Page 32 of Gone With the Wine

We eventually come to the cabernet grapes. She does the same there, with the same worshipful admiration of the grapes. Something stirs in my midsection at her devotion and enjoyment. “I taste cherry,” she says. “But not black cherry yet.”

She takes another grape, bites it open, then studies it. “I’m looking at how brown the seeds are.” Then she eats the seeds, chewing them. “We check the color of the grapes, the color of the stems and the seeds. The plumper and easier they pull off the vine, the riper they are. And chewing the seeds is another clue—they’re softer and chewier when ripe. And of course the taste. No bitterness. The characteristics of the varietal should shine through.”

“I would never know that.”

She gives me an amused look. “No.”

“You think I’m an idiot for doing this, don’t you.” I feel like I’m failing a test. I don’t like it.

She hums. “No. It’s bold, I’ll give you that. But you seem like someone who’s determined to succeed.”

I nod. “Yeah. I didn’t make it to the NHL without determination.”

“Exactly.” Our eyes meet.

I shouldn’t have asked her to come here. Did I think I could be with her and keep things strictly grape business? Ha. I’m an idiot. My hands are sweaty and my cock is taking notice of how short those cut-offs are and also my chest keeps pinging.

The moment stretches out, heat building around us. Then she blinks rapidly a few times and looks away. She swallows. “If you pick the grapes at the right time, everything else falls into place. You know when you have a perfectly ripe piece of fruit and it’s so delicious, but then one day later it’s overripe and mushy?”

I nod.

“You want to get the grapes at that moment—when they’re super delicious and the fruit has everything it needs.”

“But how do you know? That’s my problem.”

“Truthfully? It’s a bit of magic. You can measure sugar content and pH but it really comes down to taste. The relationship between acid and sugars and tannins. When the grapes are perfectly delicious. But not necessarily sweet. And no machine can tell us that. You have to trust your palate. Intuition.”

I cough. “I suspect you can’t teach intuition. Or magic.”

The corners of her mouth, perpetually smiling, lift higher. “No.”

We check more grapes, walking the paths in the quiet sunshine, probably for a couple of hours. Then Bianca says, “Okay, take me to your lab.”

I feel proud that I know I have a lab and where it is. We hike back to the building, and I lead the way to the back.

“This is nice,” she says, looking around the lab. “It looks like it was recently updated.”

“Yes, they told me they’d updated the lab about two years ago.”

She sets about testing grape juice, making notes on her iPad, mumbling to herself and explaining things to me.

“You’ll need to keep a close eye on the chardonnay,” she finally says. “And the pinot noir is close, too.”

Sure. I’ll keep an eye on them. Despite watching her closely (very closely) today, I don’t really know what I’m looking for.

“Are you ready for harvest?” she asks, looking up at me. “You have workers lined up? It’s an intense time.”

“Diego tells me we are. He has workers ready to come when they get the word.”

“Okay, good.” She sighs. “We’ve been having some trouble finding help. Apparently, a lot of places are facing labor shortages now, and most workers have already been hired. Or they’ve gone into hiding because of that ICE raid at Garrafeira last week.”

I frown. I recognize the name of the winery. “ICE raid?”

She makes a glum face. “Yep. We rely a lot on immigrant labor. Anyway, I’m glad you’re ready.”

“Should I apologize for that?”

One corner of her mouth kicks into a wry smile.

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