Page 49 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
After signing off,Dominic shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "And now the entire mountain will know we're here together."
"Martha and George Washington?" I can't hide my amusement. "Like the first president and his wife?"
"Fourth-generation Angel's Peak locals who never tire of the joke." He runs a hand through his still-damp hair. "They've appointed themselves my unofficial grandparents since I moved here. Martha leaves casseroles on my porch and George 'accidentally' plows my driveway when it snows."
"They sound lovely."
"They're incorrigible gossips with no concept of personal boundaries." His gruff tone can't disguise the affection underneath. "But yes, they're good people."
As evening approaches, we find ourselves comparing notes on obscure wine varietals we've encountered. The conversation flows as easily as the wine Dominic has opened—a limited production Petit Manseng from Virginia that surprises me with its quality.
"Savennières," I say in response to his question aboutunexpected favorites. "Particularly from Roche aux Moines. There's something about that specific terroir that creates a tension in the wine—austere yet somehow generous."
Dominic goes still, staring at me as if seeing me for the first time. "You know Savennières?"
"Of course. Chenin Blanc from the Loire, historically associated with sweet wines but actually producing some of the most interesting dry whites in France."
"Roche aux Moines," he repeats, shaking his head slightly. "That's?—"
"What?" I'm bewildered by his reaction.
He crosses to his wine room without explanation, returning moments later with a dusty bottle. The label confirms my suspicion—a Savennières from the very terroir I mentioned.
"This is my desert island wine," he says. "The bottle I'd choose if I could only have one for the rest of my life."
The coincidence strikes us both as significant beyond reason—that of all the thousands of wine regions and producers in the world, we would share this specific, relatively obscure preference.
"What do you say? Want a taste?"
"You should save it," I suggest, understanding its importance to him. "For a special occasion."
His eyes hold mine. "This feels special enough."
We don't open it immediately, both acknowledging without words that doing so would cross some invisible threshold. Instead, we finish the Petit Manseng as our conversation ranges across wines we've loved, places we've visited, and meals we remember.
When Dominic suggests we check the conditions outside before dark, I eagerly agree, needing fresh air to clear my head after the unexpected intimacy of our shared passion for wine.
The temperature has risenenough to make the snow perfect for packing. Without discussion, we begin shaping snowballs, Merlot bounding excitedly around us as primitive competitive instincts take over.
"I bet I can build a better snowman than you," I challenge, already gathering snow between gloved hands.
Dominic's eyebrow arches. "Those sound like fighting words, Santiago."
"Afraid you can't measure up, Mercer?"
His slow smile sends a flutter through my stomach. "You're going down."
What follows is the most ridiculous and joy-filled hour I've spent in years. We labor on opposite sides of the yard, occasionally stealing glances at each other's progress while Merlot alternately helps and hinders us both.
My snowman takes shape with careful attention to proportion and detail, while Dominic's approach appears more architectural, focusing on structural integrity.
"Time's up!" I call finally, stepping back to assess our creations.
My snowman is classically proportioned, with pinecones for buttons, twigs for arms, and stones for eyes and mouth. Dominic's is more abstract—taller, with an asymmetrical design that somehow works despite breaking the traditional snowman rules.
"Mine's more technically correct," I argue, adopting my professional critic voice.
"Mine has character," he counters, mimicking my tone.
