Chapter 209 Callum #4
“God, you can taste the history in the air,” Aurélie breathed. “These roots must run deep.”
“Deeper than my patience some days,” Colette grumbled wryly. “But they reward devotion.”
Ivy fell in on Aurélie’s other side, already in planning mode.
“Okay, picture it: sunset, ridge line, cypress framing, strings of lights. Lucy, barefoot with a guitar, something soft while we all sob, because, let’s be so for real, you two have found something we all dream of someday.
It’s inspiring and beautiful and deserves to be celebrated. ”
Lucy sighed, slipping her arm through Kimi’s. Kimi’s thumb smoothed over her knuckles, seemingly absently, like a habit he’d had for years, notching the corner of his mouth up in a private smile. A rare public softness. “I can play something dreamy,” she said. “Maybe write something new?”
Auri looked at me over her shoulder, pure joy sparking off her. It hit me square in the chest.
Colette crooked a finger. “Come see the press house.”
We followed a path that cut between vines and olives, the ground warm and forgiving underfoot. The press house was near the bottom of the slope, its doors thrown wide to a cool interior scented with stone, must, fruit, and old wood.
Inside, Colette spread her arms. “Okay, another crash course. That,” she pointed to a wide, squat machine with slatted sides, “is a basket press. Think of it like a very gentle, very strong hug for grapes or olives. Fruit goes in, pressure comes down, juice comes out. Old-school, careful, romantic. Your Nonna would approve, Marco.”
Marco’s face softened at the mention of his Nonna. He touched two fingers to his chest like a blessing. “She would,” he confessed quietly. “She’d light a candle for this place and call it a chapel.” He looked around, a little awed. “Feels like one.”
Colette tipped her chin toward the wall.
“Those big terracotta pots are amphorae. Clay. They breathe a tiny bit, so the wine or oil inside gets to relax without picking up wood flavors. The stainless steel tanks,” she rapped a knuckle on one that gleamed like a mirror, “are the control freaks. Perfect for keeping things cool and clean and exactly how I want them. And back there,” she nodded toward a dim room that glowed like amber, “is the barrel cave. That’s for aging wines that want a little kiss of wood. ”
Auri’s voice dropped without thinking. “Is that acacia?” she asked reverently.
“Good eye. You’ve still got it,” Colette praised. “Yes. Acacia keeps the aromatics bright with flavors like honey and white flowers, but without the vanilla bomb you get from new oak. I use it for the Assyrtiko when I want texture without turning it into dessert.”
My head spun at all the details. Christ, I hadn’t realized how much of this was chemistry, ratios, and trial and error. I understood almost none of it, but I knew Auri would lie in bed later and explain every ounce, hands flying, eyes bright, and I’d memorize the sound of her happiness.
Ivy peered into an amphora. “Do any of these come with a ‘reduce PR crises’ feature?”
“Only by the glass,” Colette retorted dryly, already reaching for a stainless thief. “Here, try this straight from the tank. It’s unfiltered, a little wild. Like love affairs and good headlines.”
“God, that’s apt,” Marco joked, and everyone chuckled.
Auri laughed, eyes shining as Colette filled a large decanter and poured it into each of our glasses.
Auri lifted the glass, inhaled, and closed her eyes like it was a prayer.
And just like that, the room felt like the beginning of something.
We all took a sip except for her, and collectively hummed at the crisp bite.
It was clean and bright enough to make your taste buds sit up and pay attention.
Then she took her first sip and closed her eyes. “God, Colette. It’s saline and stone and… lemon pith? And something like fennel pollen at the back.”
Ivy and Lucy drifted to the door, looking out at the grove while they sipped and discussed semantics. Marco and Kimi staged a serious argument about who would be best man “adjacent” if we were technically eloping.
“Please marry me,” Colette deadpanned.
“Get in line,” I said, slipping an arm around Auri’s waist.
Colette tipped her head back, her auburn curls bouncing with the movement, then lifted her glass toward the back door. “Come on. Let’s go to the ridge.”
We stepped out of the press house, climbing a gentle rise where the olives thinned and the sea took over the horizon. Wind moved through the cypress above us in a low hush. Below, the vineyard pitched toward the water in neat green bands. The sunlight went honey-soft around the edges of everything.
Colette stopped at a flat patch of earth surrounded by wildflowers. “Option one,” she said. “Barefoot aisle between olive and vine. Sunset straight ahead. If you want the breeze to catch a veil, this is your spot.”
Auri’s fingers squeezed mine. “This is it,” she whispered. “I don’t need to see anything else.”
I looked at her. Golden hour turned her irises greener, lit golden shades in her hair, dusted every freckle across her nose and shoulders like they’d been painted there for this exact moment.
Then I looked back at the ridge—the vines and trees, the flowers, the sweep of sea and endless horizon—and I could see it like a film I’d already lived.
Her walking toward me barefoot, white brushing her shins, a veil lifting on the breeze. No more running, no more hiding, no more pretending anything mattered more than the vow. It was real. It was finally happening. And my heart did that strange, aching stutter it only does for her.
Colette nodded at the ground. “Go on,” she said gently. “Try the tradition.”
Auri slipped off her sandals and stepped forward, toes sinking into the earth.
She walked the “aisle” between olive and vine and went all the way to the overlook, the wind catching her hair.
When she turned back to me with that slow, helpless-melting smile, the one that ripped me open every time, she was radiant.
Wilder than wild vines. Lovelier than sunrise in Spa. Mine, above all else.
It was us against the world.
I’d never seen anything more certain in my life.