Chapter 8 Saffron
SAFFRON
Iarrived at the Zinfandel block just as the sky began lightening from deep purple-gray. The October chill bit at my exposed skin, and I hugged my jacket tighter to my body.
Headlights cut through the dim morning, and Snapper’s SUV rolled to a stop at the edge of the vineyard. I watched him climb out with two travel mugs in hand.
“Morning, Saff.” He held one out as he approached. “Extra cream, extra sugar. The way you like it, even though it’s basically a milkshake.”
I took it. “You drink yours black like a lunatic.”
“I drink mine like someone with functioning taste buds.” He grinned, and just like that, some of the tension eased. This was us. This was normal. Except for the part where I couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth on mine last night.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“I’ve known you since before you convinced yourself you could skateboard down Dead Man’s Hill. What were you? Six? Seven?”
“I made it halfway.”
“You broke your wrist.”
“I would’ve made it all the way if I hadn’t.” I took a sip of coffee to hide my smile. “Should we check the grapes?”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t move immediately. Instead, he stood there, looking at me like he was trying to figure out what I was thinking. Good luck with that—I didn’t even know.
We walked on opposite sides of Zinfandel vines, maintaining a buffer of space that felt both necessary and ridiculous. I took the refractometer out of my pocket, grateful to have something technical to focus on.
“Here.” I handed it to him, then reached for a cluster.
Our fingers touched, and heat shot up my arm. We both pretended it hadn’t happened, but I saw tension ripple across his shoulders.
I squeezed juice from a berry onto the device’s prism while he held it up to catch the light.
“Twenty-two point three Brix,” he said.
“Another couple of points, and we’re there.” I moved to the next vine, hyperaware of how near he was. Close enough to smell his soap and to see the shadow of stubble along his neck. Close enough to remember exactly how that stubble had felt against my skin when he’d kissed me.
I cleared my throat and focused on the grapes. “These look healthy.”
“Yeah, your dad’s always run a tight ship. Remember when we were kids and he caught us eating grapes straight off the vines?”
“He lectured us for twenty minutes about respecting the harvest.”
“Worth it, though. Those grapes were incredible.” He shot me a sideways glance. “You ate way more than I did.”
“I did not.”
“You had juice running down your chin.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“Is it?” His grin was wicked. “Because I have a very clear memory of your dad making you write ‘I will not steal grapes’ a hundred times.”
“Fifty times. And you had to do it too.”
“Yeah, but I only wrote it twenty times before he gave up on me.” He reached for another bunch, examining it. “He always liked you better.”
That made me laugh out loud. “God, I would hope so. Although I think he always wanted a boy.”
“Sons-in-law count,” he said with a wink.
The easy banter felt good. Like we could do this—work together, be around each other, behave as though everything hadn’t shifted between us. Until that comment. While I knew what he meant, it only reminded me of what Isabel had said about him and my sister.
We were quiet as we worked through the rest of the block, sampling from different areas. The readings stayed consistent—twenty-two to twenty-three across the board.
“Wednesday or Thursday,” he said. “October fifteenth or sixteenth.”
Even if the baby was born today, my parents wouldn’t be back from Napa by then. It would be at least another week. Maybe two. Plenty of time for us to get what we had here picked and get the maceration started at Los Cab’s facility.
“This could really happen,” I said under my breath.
“Not could, is.” He stepped closer. “You scared?”
“Terrified,” I admitted.
“Of the wine? Or of me?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” I looked away. “Can we just focus on the grapes?”
“Sure.” There was an understanding in the way he said it that made me feel seen. “Ready to check our blocks?”
The drive to Los Caballeros took less than ten minutes.
I’d made this trip a thousand times—for family dinners, harvest celebrations, and that time when I was sixteen and Lucia had taught me and Felicity how to make proper tamales.
But today, sitting in Snapper’s passenger seat with the memory of what had happened last night burning between us felt awkward.
I’d thought about taking my own vehicle, but when he insisted I ride with him, I decided it would be best not to fight him every step of the way. Now, I wished I was in my own truck, so I could freely have the conversations with myself that I so desperately needed to.
“So. We’re really not going to talk about it?” he asked.
“Talk about what?”
“Saffron.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Can we have at least that long before the postmortem?” I’d meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.
“Postmortem makes it sound like something died.”
“Didn’t it?” I turned to look at him. “Our friendship, maybe?”
His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“Well, I do.” He glanced at me. “I think we’ve been dancing around this for years. I think you feel it too. And I think you’re scared because if we try this and it doesn’t work, you lose me.”
My chest tightened. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”
“Don’t make me talk about this when I can barely think straight.”
“Come on, Saff. The texts…”
My pulse hammered, and I wished I could plug my ears.
“I meant what I said. All of it.”
“I know.”
“But I won’t push. You need time. I can give you that.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He drove through the gates of his family’s property, and I let myself breathe again, knowing that, soon, we’d be around other people, unable to talk about time or kissing or being afraid.
Cru was waiting near the Gamay block. “Morning, Saffron,” he said, hugging me. “Thanks for dragging yourself out here before the sun’s even all the way up.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing I’ve done in years.” How sad was it that what I’d said as a joke was actually true?
“That’s because you need to get out more.” He shot Snapper a look. “Though from what I hear, you two have been spending plenty of time together lately.”
“Shut up,” Snapper muttered, color creeping up his neck.
I bit back a smile. The Avila brothers never missed a chance to give each other shit.
“Ma’s already planning the wedding,” Cru continued, widening his grin. “She’s thinking spring. Maybe April.”
“I will end you,” Snapper seethed.
“What? I’m just saying she’s been waiting for this since you were both teenagers.”
“Cru—”
“Remember that time at the harvest festival when you punched Tommy Berkshire for calling Saffron fat?”
I stared. “You did what?”
“I didn’t punch him,” Snapper said quickly. “I shoved him. There’s a difference.”
“You gave him a bloody nose,” Cru corrected. “Uncle Tryst grounded you for a week.”
“He shouldn’t have been talking about her like that.”
Warmth spread throughout my body. “I didn’t know about that.”
“Because I handled it.” Snapper’s expression went hard. “Can we please check the grapes now?”
“Sure, sure.” But Cru looked delighted as he led us into the vines. “Just making conversation.”
We sampled the Syrah—smaller bunches than our Zinfandel, thinner skins. Cru explained the differences in the soil composition and how the limestone content affected the acidity.
“Twenty-one point eight right now,” he said after checking several vines. “So we’re looking at seven to ten days.”
I did the mental math. “That gives us time between harvests. We won’t be overwhelmed.”
“Exactly. And the Gamay will come in last, probably another week after that.” He glanced between us. “So, still think we can make this work?”
“Yeah,” Snapper said quietly, looking at me. “Of course I do.”
“Any luck finding more of Concepción’s notes?” Cru asked.
“Not yet. We found her journal, but it doesn’t have the formula.”
“Well, you’ve got another two weeks before you have to resort to plan B.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back—Daphne and I have an appointment this morning we couldn’t reschedule. Snapper knows where the Syrah block is. Block twelve.”
“Please tell Daph I said hello.”
“Will do.” He started toward his truck, then paused. “Hey, Saffron? For what it’s worth, I think this is good. You two working together. It’s about time.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Thanks, Cru.”
After he left, the silence felt heavier. Just Snapper and me, alone in the vineyard, with the morning sun warming the air around us.
“Cru loves busting your chops,” I said.
“Yeah, he really does.” But he was smiling. “Syrah’s this way.”
“So,” I said after we’d walked for a few minutes in silence. “You punched Tommy Berkshire for me?”
“I shoved him. And he had it coming.”
“What did he say?”
“Does it matter?”
“Kind of.”
Snapper was quiet. “He called you the nickname your sister uses. Said some other things that weren’t his business. I told him to shut up. He didn’t. So I made him.”
“My hero,” I teased. Except, really, I meant it.
“Don’t.” But color flooded his face. “I was twelve and stupid.”
“You were sweet.”
“I was pissed off that someone was being an asshole to you.”
“Still sweet.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
The Syrah block came into view, tucked into a south-facing slope. The vines were full of near-perfect fruit, and I felt a surge of excitement. I reached for a bunch, rolling a berry between my fingers. “Not quite ready. Another week, maybe more.”
“So October twentieth to twenty-third?” He was standing near enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“Probably.” I squeezed the berry, tasting the juice. Still too acidic, the tannins sharp. “Needs more time.”
I reached for another at the same moment he did, and our hands collided.