Chapter 10 Saffron
SAFFRON
The drive home from Los Caballeros should have felt triumphant. We’d found it—Concepción’s half of the formula, complete with percentages and techniques and everything we needed to actually make the Christmas Blessing Wine. Instead, guilt sat in my passenger seat like an unwelcome hitchhiker.
I’d stood in the cave, with Snapper’s arms around me, his chest pressed against my back, both of us staring at what his great-grandmother had written, knowing it could literally save my family, and I still hadn’t told him why it mattered so much.
Why it had to be this Christmas. Why I was so desperate I could barely breathe sometimes.
I parked in the driveway and sat in my truck for several minutes, staring at the house. It looked the same as always. Like I was seeing it through glass, something beautiful but untouchable, already slipping away.
Silence hit me when I walked inside. No Mom humming in the kitchen. Dad’s boots weren’t by the door. No sounds of anyone moving around upstairs. Just me and the quiet and too many thoughts I didn’t want to think.
I dropped my purse on the counter and stood in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do with myself. Snapper wouldn’t pick me up for dinner until seven. That gave me—I checked my phone—almost eight hours to fill.
Eight hours alone with my thoughts sounded like torture.
I changed into work clothes and went outside.
The October afternoon was warm, the kind of perfect fall day that reminded me why I loved wine country.
I walked through our Zin block, running my hands over leaves that had started their autumn shift from green to gold and rust. The clusters appeared almost ready.
Wednesday or Thursday. That’s when we’d harvest. Two days, maybe three.
This was really happening. We were really going to make this wine, but what if it didn’t work? What if it wasn’t any good? What if the wine that everyone said was “legendary” was just average? More of an urban myth?
“You better be worth it.” I muttered to myself. “You better produce the best damn juice there’s ever been.”
The stalks didn’t answer, but I hadn’t expected them to.
I’d been talking to these plants since I was old enough to walk their rows with my father.
He used to say that vines could sense intention, that they knew when they were loved and tended with care versus when they were just a crop to be harvested and sold.
I hoped he was right. I hoped these grapes understood what was riding on them.
I spent an hour checking the fruit for any signs of disease or stress.
Everything looked good. Healthy. Ready. Then I headed to the winery building to look over our equipment—the bins we’d need for handpicking, the small sorting table we rarely used anymore, the bins that would carry what we picked to Los Caballeros for processing.
My phone rang just as I was coming back outside. Felicity’s name lit up the screen.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” I asked.
“Still pregnant. Still huge. But good.”
“Any signs of labor?”
“Not yet. The doctor says it could still be another few days.” She paused. “Bored now that the harvest is over?”
Bored? “I have plenty of work to keep up with until Dad gets back.”
“I swear, one of these years, you should make Snapper actually take you on a date.” Felicity’s tone softened. “You’ve basically been running things for years, Saff. Dad could probably retire.”
Had I? It didn’t feel that way. It felt like I’d been scrambling to keep up, patching holes, making do with equipment that should have been replaced a decade ago, stretching every dollar until it screamed. I just hadn’t realized why until last week.
“So listen,” Felicity continued. “I was just thinking about how crazy it is. Wagner and the baby and our winery and this whole life we’ve built—I never dreamed I could be this happy, you know? Like, I didn’t even know this was possible.”
“That’s great, sis. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks, pumpkin.” She paused. “Are you okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You work too hard.”
Rich, coming from my sister who’d helped her husband with their harvest while eight months pregnant. But I didn’t say that.
Instead, I asked a question I knew I shouldn’t. “Is Wagner the only man you’ve ever loved?”
The question hung in the air for several seconds. I almost took it back, almost laughed it off as a joke, but something kept me quiet.
“That’s random,” she muttered.
“I know. Sorry. I just—I was thinking about how you two are so perfect together, and I wondered if you’d ever—” I stopped, unsure how to finish.
“If I’d ever what?”
“If there was anyone else. Before him.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I thought I loved someone once,” she said quietly. “But I really didn’t. It was lust or infatuation or something that wasn’t love. Not like this. Not like what I have with Wagner.” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “Why are we talking about this?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
“Well, stop being curious about my past and start being curious about your future. Speaking of which, any interesting men in your life I should know about?”
Snapper’s face flashed through my mind. His hands on my waist in the kitchen. His mouth on mine. The way he’d looked at me in the caves this morning like I was precious.
“Since Saturday? Fat chance.”
“Liar. I can hear it in your voice. But fine, keep your secrets.” She yawned. “I should go. Mom says I should sleep as much as I can now since once the baby is here, I won’t be able to. Which reminds me, you’re still coming right? I need my sister.”
“You know it. I love you, Felicity.”
“Love you too, pumpkin.”
After she hung up, I stood in the driveway, staring at my phone.
I thought I loved someone once, but I really didn’t.
What Isabel said the other night came rushing back. You didn’t know about Felicity and Snapper?
No. I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t let Isabel’s poison twist everything into something ugly.
But the doubt remained, a small seed taking root.
I was still standing in the same spot when a car drove through the front gate. A sedan I didn’t recognize at first, then did—Isaac Brennan’s Lexus. He worked at First Coastal Bank. We’d gone to high school together, though he was three years ahead of me.
My heart pounded as he climbed out of the car.
“Saffron.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is your father home?”
“No. He’s in Napa with my mom and sister. Felicity’s about to have a baby.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Congratulations.” He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “When will he be back?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“I just needed to speak with him about—” He stopped. “It’s bank business. Nothing urgent.”
Liar. Everything about his body language screamed urgent.
My courage built slowly, like water rising. “I know about the foreclosure, Isaac. How bad is it? Really?”
His expression shifted to pity. “Saffron—”
“Please. Just tell me.”
“You should talk to your father.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give you.” He looked away, toward the vineyard, then back at me. “I’m sorry.”
We stood in awkward silence as a hawk circled overhead, riding the thermal currents.
“Saffron,” he began. “You know you don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders, right? This isn’t your doing or your responsibility.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Your father has been in this business for years, and his father before him, just like most of us in the valley,” he continued. “Some of the decisions he made worked out; others didn’t. But none of that is on you.”
“It feels like it is.”
“I know. But it’s not.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then retreated to his car. “Tell your dad to call me when he gets back, okay?”
I nodded and waved as he drove away.
I stood still until the dust settled. Until I could breathe again without feeling like my chest was caving in.
You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.
Didn’t I? Who would if not me?
When had that happened? When had I decided that my life didn’t matter as much as everyone else’s?
Isaac’s words and Felicity’s conversation swirled together in my head as I went inside. My sister had chosen herself and found happiness—a husband who adored her, a baby on the way, a winery of her own. She’d left and thrived.
What would happen if I chose myself?
The thought was so foreign it almost made me laugh. Choose myself how? I was already doing what I wanted—making this wine, saving the winery. Except was that really what I wanted? Or was it just another version of making myself useful and sacrificing what I needed so everyone else could be okay?
I looked at my phone. It was three-thirty, and Snapper would be here in less than four hours to take me to dinner. Dinner. A real date. Not breakfast at the diner. Something special, he’d said.
I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and stood in front of my closet. Most of what hung in it was practical—jeans and work shirts and jackets that had seen better days. A few dresses for weddings and funerals and the occasional charity event. Nothing special.
Then I saw it, pushed to the back—the green velvet dress. Felicity had given it to me three years ago for my birthday. “You need something beautiful,” she’d said. “Something that makes you feel like the gorgeous woman you are instead of the workhorse you’ve become.”
I’d never worn it. It felt too fancy, too impractical. When would I even wear something like this?
Tonight, apparently.
I took it out of the closet and laid it on my bed, then started the shower.
I took my time—shaved my legs, deep-conditioned my hair, and used the expensive body wash I’d been saving for some undefined special occasion.
When I got out, I actually blow-dried my hair instead of letting it air-dry into its usual waves.
The dress fit perfectly, hugging my waist before flowing to just above my knees. I put on makeup—not much, but enough. Mascara, a touch of blush, and lip gloss that made my mouth look fuller.
I stood in front of my mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back.
When had I stopped doing this? When had I decided that being invisible was safer than being seen?
Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself that wanting to look pretty was frivolous.
That spending time on myself was selfish.
That I didn’t deserve nice things or special attention or someone like Snapper looking at me the way he did.
But tonight—tonight, I was choosing to be visible. Choosing to want something just for me. Not because it served a purpose or helped someone else or kept everything from falling apart.
The realization was equally terrifying and exhilarating.
Once downstairs, I poured myself a glass of wine, then changed my mind and dumped it down the sink. I needed to be clearheaded tonight. Enough to tell Snapper the truth about the foreclosure, about why this wine had to be made and had to be made now.
Except what if telling him changed everything? What if he looked at me with pity instead of desire? What if he realized I was just desperate and convenient and not worth all the trouble?
No. I couldn’t think like that. Snapper had said I mattered to him. Had laid everything out there in my kitchen three nights ago when he’d kissed me. He’d even texted, saying he wanted me so much it was hard to breathe.
He meant it. I had to believe he meant it.
But a new fear crept in, one I hadn’t let myself fully examine before.
What if the wine worked? What if it saved us and I got Snapper, and everything I’d been working toward actually happened?
What then?
I’d spent so long defining myself by struggle and sacrifice.
By holding everything together through sheer force of will.
If I didn’t have to do that anymore—if the winery was safe and my family was okay and I had Snapper and an actual future that included things I wanted instead of just things I needed—who would I be?
The thought was almost more terrifying than losing everything.
Because I knew how to survive loss. I knew how to keep going when things were hard. But I had no idea how to handle being happy without feeling guilty about it.
Headlights swept across the kitchen window.
I checked my phone. Six forty-five. He was early.
I grabbed my wrap from the hook by the door and took one last look in the hall mirror. The woman looking back was beautiful and terrified and hopeful all at once.
I took a deep breath.
Tonight, I’d tell him about everything. I’d trust him the way he’d been asking me to.
He knocked, and a second later, I opened the door.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Like I was overdressed.
His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. “You look so beautiful, sweetheart.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I looked at the dark cords that sat low on his hips, the button-down shirt that stretched across his shoulders, and his hair still damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower.
“Thank you. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
His gaze traveled from my face down my body and back up again in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I locked the door behind me and let him lead me to his truck, his hand on the small of my back burning through the velvet of my dress.
Whatever happened tonight—whatever I told him, however he reacted—at least I’d know I’d tried. At least I’d chosen to be brave instead of safe. I just prayed I could go through with it.