Chapter 9 Snapper
SNAPPER
I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt her pressed against me in the kitchen, tasted wine on her lips, and heard that small sound she’d made when I kissed her neck.
That had been two nights ago, but my body didn’t seem to care.
It wanted her like it had just happened.
I checked my phone before my eyes were fully open.
There were no new messages from Saffron, no response to me saying I’d see her today, if I could wait that long.
Had I really thought there would be? Wished, yes. Expected, no way.
Instead of putting the phone down like I should have, I opened my photos.
I had so many of her—of us—spanning years.
Harvest celebrations where she stood laughing with grape juice staining her hands.
The summer she was seventeen and worked alongside Kick and me, her ponytail pulled through a Los Cab baseball cap.
The previous Wicked Winemakers’ Ball, where she wore the same dress she had this year, her smile genuine before Isabel cornered her.
A candid shot from three years ago, when she didn’t know I was watching, standing in the vineyard at sunset with her eyes closed and face turned toward the sun like she was soaking in the last warmth of the day.
I hadn’t been able to bring myself to delete a single one, even when I told myself I was being pathetic.
I closed the photo app and sent her a message. Going to look for those logs Ma mentioned. Want to help?
The dots appeared right away, disappeared, then started again.
What time?
An hour? Meet you at the caves?
I’ll be there.
I stared at the screen for another few seconds, then forced myself to move. Shower, clothes, fresh coffee. Every minute dragged while I waited.
The drive to Los Cab took forever despite being less than twenty minutes from my house in town. When I arrived at the caves, Saffron’s truck was already there. She stood near the driver’s side door with her arms crossed and her hair in a ponytail that made her look ten years younger.
“You’re early,” I said, climbing out.
“So are you.”
We stood there for several seconds, neither of us moving.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Lead the way.”
I took her past the main barrel room, where hundreds of French oak barrels sat, aging wine in neat rows, their surfaces already developing the purple-black stains that came from years of use. The air smelled like wood and wine and time—earthy and rich.
We took the left fork into the east branch. Back here, the passages narrowed and the ceiling dropped lower.
“I’ve never been this far into the caves,” Saffron said.
“Not many people have.”
The storage area opened up ahead—still carved from the same hillside stone but fitted with modern shelving units that held boxes and crates stacked from floor to ceiling. A single wooden table sat in the center with two chairs that looked like they’d been there since my grandfather’s time.
“Where do we start?” Saffron moved to the nearest shelf, running her finger along the edge of a dusty box.
“Ma said Tryst organized everything about ten years ago. So there’s some kind of system.”
“Theoretically.”
I reached for the first box and set it on the table. Inside, we found production logs from the 1980s—my father’s handwriting, strong and angular, recording tonnage and Brix levels and fermentation temperatures. I flipped through a few pages, then set it aside.
Saffron opened the next box. “Nineteen seventies.” She looked at me. “We’re going backward in time.”
“Then we keep going.”
We fell into a rhythm. Pull a box, check the dates, set it aside if it was from the wrong decade.
The next shelf back held logs from the sixties.
Then the fifties. Each decade took us deeper into the past, into handwriting that grew more ornate, ink that faded to sepia, and paper that felt thin enough to crumble.
“Look at this!” She opened a leather-bound book that was cracked with age. “December 1955.”
I moved to look over her shoulder. Tucked between two pages near the back, there was a folded piece of paper. She gasped as we both read what was on the page.
Christmas Blessing Wine Blend
Gamay: 40%
Syrah: 35%
Zinfandel: 25%
Beneath the varietals and percentages, there were detailed notes about temperatures, timing, CO2 levels for the carbonic maceration, how long to let it ferment, and when to rack it. Everything we needed.
“Oh my God.” Saffrons said barely above a whisper. “This is it. This is actually it.” She turned in my arms—when had I put them around her?—and looked up at me with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. “We found it.”
Then she was hugging me, her face pressed against my chest, her arms tight around my waist.
I held her, one hand sliding into her hair and the other splayed across her back. I wanted to sink into her and allow myself to feel the same relief and happiness she felt, except I couldn’t. Not until she admitted why making the wine this year was so important.
Tell me, I silently screamed. Trust me.
She leaned away just enough to look at me. Couldn’t she feel my hurt even if she didn’t see it?
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” I said after several seconds of silence. “To celebrate.”
Her brow furrowed. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to. A real dinner. Not my mom’s kitchen or the diner. Somewhere special.”
“Snapper—”
“Please, Saff. Let me do this.”
She hesitated before answering. “Okay. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Okay,” she repeated, softer this time.
After Saffron got in her truck and left, I called Bit.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Here. At the Stonehouse.”
“Be there in a minute.”
He and Eberly were waiting near the entrance when I arrived at the original winery building that sat at the heart of Los Caballeros.
“We found the formula for the Christmas wine,” I blurted as I got out of my truck.
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s—wow. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, and now, I need your help.”
“You got it. What can I do?”
“It’s about Saffron.”
Slow grins spread across both his face and Eberly’s as they motioned for me to follow them.
“Oh no,” Eberly said once we were inside. “He’s got that look.”
“What look?” I asked.
“The one that means we’re about to help you do something ill-advised,” Bit responded.
“It’s not ill-advised. I just—” I ran a hand through my hair. “I want to take her to dinner tonight. To celebrate finding the formula. But not just any dinner. Something…I don’t know. Special. Private. Romantic. All of that.”
Bit gestured around us. “What about here?”
I looked at the space like I was seeing it for the first time. The original fermentation room stretched before us—massive stone walls, with its exposed wood beams crossing the vaulted ceiling. Lights were strung above the tables, where candles and floral arrangements already sat.
I could see the garden courtyard through the floor-to-ceiling windows and could imagine Saffron along the pathways that wound through wild roses, ivy, and lavender.
“Can I?” I asked.
“It’s not booked tonight,” Bit said, looking at Eberly. “What do you think?”
She smiled. “It’s perfect. Give me until five o’clock, and I’ll have everything ready.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” She squeezed my arm. “You said you wanted special, private, and romantic. There isn’t anywhere on the Central Coast that fits the bill better than this does. Now, I need to put the menu together.” She looked at Bit. “Then you can do the wine pairings.”
After she left, Bit gestured for me to sit at the bar. I rested my arms on its top as exhaustion settled over me.
“So, you’re really doing this,” he said.
“Making the wine? Yep. Sure are.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re going all in with Saffron?”
I thought about arguing, but what was the point? “Yeah. I am.”
“Good.” He took a sip from the coffee cup I hadn’t noticed he brought with him. “She’s worth it.”
“I know she is. I just—” I stopped, trying to figure out how to explain how I felt. “What if I screw this up?”
“You won’t.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Look, I know you.” He nudged me. “You’re one of the most stubborn, determined people I’ve ever met. When you want something, you don’t give up. And you want her.”
“I do.”
“Then stop overthinking it, and just be yourself. That’s who she wants anyway. One more thing,” Bit said. “Whatever happens tonight, whatever she does or doesn’t tell you—don’t push.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you’ve got that look like you’re about to storm a castle.”
“I’m not storming anything. I’m just tired of knowing she’s drowning and won’t let me throw her a rope, because she doesn’t trust that I can see her going under.”
Bit’s expression softened. “She’ll tell you. When she’s ready.”
“You said I’m going all in with her, but I can’t, Bit. Not until she tells me what I already know. I want her. I have for years, but she still refuses to admit the reason making the wine now is so important is because, if she doesn’t, her family will lose everything.”
“I’d tell you to be patient, but if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be able to be.”
“Thanks for admitting it.”
“Of course. Now, I better get in there and help my wife before she has a menu better suited for twenty rather than two.”
“You’re sure this is okay?”
Bit cocked his head. “This place is as much yours as it is mine. You don’t need my permission to have dinner here.”
“But I do need you and Eberly to make it.”
“Yeah, we’ve got you.”