Josie
Seven
The following Saturday, I step outside a few minutes before six, closing the tasting room door quietly behind me so the last of the staff inside doesn’t notice I’ve slipped out early and report it to my grandmother.
The parking lot is nearly empty. Most visitors have already drifted back toward town for dinner, and the vineyard is relaxing into the slower rhythm that comes once the day’s tastings are finished. The late sun hangs low over the western ridge, casting a warm light across the rows of vines.
Black Bear always feels different at this hour, less like a business and more like a home. I rest against the railing beside the side entrance and watch the gravel drive, wondering why I invited him here. It’s been on repeat in my mind all day.
Then a car appears at the far end of the lane, slowing as it turns toward the winery. It’s Alex. He drives a white Volvo wagon. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. It’s a safe family car. He pulls into one of the visitor spaces and shuts off the engine.
When he steps out, he pauses to take in the view.
Then he shrugs into his jacket and walks toward me with an easy stride, looking just like someone who kept me talking in a restaurant for nearly three hours on Monday night.
Maybe because I’ve spent most of the week thinking about him or maybe because a man with blond hair and a face that belongs on a billboard tends to stand out in a crowd.
Either way, my pulse stumbles the second his attention lands on me.
I don’t know if I should hug him, kiss him, shake his hand, or offer him a drink. My heart races with indecision.
“Hi,” he says as he walks up. His smile sets something inside me on fire.
“Welcome to Black Bear Winery.” I open my arms over the land I love.
He seems a bit giddy. “I’ve been counting the moments all day. I’m seeing behind the scenes of the vineyard tonight. I’m so excited.”
He reaches over and hugs me, and suddenly all my nerves drain away.
Though I may have given them to him. “I’m sorry if the hug is too familiar,” he says immediately. “I tell my daughter she doesn’t have to hug anyone she doesn’t want to.”
I grin. “I’m glad you did it. I wanted to hug you, but I worried it was too forward.”
He produces a deep belly laugh. “I swear, I’m out of practice on what to do and not do.”
I reach for the small brass key in my pocket. “Let’s go exploring.” The visitor entrance to the tasting room is locked by now, but this side door opens directly into the space.
Alex glances past me toward the quiet building.
“Closed?” he asks.
“To visitors.” I slide the key into the lock for the production room. “But the winery part never really closes.”
The lock clicks open, and I push the door inward before stepping aside so he can follow.
Inside, the air carries the familiar scent of fermenting grapes and damp wood. “This is my favorite smell in the whole world.” The production floor is quiet tonight, the stainless steel tanks lined up in orderly rows, hoses coiled neatly along the wall where the cellar crew left them earlier.
Alex pauses just inside the doorway, his gaze moving slowly across the room. “You don’t usually offer behind-the-scenes tours,” he says.
“Almost never.”
I flip on the overhead lights, the soft buzz filling the space as the room brightens.
“How did I get so lucky?”
I glance back at him over my shoulder. “You liked my wine, and we’re doing this tonight because if I do this during the day.” I gesture toward the tanks and equipment around us. “There are fifteen people working in here, and someone’s always trying to make it look impressive.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight it looks the way it actually does.”
He steps farther into the room, taking in the floor drains, the fermentation tanks, the long worktable where the cellar team sorts equipment during harvest.
“You’re not worried this might ruin the illusion?” he asks.
“What illusion?”
“That wineries are romantic.”
I laugh softly and move toward the nearest row of tanks. “Wine may be romantic,” I say. “But wine production is grape farming with better lighting.”
I lead him farther into the production space, the concrete floor cool underfoot as we move past the first row of stainless steel tanks. Alex walks beside me, his gaze moving over the equipment.
He rests his hand lightly against one of the tanks. “Fermentation vessels,” he says. “Temperature controlled.”
“Mostly,” I say. “Though we run them a little differently than some places.”
That catches his attention. “How?”
I tap the side of the nearest tank and gesture toward the control panel.
“Some wineries push fermentation faster. Warmer temperatures, more extraction, shorter turnover. It gets the wine to market sooner.”
“And you don’t.”
“We keep it slower.” I nod toward the row behind us. “Cooler fermentations. Longer maceration, if the fruit can handle it.”
He studies the panel and then the tank. “More patience. This is why your wine wins awards.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“And I assume it has more risk,” he adds.
I just smile.
“Wine can fall apart if you push it too hard,” he continues. “But it can stall if you baby it.”
“Exactly.” He gets it.
He smiles faintly. “So harvest must be chaos.”
“Controlled chaos,” I say. “We bring in grapes block by block, usually early in the morning when the fruit’s still cool.”
“And then you watch the tanks like a hawk.”
“Pretty much.”
He studies the fittings along the side of the tank again. “It’s more complicated than it looks from a wine list.”
I nod. “That’s the general theme of this business.”
We move toward the opposite side of the room where another row of tanks stands empty.
“This section usually holds our mid-range wines,” I explain. “The ones that ship out the fastest.”
I move past him toward the rack of hoses near the wall and lift one absently, looping it through my hands before setting it back in place. The rubber is cool against my palms. “Production is going to look a little different this year,” I say.
“On purpose?” he asks. “Like reduce the supply so the demand goes up?”
“No. We were going to bottle the wine we’ve been aging for the last five and seven years. But not now.”
I pick up the hose again and coil it more carefully this time, giving myself something to do with my hands. “One of our distributors restructured their contracts for the Gold Reserve earlier this month, so now we’ll have bottles left over.”
Alex turns toward me. “Restructured,” he repeats.
I nod. “They cut the amount they’d agreed to buy.” I don’t know why I’m saying these things out loud.
His gaze moves back to the tanks. “Why?”
“Paradise Hill asked them to take more of theirs instead, and they seemed to think that was a smart move.”
Alex’s expression doesn’t change much, but something sharper moves through his gaze. “Was it a lot?”
“Enough that we’ll feel it.”
Alex lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “That changes your harvest decisions.”
“It changes a lot of things.”
His eyes move slowly across the empty row again before settling back on me.
“Some of the restaurant group the distributor serves were concerned about things going on with my family, in the news,” I continue. “And Paradise Hill jumped on it.”
His face changes. “That doesn’t sound fair.”
I snort. “Welcome to politics in Paradise.”
“What about the wine that won medals? Won’t people want that?”
I brush my hand across the cool metal of the nearest tank. “Apparently they’re more concerned about having to discuss my grandmother’s legal problems.”
I push open the heavy door at the far end of the production room and gesture for Alex to follow me down the short corridor that leads into the cellar. The temperature drops immediately, the air cooler and quieter as the scent shifts to oak and wine.
Rows of French-oak barrels stretch the length of the room, stacked two high on steel racks.
Alex slows as we step into the cellar, his head tilting back as he takes it all in.
“This is where the patience happens,” I say.
He brushes the curved side of the nearest barrel, tracing the grain of the wood. “How many do you have?” he asks.
“Just over six hundred when we’re fully stocked. That’s about one hundred and eighty thousand bottles of wine or fifteen thousand cases.”
His eyes widen. “That’s a serious program.”
“It has to be.”
I reach for the wine thief resting on the worktable beside the rack and pull the bung from one of the barrels. The tool slips easily into the opening, drawing out a deep-garnet sample that catches the dim cellar light as I fill two glasses.
“This is pinot from the north block,” I say, handing one to him. “Eight months in.”
Alex studies the wine before tasting it. His expression doesn’t change much, but the pause afterward tells me he’s paying attention. “That’s good fruit.”
“After the fires and frost of the past few years, last year’s crop was kind to us.”
He takes another sip, slower this time. “Eight months?
I nod.
“It’s already deeper than the Paradise Hill they poured at the fundraiser.”
“That wasn’t their best wine. That one was bottled for the mid to low tier.”
“And this one’s still deciding what it wants to be.”
“Exactly.” I lean against the rack, the cool wood pressing lightly through my jacket.
For a moment neither of us speaks. The cellar is quiet except for the soft echo of our movements between the rows.
We continue our walkthrough and eventually step back outside with our glasses. The air has cooled while we were in the cellar, and the vineyard stretches out in deepening shadow as the sun slips behind the ridge.
We take the gravel path between the first rows of vines. The leaves rustle in the evening breeze.
“This must look so different during harvest,” Alex says after a moment. “You can’t tell as you drive by.”
“Very different.” I smile. “It’s busier and louder with so many working the field. And it’s stickier.”
He laughs and takes another sip of wine as we walk.
For a few steps we say nothing. The quiet comes easily, and Alex’s gaze drifts across the slope of vines.