Six
The scent of my winery greets me like an old friend. The woody aroma of oak barrels, a hint of sweetness from the grapes, and a touch of acidity from the alcohol. The fresh-paint smell has faded over the last of couple of months, settling into a comforting bouquet that, like a good red wine, is only getting better with age.
Sunlight pours through the storefront floor-to-ceiling windows, dousing the space in a cheerful glow. The oak-barrel tables are surrounded by simple espresso folding chairs and topped with vases of sunflowers and pillar candles—unscented so as not to interfere with the delicate aromas of the wines. Photographs of vineyards from around the world adorn the walls, and wine-bottle lanterns add a touch of whimsy to the decor.
Vino Valentine is located in a modern shopping center in the industrial part of North Boulder. The exterior is clean, white cement and charcoal awnings, with pots full of crimson and golden mums dotting the sidewalk.
Even before the craft breweries and art studios moved in, I saw potential in this location. It’s off the beaten track, but not so much as to deter tourists from visiting. There’s a hip café next door and, across the street, a nursery with acres of shrubs and gourds galore that lead to the base of the foothills.
I flip the sign on the door from Closed to Open at precisely eleven o’clock, the clinking glasses welcoming patrons who will start arriving any minute. I bustle around my winery, polishing glasses, organizing the bottles behind the bar from lightest to heaviest, and setting out baskets of palate-cleansing crackers.
It’s hard to believe I have a full day ahead of me after the events of the morning. I catch myself yawning as my assistant traipses through the door.
“Not yawning already,” Felix says, his voice as deep and velvety as a Syrah.
Felix has jet-black hair, angular eyes, and an infinitely better fashion sense than me. Take today, for example—he’s paired skinny jeans and a cardigan with round tortoiseshell glasses and faux fur–lined moccasins. And his palate is even more impressive—and exotic—than his style.
He’s worked here for two months now and, while he’s done a stupendous job overall, there is one slight hitch: he’s a self-proclaimed nomad. Felix told me point blank during his interview that he doesn’t stay in the same place for long. He must be close to my age and already he’s lived in major cities across the U.S., plus Reykjavik, Prague, and even a short stint in Tokyo. Which is great for conversation but not so great for longevity.
“Rough morning,” I say by way of an explanation.
“Want me to do a coffee run?”
“Only if you don’t want to catch me snoozing in the wine cellar this afternoon,” I say, not entirely kidding.
He flashes me a smile. “Be right back.” The bell over the door jingles at his departure.
Felix returns five minutes later carrying two to-go mugs and a paper bag. He offers me a blueberry scone and, still peckish after watching Britt make dessert, I readily accept.
“So, what happened this morning?” he asks, biting into a chocolate croissant.
Nibbling on my scone, I give him an abbreviated version.
He watches, slack-jawed, and then shakes his head. “This one time, in Amsterdam, a dude claimed he was on the run for killing the guy who messed with his sister.”
Another perk about Felix—he’s not easily rattled. There’s nary a thing he hasn’t seen or heard. “Was he for real?” I ask.
“Never did find out, but he made one helluva paella.” He shrugs, polishing off the rest of his croissant. “That’s the hostel life—you share your life story over communal dinner then never see each other again.”
There’s a part of me that envies Felix’s ability to move from place to place without looking back, skipping through life like a smooth stone over water. “Not gonna lie, that doesn’t sound half-bad right now.”
“Don’t worry,” Felix says, calm as can be. “Everything will work out.”
That’s easy for him to say; he didn’t see Reid handcuffed and unceremoniously yanked down the hall of the jail.
I rub my arms, suddenly chilled. “I hope so.”
Felix tosses the pastry bag into the trash bin and washes his hands in the sink. “How’s the fall harvest coming along?”
“I stomped cab grapes last night and got them moved to a vat to start fermentation.”
“Ah.” He gives me a mock pout. “I wanted to help stomp grapes.”
“Desperate times,” I say vaguely. No need to share how badly I needed to stomp for therapeutic reasons. “You can lead the community event.”
“Just as long as I get to experience grape juice squishing between my toes sometime this fall.”
“Duly noted.” And suddenly all I can think about is Reid. His willingness to dive into a jammy barrel with me, how the world melted away with him by my side. My throat constricts and there’s a tightening in my chest. I’m one breath away from succumbing to a massive panic attack.
Luckily, the bell over the door jingles, pulling me back from the proverbial void.
A group of ladies cluster together as they enter the tasting room. They’re dressed in head-to-toe royal purple: pantsuits, blouses, and embellished hats. They clutch their handbags (also purple) to their chests as they give the space a once-over before selecting a large table, front and center.
“I’m gonna guess Ralphie’s Riesling,” I say.
Felix takes his time appraising the group. “They look spicy. Campy Cab, for sure.”
“Loser gets coffee tomorrow.”
“Deal,” Felix says, collecting tasting menus and pasting a winning smile on his face. “I’ve got the front. Looks like you have company.”
And he’s right, I do.
My older brother slouches onto a stool at the tasting bar, setting his ever-present camera bag on the hard maple countertop. Liam’s wearing faded jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and work boots, which tells me he’s en route to his job, landscaping for the city.
With our matching raven hair, olive skin, and blue-gray eyes, we’re obviously related. But appearances aside, we’re as different as Côtes du Rhône and Welch’s grape juice (I’ll let you decide who’s who).
While I’ve always been inherently driven, Liam’s primary life goal has been to have a good time, responsibilities be damned. But I’ve got to give him credit. Recently, he’s changed his ways. He moved out of Mom and Dad’s basement and into his own place, has had his longest employment stint to date, and, after years of hobby hopping, finally discovered his true passion: photography.
And he’s talented. Really talented. The pictures on Vino Valentine’s website are thanks to his artistic eye, as is the second-place award he nabbed in a local contest.
“Hey, li’l sis,” Liam says. “How’s it hanging?”
Tears threaten to pour out of my eyes. I stave them off with a smile. “You know about Reid, don’t you?”
“A little birdie told me.”
“Does this little birdie happen to have red hair, an enviable closet, and the best legal brain on either side of the Mississippi?”
“Sage texted me, not so much requesting as demanding I check on you.”
A flicker of amusement lights in my eyes. Liam has had a mega crush on Sage practically forever. And even though she’s newly single, for some reason, he hasn’t made his move.
He gives a nonchalant shrug. “Reid’s gotten into worse jams than this before. He’ll be fine.”
No doubt Reid and Liam have had exploits in their day, things I’d rather not hear about as Reid’s current girlfriend. Still, that’s quite the claim.
I cock my head to the side. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Fine, fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock defense. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
And despite the situation, I laugh at my brother’s Monty Python impersonation. That is the power of Liam.
I hold up the bottle of cherry wine I know to be Liam’s favorite despite his ardent denials of preferring what he refers to as the pink one. He shakes his head, which is probably wise given he’ll be operating machinery on-site.
From across the floor of my winery, Felix is still charming the table of purple-clad dames. Their table erupts in laughter at something my witty assistant said.
I return my attention to my brother. “So, you’re still working the friend angle with Sage, huh?” I scrub down the countertop with a cloth, cleaning up the crumbs from my scone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do,” I say, flashing him a knowing smirk. “You should really just ask her out before it’s too late.”
“I hardly think you’re in a position to be giving anyone love advice.”
I wince, the innocent ribbing cutting deep. “That was harsh.”
“Sorry,” Liam says, shifting in his seat sheepishly. “To make it up to you, I’ll give you a little warning. Mom’s having Sai Iyers and his wife over for dinner tonight.” Mom is a lead chemical engineer at NIST Laboratories and Sai Iyers is head of the analytics team there. Although for all intents and purposes, he’s who my mom dreams I’ll someday work for after I give up on this whole winery endeavor. “Start brainstorming ways to get out of it now because I already heard your name mentioned in that weird hopeful voice of hers.”
Generally speaking, things with my parents have been improving. While they don’t fully understand my passion for winemaking, they at least want me to be happy, which is more than can be said for Reid’s family. Although this dinner invite feels like backsliding, like my mom still hasn’t accepted my profession.
“I won’t have to try very hard,” I grumble, thinking of my rendezvous with the Wallaces. “Have you met Reid’s family?”
He holds a hand over his chest. “Sadly, our relationship never progressed to the meet-the-parents stage.”
I roll my eyes, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. “What about Oscar?”
“Sure, he was a nice guy. Unreal foosball player.” He furrows his eyebrows and coughs to clear his throat. “I was sorry to hear what happened to him.”
“Me too. Know anyone who would want to hurt him?”
“Why?” He draws out the question. “Thinking of conducting your own investigation?”
“Something like that.”
Liam exhales deeply, leaning his head back. “The guy moved back for his family. The ladies seemed to dig him. Reid trusted him. That’s all I’ve got.”
The information wedges itself in my brain. I tuck it away to analyze later. “What excuse are you going to use tonight?” I ask curiously.
“None,” he says. “Unlike you, dear sister, I never turn down free food, especially before night class.”
“Always looking out for yourself,” I say, but inside, I’m beaming. “What’s the course?”
“Modernism in Film.”
Felix returns behind the tasting bar, a satisfied grin in place. “Four glasses of the Campy Cab. You owe me a coffee.” He stacks the menus next to the discard vase and gives Liam a fist bump, the two having met on prior occasions. He continues, “Think I’ll go big. Caramel macchiato. No, wait, pumpkin.”
Honestly, it’s almost like I have two brothers. I heave an exaggerated sigh.
“ ’Tis the season, I suppose.” I pour glasses of the maroon wine, scents of tobacco and cherries rising from the crystal bowls, and arrange the glasses carefully on a tray. Hopefully the ladies will be impressed enough to purchase a few bottles.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Liam says, getting to his feet. “See you tomorrow morning.”
“What’s tomorrow morning?” I ask as Felix whisks the tray away.
“Reid’s arraignment.”
Wordlessly, I go around the tasting bar and give Liam a hug. He lifts me off the ground and I swat at him to set me back down, my vision blurry from tears.
“Thanks,” I say, sniffling.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, grabbing his camera bag. “Now get back to work, slacker.”
The nature of winemaking involves looking forward—creating vintages that need to age for months, or even years, before tasting. It gets one thinking about permanence.
My roots, like those of grapevines, run deep. My family, my business, and my cat are all in Boulder. It’s where I’ve always felt I belong.
Still, who’s to say where I’ll be next year? What will become of Reid and me? If Vino Valentine will still be a thing?
The truth is: life holds too many unknowns. The only thing we can do is put one foot in front of the other and focus on what we can control. Which is exactly what I intend to do.
With Felix manning the storefront, I sneak into the back to work on the harvest.
While the tasting room is warm and welcoming, the back is pure business, stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Along one wall, giant vats reach all the way to the arched ceiling, and opposite those are the crusher de-stemmer, state-of-the-art bottling system, and grape-sorting table. Oak barrels with steel rims dramatically line the back wall, some of the barrels containing a brand-new chardonnay, and others, aging reds.
Giant plastic bins full of red grape varietals early in the fermentation process stand center stage. These grapes have been crushed into a goop called must, which, along with the juices, includes skins, stems, and seeds. At this point, they require attention multiple times a day to ensure that the cap—the grapes floating at the top—doesn’t dry out and halt the chemical breakdowns.
It’s the latter I focus on now. I grab my punch-down tool from where it’s hanging on a rack in the corner, a long pole with a round disk at the end that I’ve spent far too much time with.
I maneuver the hefty lid off a tub housing pinot noir grapes. Sweet and fruity aromas waft from the surface, with just a hint of tartness. I love the way my winery smells during harvest. Like a farmers market, jam factory, and potential.
Stepping on a stool for extra leverage, I wield the long metal pole. Using the end with the circular disk, I push the cap toward the bottom of the bin, giving a little extra squeeze to coax even more juice from the grapes, and then urge the liquid underneath to the surface.
I repeat these steps—punch down, squeeze, and mix—moving my stool as needed.
To think, it was just two weeks ago when these grapes arrived on my doorstep. They were tiny, only the size of my thumbnail, and a deep shade of purple. Reid, Oscar, and Felix helped me unload the crates.
The sky was tinged with pink and the air crisp as we made trip after trip, moving the crates to the grape-sorting table to remove sticks and stones, and then to the crusher de-stemmer, and finally dumping the must into this bin. It was hard work and we didn’t hesitate to voice our complaints, stretching our backs and rubbing sore muscles. All, that is, except for Oscar.
I’d wondered about it afterward and eventually mustered the nerve to ask. Turns out, Oscar was no stranger to hard labor. He’d worked construction jobs throughout high school and culinary school, and even for a short stint afterward when chefs were reluctant to hire someone rumored to have a hard time following directions. Oscar spoke with pride about the work, of what it had allowed him to accomplish, had even referenced picking up a few extra hours on the side to supplement his income. Though I’m not sure why he would have needed to.
The door leading to the storefront opens and I snap back to the present.
Expecting Felix, I shout, not taking my eyes off my task, “You can put some of this in your shoes if you want to feel jelly between your toes.”
Imagine my surprise when it’s my mother who answers, “Maybe some other time.”
I accidentally slop must down my sweater. Smooth, Parker.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, hopping down from the stool. I grab a cloth and mop up my shirt, but it’s no use; I’m going to have to change.
My mom’s frizzy hair bounds out in all directions and her cat-eye glasses are perched at the end of her nose. “Can’t a mother sporadically stop by to have a heart-to-heart with her daughter?”
“I guess.” My apprehension remains. Because my mom never stops by and we don’t do heart-to-hearts.
When Liam warned me I’d be getting an invite to dinner, I expected a phone call or, if my mom was feeling especially hip, a text message. She’s a busy lady with her job, and frankly, I think her equations and experiments make more sense to her than I ever have.
She clutches her periodic table tote to her side. “Liam told me about Reid.”
“Oh, right.”
I turn my back on my mother so she won’t see the heartbreak written on my face. I hang up my punch-down tool, focusing on my smarting palms. Harvest is only half over and already calluses are forming. Just not fast enough.
“How are you?”
“I’m . . .” I trail off, unsure how to respond since I don’t even know the answer. “Fine.”
She purses her lips. “Sure you are.”
I hold a hand to my forehead and then remember it’s covered in grape juice, which basically sums up my current emotional state. I clean my face with the same cloth I used on my sweater.
“I’m in shock,” I say. “And I have no idea how to help him.”
She dips her chin. “Sometimes people have to fight their own battles.”
My mom has this annoying tendency of being right. All the time. But I refuse to budge on this; the stakes are too high.
I shake my head, a few strands of hair escaping my headband. “Some battles are too big to face alone.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else.
Restless, I pad over to the shelving unit where I store my lab kit.
Yes, winemaking is largely an art, but it’s aided by a decent amount of science. And, ever the model student, I’ve always felt like the more information I have, the better. Which is why, at this point, I take daily measurements.
I bring my lab kit to the bin of pinot and go about my routine, testing the Brix—the amount of residual sugar in the fruit—titratable acidity, and pH, finding them within the limits of what I’d expect.
“What are you doing?” my mom asks, appearing at my shoulder.
“Determining the chemical makeup of the grapes.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” I say, glancing at her, slightly puzzled. “It helps me determine if fermentation is progressing as it should, or if I need to course-correct.”
She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Huh.”
I continue, testing the SO2 level and cross-checking this with the volume. Seeing it’s a touch lower than I like, I add a couple drops of sulfur dioxide. “To prevent spoilage,” I explain. “And to keep the wine tasting fresh.”
Mom looks mildly interested, the crow’s-feet around her eyes becoming more prominent as she crinkles her forehead.
I clamp the lid on the bin and wipe my hands together.
“That’s it?” she asks.
“For now. I’ll do another punch down later.”
She nods, fiddling with the straps of her tote. “Do you want to come to dinner tonight? The Iyerses are coming over and I’m making enchiladas.”
My mom isn’t much of a cook. There’s really only one dish she knows how to make, and that’s chicken enchiladas. They’re spicy, savory, and, for me, the ultimate comfort food, but even those saucy rolls of perfection aren’t enough to entice me to partake in her career-matchmaking scheme.
“Thanks,” I say, and take a sip of water. “But I already have plans to see Reid’s family.”
“I’ll save you a plate in case you change your mind.” She gives me a quick hug and then leaves.
As most interactions go with my mom, I’m left feeling the worse for wear. A feat I didn’t think was possible. Now, in addition to shock and sadness, guilt gnaws at my stomach.
I wish I was a better daughter, one who could make her proud.
But I have other things to worry about. Things that are in my control. Like finding out why my boyfriend’s family was so twitchy around the man he supposedly murdered.