Page 89 of Gone With the Wine

“The whites are ready to drink sooner,” she says slowly. “Do you have to use white grapes?’

“Yes. That’s what orange wine is. It’s making wine using white grapes as though they are red. With the skins and seeds in contact with the juice. I tracked down a few bottles—one from Australia, a couple from Italy. Would you try them and see what you think?”

She tilts her head. “You’re really set on this.”

“Yeah.” I eye her expectantly.

She gives me a long, appraising look.

“What?” I run a hand through my hair.

“I’ll try them,” she says. “But I’m still not sure.”

“Fair. But we do have to make a decision. The viognier grapes are coming in soon.”

She nods. “Okay.”

She leaves and I sit back in my chair.

She doubts me.

Never mind Uncle Geno, Rosa doesn’t even trust me.

My mouth twists and I sigh.

This is why I stayed in Argentina. This is why I need to go back. They believe in me there. They give me opportunities and the freedom to show what I can do.

Coming back has messed up my head. I was doing great in Argentina. Now I have all these hopes and dreams and desires and I shouldn’t, because my family is never going to let me do the things I want to.

And now I’m getting involved with Jansen, another risk. God, if I hadn’t promised, if it wasn’t the middle of harvest, I’d leave right now and run back to my mentor Milenko and Castillo Lorenzo where I’m appreciated and respected.

But I can’t do that.

So. I’m here. But I can’t care. I have to just do my job. Just make wine. And I have to make sure that this romp with Jansen is just a romp…short, sweet, and casual.

Our picnicthe following Sunday is not short. It starts sweet but quickly gets dirty. And it doesn’t feel very casual.

After helping with the harvests, we’re at a point where we can’t pick any more grapes right now, so Jansen and I are escaping for a little relaxation time. Jansen packed a late lunch/early dinner in a cooler bag and I brought a couple bottles of wine. I lead him and Moose down to the creek the town is named after, a small but burbling stream of water. Moose is in heaven with all the new sniffs.

There’s a place we used to hang out and play when I was a kid, and I hope it’s as nice as I remember. After a short hike through the woods, we arrive at the wooden foot bridge, which thankfully appears well-maintained. We cross it and I pause to lean on the railing and peer down at the water bubbling over boulders.

“Cute,” Jansen says, standing so close our shoulders touch.

“Isn’t it?”

On the other side of the creek there’s a grassy, shady area dappled with sunlight, and we spread out our blanket and stretch out on the ground. It’s peaceful and quiet and I inhale a big breath of the fresh air scented by trees—a mix of pine needles, citrus, and herbs.

Jansen ties Moose’s long leash to a nearby sapling. Moose does a few circles on the blanket, then curls up near our feet.

Both of us lying on our backs looking up at the oak branches, Jansen lets out a sigh. “This is nice.”

“It is. I’m glad it’s still here.”

He lets out another sigh, which tells me he’s been holding a lot of stress. Well, that makes two of us. This is a nice break.

“What color is the sound of silence?” I ask.

I feel his amusement. “Hmm. I’d say blue.”

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