Chapter 16 Saffron #2
I’d expected to see pity on their faces.
Maybe not all, but a few. Except none looked at my father with anything but happiness to see him.
I eavesdropped as they talked about old times, about harvests from decades past, about the way things used to be before “the young guns took over all the wineries.” Whatever discomfort Dad had felt seemed to ease as Hewitt Ridge recollected the disastrous crush they’d all experienced years ago.
“We came through that unscathed because we banded together. Remember, guys?” Hewitt said.
Murmurs of agreement came from around the room.
“Hey, beautiful girl,” Snapper said. When he put his arm around my shoulders and kissed my temple, everything else faded into background noise. “How are you holding up?”
“Trying to hold it all together.”
His hand found the small of my back and stayed there. “I think everyone’s here. Ready to start?”
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and addressed the room. “Dad, Mom, I have an announcement to make.”
Conversations died away, and everyone turned to face me.
My voice shook when I started speaking. “I was cleaning out the attic while you were in Napa. I know that’s probably not surprising since I’ve never been able to sit still when there’s work to be done.”
My father’s mouth curved into a grin. “That’s our Saffron. Always has to be doing something.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room, and the warmth and affection in those sounds steadied me enough to continue.
“I found something while I was up there. Marilyn Hope’s journal from 1955, the one she kept when she and Concepción Avila made the Christmas Blessing Wine.”
Confusion flickered across my parents’ faces, but I kept going before they could interrupt with questions.
“I found the journal the day after I overheard your phone call, Dad.” I didn’t say more than that. While I wanted him to know that I was aware of the impending foreclosure, the last thing I would ever do was humiliate him.
“Finding it gave me an idea,” I continued, feeling more confident when Snapper’s hand pressed more firmly against my back.
“I talked to Snapper about it, and we came up with a plan. The Hopes and Avilas would partner to make this wine together, the way our grandmothers did seventy years ago. Everyone in this room helped make it happen, and the plan is to split the profits between our two families.”
My dad’s eyes scrunched, and my mother’s filled with tears, but before either could speak, I turned to Cru. “Can you take it from here?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and rested his hand on the tapped barrel.
“Our original projections were for fifteen hundred bottles, but since we harvested before we had the exact blend percentages figured out, we ended up with more juice than we anticipated. Now, I think we have enough for at least two thousand bottles, maybe more.”
My parents looked confused about the reference to percentages, as I filed away the happy surprise of having more wine than we’d originally planned. Snapper’s arm came around my shoulders and squeezed gently.
“Our plan is to hold an auction,” I said when Cru looked over at me. “Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”
Both my parents understood the significance of that timing. I saw it in the way my mom’s hand found Dad’s as he struggled to maintain his composure.
His gaze met mine, then he perused the room slowly, meeting the eyes of each person in the room. One by one, they raised their empty glasses in his direction. These were his peers, his friends, people who had worked beside him for decades, and each connected look communicated solidarity.
Tears filled his eyes. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, but nothing came out.
My mom stepped forward and pulled me into a fierce hug, and I realized she was crying.
“My brave girl,” she whispered against my hair. “My stubborn, brilliant, wonderful girl. You did all this?”
“Not alone,” I said, looking up at Snapper. When she released me, she embraced him equally hard, then took my hand.
“Saffron Hope, you are the most infuriatingly independent person I have ever known. You get it from your father.” She laughed through her tears and hugged me again. “I am so proud of you. So incredibly proud.”
When she let go, Dad was there. He didn’t say anything at first, just wrapped me in a hug that felt like it was holding both of us up, but I could feel him trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have told you what was happening. I should have told you the truth instead of trying to protect you from it.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“No, it isn’t. But we’re going to make it okay.” He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Thank you, Saffron.”
“You’re welcome.” I gestured toward the barrel before I could talk myself out of it. “Shall we taste?”
Just as Cru moved toward it, I heard him say to Snapper, “What’s she doing here?”
I turned to look. “Isabel?”
“I heard there was a special tasting taking place tonight. I didn’t want to miss it.” She glanced around the room until her gaze landed on Kick. “No one minds, right?”
Kick shook his head.
“What in the hell is going on?” Snapper whispered in my ear.
“No idea,” I whispered back. “But let’s not allow her to ruin this.”
“Okay, everyone. Let’s get wine in those glasses you’re all holding.”
Everyone moved toward the barrel and formed a loose line with my parents in front. Cru poured a couple of ounces for everyone until he reached the end of the line, where Snapper and I stood.
“We’re tasting this for the first time together,” he said, raising his glass to us, then facing those in the room.
“Everyone here had a hand in creating what’s in this wine that represents more than just the Hopes and the Avilas.
It represents the collection of families who were the founders of the Central Coast wine region.
The blend we’re about to sample is forty percent Gamay, thirty-five percent Syrah, and twenty-five percent Zinfandel.
We used whole-cluster carbonic maceration, then pressed and completed the alcoholic fermentation in stainless tanks.
The three-varietal blend has been integrating for eight days.
” Cru raised his glass in the air once more.
“May Bacchus grant his favor on the Christmas Blessing Wine.”
“Hear, hear,” Snapper and I said simultaneously as we took our places around the long table.
After taking a deep breath, I held my glass up to the light and examined what we’d created. The color was a beautiful, deep ruby with hints of garnet at the edge.
“Excellent color development,” Tryst commented, and I agreed. It was remarkable, given how young the wine was.
The second step was swirling and sniffing.
I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled deeply, letting the aromatics fill my senses.
Complex layers were immediately apparent—also extraordinary.
Dark fruit—blackberry, black cherry, and hints of plum—dominated, followed by clove, black pepper, and cinnamon.
Underneath it all were rich earths like forest floor and turned soil after rain.
“Nice nose,” Bit said from where he and Eberly stood across from us.
The third step was tasting. This was the moment everything came down to.
I raised the glass to my lips and let the wine flow over my tongue.
My first impression was that the wine was good. Really good, actually.
The fruit came forward immediately but was balanced by the structure underneath.
The tannins had integrated beautifully, smooth rather than harsh or grippy.
I could taste the backbone of the wine, the architecture that would let it age well.
The acidity was bright and clean, lifting the fruit and keeping everything fresh.
I swallowed and tasted again, searching for that transcendent quality, the spark that made people remember a wine seventy years after they’d tasted it—something extraordinary to bloom across my tongue, for the kind of experience that would make collectors fight over the right to own a bottle.
But it wasn’t there.
The wine was good. The kind of wine any winemaker would be proud to produce. Well-made. Balanced. Drinkable. Something I could serve at any dinner table without a moment’s hesitation.
But not extraordinary. Not the kind of wine that would command auction prices high enough to save us.
I looked around the table at the faces of the people who had helped create this.
Everyone was tasting with the focus and concentration of experienced winemakers doing what they did best. They swirled their glasses, tasted again, held the wine in their mouths before swallowing, evaluated, and considered with decades of combined experience.
A long silence stretched out across the room. Nobody wanted to speak first.
Finally, Brix broke the quiet. “This is really well-made wine.” His comment was measured and thoughtful but conveyed more in what he didn’t say.
“Beautiful balance,” Noah Ridge added.
“It’s definitely market-worthy,” said Kick.
All of those assessments were accurate. All of them were complimentary. And all of them were devastating.
Because it wasn’t enough. We needed something that would make wealthy collectors open their wallets wide enough to save us from foreclosure.
“It’s lovely,” Tryst said with the kind of sympathy that made my stomach drop. “Truly.”
A pause stretched out.
“But something’s missing,” I said, forcing myself to say what we all knew. “Isn’t it?”
Everyone in the room seemed to exhale at once, relieved that someone had said what we all were thinking.
Martin Barrett spoke up first. “Something is definitely missing. I can taste the absence of it, but I can’t define what it is.”
“It needs depth. Or weight. Some kind of bridge between the fresh fruit and something more substantial underneath,” Hewitt suggested.
“Like it’s missing a foundation,” Brix added. “Or maybe a top note. There’s a component that should be there to complete the blend, but I can’t identify what it would be.”
Discussion swirled around me as those who’d tasted tried to puzzle out what was wrong.
They talked about pH levels and acid balance and tannin structure.
They debated whether the issue was with one of the varietals or with the blend ratios or with the fermentation process.
All the measurements had been perfect, they agreed, but somehow, the wine was still incomplete.
I couldn’t hear most of it over my pulse roaring in my ears.
I had failed. I looked at my father across the table.
Dad was tasting and retasting, evaluating honestly with decades of experience behind it.
He knew wine better than almost anyone I’d ever met, and I could see him searching for the same thing I’d been looking for.
That spark. That magic. When his eyes met mine, I saw everything in his expression.
Pride in what I had attempted. Sorrow that it wasn’t enough.
Gratitude for the friends who had helped us.
And heartbreak, deep and raw, because this beautiful wine wasn’t going to save us after all.
My mom’s hand rested on his arm. Both of them understood what this meant. Their daughter had made beautiful wine with the best help she could find. But beautiful wasn’t going to be enough.
Snapper’s arm went around my shoulders, and I rested against him because I needed his warmth and his steadiness. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or hollow promises that everything would be fine. He just held me while I stared into my glass of disappointment.
“We still have time,” said Cru. “We’ll figure it out.”
But looking at the faces around me, at the people who’d spent their entire lives crafting wine, none of them seemed to know how to fix it.
The expression on one person’s face, though, chilled me to the bone. Isabel Van Orr looked triumphant. Like this was somehow a competition between just the two of us and she’d just won.
“Where is everyone?” I heard someone say from the cave’s outer corridor.
“Baron!” said Tryst. “Welcome back. When did you get in?”
He stepped into the room, looking around with curiosity, especially when he noticed his daughter’s presence.
“I flew in for Thanksgiving, and when I saw the notice about tonight’s meeting, I came straight here.”
While Baron took in the gathering with growing interest, every time he looked in Isabel’s direction, his brow furrowed.
“So what is all this?” he asked, motioning to the table with its rows of glasses, then to the tapped barrel. “Are we tasting a special vintage? May I join you?”
“Of course,” said Cru, pouring a glass and handing it over without comment.
Like we all had, Baron held the wine up to the light to examine the color, then he swirled, bringing it to his nose and breathing deeply.
His eyes closed as he concentrated on the aromatics.
Collectively, we went still as he took a sip and held the wine in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing.
Then, he set his glass down on the table. His gaze connected with Tryst’s, then my father’s, then mine.
“This is the Christmas Blessing Wine.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact from a man who knew exactly what he was tasting.
He was met with stunned silence. Nobody had expected Baron Van Orr to walk in and immediately identify what we’d been trying to create.
“Something is missing.” His said with absolute certainty. “And I know exactly what it is.”