Chapter 5 Snapper
SNAPPER
It was midafternoon but still warm for this time of year as I drove to Saffron’s house.
The Hope Family Winery property sat on a hill overlooking the valley.
The main house was a sprawling craftsman-style home that had been in her family for three generations.
I’d been here dozens of times over the years—for parties, tastings, casual visits.
But today felt different. Today, I was bringing her hope.
I parked in the circular driveway and climbed the front steps. Before I could knock, the door swung open.
Saffron stood there in the same jeans and flannel shirt she’d worn at breakfast. Now, though, her hair was up in a ponytail, her makeup was no longer apparent, and her feet were bare. She looked exhausted and beautiful and so damn vulnerable it made my chest ache.
“Snapper. I didn’t expect—did you—” It was as though whatever she wanted to say got stuck in her throat.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course. Sorry.” She stepped to the side to let me pass.
The house was quiet. “Are your parents home?”
“No, they left this morning for Napa with Felicity and Wagner. The baby is due any day now.”
“How long will they be gone?” I asked, relieved I didn’t have to tell her what transpired since we left the diner in front of them.
“No idea.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Why? Did you—did you talk to your brothers and Alex?”
“I did.”
Her face went pale. “And?”
I let myself smile. “They’re in. All of them. We’re doing this, Saffron.”
For a second, she just stared at me. Then her hands flew to her mouth, and tears she tried to blink away filled her eyes. “Really? You’re serious?”
“Completely.” I stepped closer. “Cru confirmed we have the grapes you need. The Syrah will be ready in about a week, the Gamay in two. If your Zinfandel is ready sooner, we can start there.”
“It might be. I haven’t checked since Friday, but—” She broke off, laughing.
I wanted to pull her into my arms, but kept my hands at my sides. “We’ll check all three varietals tomorrow at dawn. Walk your vineyards first, then ours. See what we’re working with.”
“Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to thank me. We’re partners, remember? Fifty-fifty.”
She smiled, and it transformed her whole face. “Still, thanks.”
“There is something we could do in the meantime,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Look for Concepción’s notes. You checked your attic. We should check my ma’s.” I paused. “Want to help? We’ve got a couple hours of daylight left.”
She glanced toward the stairs, then back at me. “I should probably shower first. I’m a mess.”
“You look fine.” More than fine, but I wasn’t about to say that.
“Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll change and meet you there.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I watched her run up the stairs, then let myself out.
Twenty minutes later, Saffron arrived at the main house at Los Cab, where I’d been waiting outside for her. She’d changed into fitted jeans and a soft gray Henley that hugged her curves in ways that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling in waves past her shoulders.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, climbing out of her truck. “I couldn’t find my good flashlight.”
“We won’t need it. The attic has lights.” I hoped. “Come on.”
My mother was in the kitchen when we walked in, and the smell of cinnamon filled the air.
“Salazar? Is that you?” she called.
“Yeah, Ma. I brought Saffron.”
My mom appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Mija! What a wonderful surprise.”
“Hi, Mrs. Avila.” Saffron’s smile lit up the room—and my heart, if I was honest. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re always welcome here.” Ma hugged her, then leaned away. “Are you eating enough? You look too thin.”
“She ate fine this morning,” I muttered. “All my food, in fact.”
Saffron elbowed me. “He’s right. I did eat most of his breakfast. You should worry more about him.”
My mother made a noncommittal sound. “I have snickerdoodles cooling on the counter. Fresh out of the oven.”
“Actually, we need to look through the attic. We’re searching for some old family records.”
“The attic?” One brow rose. “What kind of records?”
“Anything from Eduardo and Concepción’s time. We’re looking for wine formulas.”
“For the Christmas Blessing Wine?” Ma’s eyes widened.
I was stunned she knew about it and said so.
“Of course I know about it. You’re going to make it?”
“We’re going to try,” Saffron said.
“That’s wonderful.” Ma pressed a hand to her chest. “You’re welcome to check the attic if you want, but I don’t remember seeing anything like that.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“I’ll give you some cookies to take up with you,” she said, already heading back to the kitchen.
After grabbing a platter of snickerdoodles that my mom had covered with plastic wrap—good thinking—I led Saffron upstairs and pulled the attic ladder down. It groaned in protest, raining dust on both of us.
“Watch your step,” I said, climbing up first. “The boards creak.”
The attic was exactly as I remembered—cramped, hot, and packed with decades of accumulated family history. I found the light switch, and three of the four bulbs flickered to life, casting weak yellow light over the space.
Saffron climbed up behind me. “This looks just like ours.”
“Three generations of pack rats will do that.” I surveyed the stacks of boxes and trunks. “Where should we start?”
“The oldest-looking stuff?” She pointed toward a section near the window, where several steamer trunks sat.
The floorboards groaned under our weight as we made our way over. The attic was stifling. I could already feel sweat forming at the base of my spine.
The first trunk we opened held baby clothes—tiny gowns and knitted booties that probably belonged to my siblings or me. The second had photo albums, their pages yellowed with age.
“Look at this,” Saffron said, opening another trunk and removing a wedding dress that I knew hadn’t belonged to my mom. Maybe my grandmother. She sighed. “It’s so beautiful.”
I moved behind her to look over her shoulder. The citrusy and sweet scent of her shampoo hit me, making me want to bury my face in her hair. My chest brushed against her back, and I felt her go still.
“Sorry,” I said, not moving away. “Tight quarters up here.”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Being this close to her, feeling the warmth of her body through our clothes, breathing her in—my brain was short-circuiting. I let my breath ghost across the back of her neck before forcing myself to step away.
She carefully set the dress aside and dug deeper. Under it were more clothes, a rosary, and a small wooden box with initials carved into the lid.
“EA,” she read. “Eduardo Avila?”
“Probably.” I opened another trunk nearby while she explored the box. Inside were old receipts, tax documents, and letters tied with string. But nothing that looked like wine formulas.
Heat built steadily in the enclosed space, and sweat trickled down my spine as we worked in silence.
Eventually, I gave in and removed my flannel, leaving just my undershirt. The cooler air against my skin helped marginally.
When I glanced over and our eyes met, she quickly looked away, but not before I caught the flush creeping up her neck.
Interesting.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Nothing about wine.” She sounded flustered.
I reached for another box at the same moment she did. Our fingers touched, and she jerked her hand away. “You get this one. I’ll check over there,” she said.
When I opened it, I found more photographs, but instead of in albums, these were loose.
I flipped through them slowly. Most were of people I didn’t recognize.
Then I found one that made me pause. Two women standing in front of old wooden fermentation tanks.
On the back, someone had written, “Mar and Connie, 1954.”
“Saffron, check this out.”
She came closer, looking over my shoulder, and I had to concentrate on slowing my breathing. “That’s my great-grandmother. Marilyn.”
“With my great-grandmother, Concepción.” I pointed to the second woman. Behind them, partially out of frame, was a third figure. “There’s someone else with them.”
Her breast pressed against my arm when she bent closer. I didn’t think she even noticed, but I sure as hell did. “It’s hard to see who it is. Not that I’d know who they were even if I could.”
“Nothing written on the back.” I flipped through more photos. “Wait, here’s another one.”
This one showed three women together, all smiling at the camera. Marilyn and Concepción were clearly identifiable. The third woman was tall and elegant, with striking features.
“Who is she?” Saffron murmured.
“I don’t know. But she’s in several of these.” I showed her three more photos, each featuring the mystery woman with various combinations of family members.
Only one had a name on the back. Ellen.
“Ellen who, though?” I mumbled.
“Good question.” Saffron wiped sweat from her temple.
“Yeah.” I was acutely aware of her proximity, the way her shirt was starting to stick to her skin, the damp tendrils of hair curling at her neck. “We can take a break if you want.”
“No, let’s keep going. We’re running out of daylight.”
We searched for another thirty minutes but found nothing that looked like wine formulas or technical notes. Just photographs, letters, and other personal effects. Rather than cooling off, the heat was becoming unbearable.
“I need some air,” Saffron said, fanning herself.
“Same. Let’s go downstairs.”
I climbed down the ladder first, then waited at the bottom to help her. She was midway when her foot slipped on the dusty rung.
“Careful!” I grabbed her waist to steady her, then turned her in my arms.
She gripped my shoulders, and we froze like that, our faces a couple of inches apart, my hands on her waist, and her body pressed against mine.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Anytime.” I should’ve let go, but couldn’t bring myself to.