at my words. The concentration on her features softened. “June.” She offered up my name as if reciting a prayer.
I took a silent, tentative step forward. “Hi.”
“Hi. Wow.” She shut her eyes momentarily and shook her head. “This … is unexpected.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “I know.”
Lucia set down the glass cylinder on a nearby barrel. She scratched at the back of her neck. “How have you been?”
I didn’t want small-talk. I had questions that needed answers.
“You named your wine Alex.”
Lucia’s dark eyes widened beneath the dim cellar lighting. “How did you …”
“It was at a restaurant in San Francisco. My friend Lily knows the owner, and he wanted us to try a new wine he was considering.”
Lucia’s full mouth parted. Her tongue appeared and she slowly wet her lips. “That’s quite the coincidence.”
It had felt like much more than a coincidence, but I knew there was no way Lucia could have known I’d ever be at that specific restaurant, and Lily swore up and down that she’d had nothing to do with it.
“Why did you name it after Alex?” I asked again.
“Her family sold me the vineyard. They could have sold to a corporation or a hedge fund who would have turned us into grape producers for Two Buck Chuck,” she explained. “I thought it was a fitting memorial,” she said with an easy shrug. “We’re going to name all of our future wines after the important people in our lives. Aunt Clara’s demanded that she be next year’s blend.”
“I have a hard time picturing your aunt demanding anything.”
“It wasn’t so much a demand, but rather a passive aggressive suggestion.”
I found myself chuckling at the description. “Okay. That sounds more accurate.”
“I told her the next blend has already been spoken for though. Do you want to try it so far?”
“Oh. I really can’t stay,” I stumbled. “I-I don’t even know why I came all the way out here.”
“Hold on. Let me finish with this cask.”
“Is that from this year’s harvest?” I couldn’t help asking.
Lucia nodded. “Do you want to try? It’s only a few weeks old, but you can still get an idea of what it might mature into.”
I stepped a little closer—as close as I dared with this woman. I didn’t want to feel how her body radiated heat. I didn’t want to smell the scent that was entirely her. I’d suffered enough for one lifetime without voluntarily putting myself through more.
The open barrel perceptively sizzled as if someone had dropped Pop Rocks into the barrel.
“It’s making alcohol,” Lucia said in explanation. “It smells a little like warm bread, which surprises people. You normally associate yeast with beer making, not wine.”
I took the briefest sniff, only for the purpose of confirming her observation—definitely not so I could smell her. I hummed in agreement when the distinct scent of proofing bread wafted to my nostrils.
Lucia dipped the wine thief into the open bunghole and retrieved a few ounces of the liquid. It was a bright, reddish pink, almost like cranberry juice. She retrieved a smaller tasting glass and carefully transferred some of the liquid into the glass like a chemist performing a complicated experiment. The comparison was appropriate; she was a little like a scientist in her laboratory. At this point in the winemaking process, the farming had concluded and the science had begun.
She handed me the glass a little like we were playing Hot Potato. I frowned at the realization that maybe she was just as uncomfortable being around me as I her. The jerky motion with which she passed off the small glass suggested she didn’t want to inadvertently touch me.
I took an experimental sniff of the liquid in my glass, but I couldn’t smell much over the yeast.
“It’s really more about taste at this point,” she told me. “The other characteristics—scent, viscosity, acidity, alcohol,” she listed off, “will develop over the next three years.”
I brought the small glass to my lips and drank the majority of its contents. I swirled the young liquid around on my tongue before swallowing. “It tastes like grape juice. With maybe a little blackberry?”
“Good girl,” Lucia approved. I could hear the enthusiasm and pride in her tone. But once the statement had been made, she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. “We, uh, we missed you at harvest time.”
“One less pair of hands to put to work, huh?” I weakly joked.
Lucia lifted her eyes to meet mine. “It didn’t feel right. You worked so hard all spring and summer, and then you never got to see the payoff.”
I was sorry I had missed harvest, too. But I was more sorry to have missed her. “I—.”
“What do you think of it?” she interrupted. “It’s still a little young, but once it’s fully matured, I think it has potential to be something great. I’m calling it June.”
I swallowed hard at the admission. “Lucia.”
“I had no idea you would ever see Alex’s wine,” she quickly insisted. “I sent out a few bottles to local restauranteurs. You were right about vineyards needing to make money, not just wine.”
The laugh got caught in my throat. “Funny how that works.”
“Yeah.”
“I-I should go,” I said. “You have work to do.”
She nodded slowly, but resignedly. “I’ll walk you up.”
I followed Lucia back above ground. We didn’t speak. I started to regret my decision to drive all the way from San Francisco just to ask her about the wine she’d named after Alex. I had her number—I could have called. Plus, she could call her wine whatever the hell she wanted. It wasn’t like I owned the name Alex. I began to feel embarrassed by the unannounced visit. Why hadn’t I called ahead? Why hadn’t I called, period?
We reached the ground level and the barn, which was noticeably more quiet and more empty than when I’d first gone into the cellar. Lucia noticed the change as well.
“Natalie,” she called to the tasting room manager, “where did everyone go?”
“I sent them home before the roads got bad.” Natalie nodded towards one of the larger windows in the tasting barn.
My eyes followed the trajectory of Natalie’s gesture. They widened at the sight of white, fluffy powder steadily falling from the sky.
“Is that … snow?” I stepped outside through the barn’s main door. The air temperature had perceptively plummeted since my arrival. The sky had darkened and a steady snow rained down on the Calistoga day. I held my hands out to capture a few flakes on my outstretched palms.
“I didn’t think it snowed in the valley,” I thought aloud.
Lucia stepped beside me with her head tilted to the sky. “It doesn’t. I can’t remember it ever snowing here.”
“Huh. Climate change.”
We stood beneath the silent snowfall. There was no wind, so the heavy flakes dropped directly to the earth. Even in the short amount of time we had been outside, the snow had already started to accumulate.
