Ten
I’ve always loved the way Reid eats. That might sound strange, but it’s true.
When Reid eats, he loses himself in flavors and textures, commenting on various ingredients and cooking styles, lamenting the artistry of unique combinations and techniques. With him, food is more than nourishment, it’s an experience.
I reflect on this as I sit in a booth across from Liam and Sage. We’re at the Twenty Ninth Street mall at a trendy diner called Snooze, complete with retro vinyl, wingback chairs, and pendant lamps. The menu features classic brunch staples—pancakes, eggs, hash browns—along with a few modern dishes that are all the rage, like the avocado toast in front of me.
Emotions swirl through me like snowflakes in a blizzard. The events of the morning crowd my mind, vying for attention, each one a stab at my carefully constructed veneer.
The judge’s allegation, First-degree murder of Oscar Hernandez Flores.
Camilla’s callous assertion, He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out of it.
And Reid’s defeated remark, Maybe not all dreams are meant to come true.
I’ve barely said a word since returning from my visit with Reid, which is probably why Sage and Liam dragged me here. They took one look at my face and ushered me from the jail and all that it contains.
“Okay, spill,” Sage says, setting her silverware down with a clink. Her giant stack of blueberry pancakes is already half-demolished.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
To avoid having to talk, I take a bite of avocado toast, topped with a soft-boiled egg, dill, and a splash of fresh-squeezed lemon juice. I might as well be chewing sawdust, to no fault of the food. I chase it with a sip of coffee, cradling the mug.
Sage and Liam exchange a pointed glance. Maybe the two of them together isn’t such a good idea. Think of all the trouble they could cause me if they teamed up.
“I just . . . can’t.”
Liam lets out an aggravated sigh. “Am I gonna have to kick Reid’s ass when he gets out of there?”
“No,” I say quickly, knowing Liam would 100 percent follow through if he thought I was being mistreated. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Then you’ve got to give us something,” Sage says. “What happened in there?”
“Reid’s keeping me at a distance because he’s trying to protect me.”
I rub my temples, replaying our conversation. All of the things he said and, more important, didn’t say.
That’s when I remember something. “Sage, where did Reid go before coming to Vino Valentine that night? What’s the rest of his alibi?”
Sage opens and closes her mouth, bunching her napkin in her fingers. “I can’t tell you.”
“Very funny.” I fake-laugh but then blanch at the resolve in her eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Client confidentiality,” Sage says with a tiny shrug.
She leaves the table before she accidentally lets anything slip, Liam not so subtly studying her retreating figure.
I don’t know what to make of Sage’s silence except that, client privilege or not, she wouldn’t hang me out to dry. I have to believe that whatever Reid was up to, it has nothing to do with me or our relationship. But then, why does he have the name and number of some random chick in his apartment? A chick who has a bubbly voice and annoyingly flirtatious laugh.
“Do you know a Susie?” I ask Liam.
He shifts his focus to me. “Several, in fact.”
“Are any of them close with Reid?”
A shadow passes over his features and he narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure. Why?”
“No reason.” I take another bite of toast, my appetite still nonexistent. “So, how are things with Sage?”
“Eh,” Liam says, snapping a pic of his half-consumed breakfast burrito.
He’s of the belief that perfectly curated foodie photos are on their way out of style and reality is on the rise. I’m apprehensive, to say the least.
He continues, slouching deeper in the booth, “I’m afraid I’m stuck in the friend zone.”
“But you two seem to really be connecting.”
“Sure, we text and hang out more, just not over candlelit dinners.” He takes another shot, this time including my plate in the frame as well.
I cock my head to the side and take a sip of coffee. “Well, have you asked her to a candlelit dinner?”
He lazily scratches the top of his head, his dark hair sticking out in all directions. “Not exactly.”
“I’ll take that as a hard no.” I click my tongue. “You should ask her. Before it’s too late.”
“Before what’s too late?” Sage asks. She slides back into our booth and spears a bite of pancakes with her fork.
“Nothing,” Liam and I say in unison.
“Okay, moving on.” She points her fork at me. “I have news.”
I practically bounce in my seat, fully expecting news related to the investigation. Instead, Sage surprises me. “I have a date tonight.”
Liam chokes on his orange juice, coughing into his napkin.
“Really?” I ask, overenunciating the word.
Sage ended things with her longtime boyfriend, short-time fiancé earlier this summer. It was a big deal and left her uncertain about what she wants in life and love. To my knowledge, she hasn’t been out with anyone since, apart from my brother, which was apparently just as friends.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” I ask, since Liam is still sputtering.
“His name’s Arthur. He works for a local firm we have a lot of dealings with. The Manual introduced us.”
“A lawyer?” Liam asks, his voice raspy.
“Yes.” She crinkles her nose. “It’ll be fine, right?”
She looks from me to Liam, her freckles practically jittering in agitation. Her panic is enough to compel Liam and me to set aside our own concerns.
“Definitely,” Liam says, flashing her a supportive smile. My heart breaks at how hard that one word must have been for him to utter.
“Absolutely.” I raise my mug to hers in a mock toast. “I’ll come over later and help you get ready.”
While I’m always happy to help a friend in need, I have ulterior motives. I want to pick Sage’s brain and find out if my brother stands a chance with her or if she’s really serious about this new guy. Either way, it’s nice to get my mind off murder.
Pumpkin macchiato in hand, I open the door of Vino Valentine, the bell jingling overhead.
When I asked Felix to open the shop for me, he readily agreed, with a friendly reminder that I owed him coffee.
He’s manning the tasting bar now, where a young couple is perched, swirling and sipping like pros. Felix is talking them through my winemaking process in that deep, gravelly voice of his, making it sound much more glamorous than it is.
Today his hip yet eclectic fashion has him in a chambray shirt, tweed slacks, and a thick tortoiseshell bracelet that matches his glasses. His black hair is styled into a fauxhawk and, if I’m not mistaken, he applied mascara to the lashes around his eyes.
Felix finishes listing the varietals that compose my Mount Sanitas White before meeting me at the other end of the bar.
“Special delivery,” I say, depositing his to-go mug on the maple countertop.
He sniffs at the steam rising through the tiny opening in the lid. “I detect sweet notes, a bitter earthiness, and a bouquet of autumnal spices.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You’ve been spending too much time here.” I stash my purse beneath the cash register. “How are things?”
“Uneventful.” He takes a large gulp of his macchiato. “How was your morning?”
Not sure how to sum it up, I go with the simplest answer: “Eventful.”
He furrows his eyebrows together, gesturing with his mug. “Your favorite customer is here.”
A genuine smile spreads across my face. Perched at an oak-barrel table near the storefront windows is an older lady named Gladys. Clad in all velvet and proudly displaying a head of silver hair, she’s an intimidating broad. Until you get to know her, that is. Then she’s a marshmallow.
After she attended my first VIP party, she quickly turned into one of my biggest fans, usually bringing one of her many friends or grown godchildren with her to my winery. Today, though, she’s alone. She’s gazing at the rolling foothills out the window, where the wind is whipping the trees and grass against the slope, making the shimmering glades into a pattern resembling large fish scales.
Gladys is sipping a taster of the Snowy Day Syrah, which I know to be her favorite. I bring the bottle with me and top off her glass. “Staying out of trouble?”
“Not if I can help it.” Her eyes twinkle as much as the sparkly brooch on her chest.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Do you have anything new to taste?” she asks, leaning forward in anticipation. “A new blend, perhaps?”
Nerves course through me at her eagerness. My dream of opening a winery may have come true, but keeping it alive is a horse of a different varietal. My hard-earned customers expect—and deserve—something new. Something unexpected, with incredible depth of flavor, and dangerously drinkable.
Only, there’s this underlying fear: What if I can’t deliver?
When I’m doing manual work like punch downs, I can squash my self-doubt by focusing on the process. But blends require repetition and finesse. Altering the proportions of each varietal that compose the blend by even a fraction of a percent changes the outcome. And with infinite possibilities, it’s hard to stay out of my own head.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’ll be the first to know when there is.” I tap my fingers against the neck of the bottle and redirect, my favorite brand of denial. “Stay tuned for a grape-stomping activity in the next month. Then you can put your own stamp on the next harvest.”
She wiggles in her seat. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”
“You’ll be a natural,” I say, slowly backing away from her table. “I’ll send you the details as soon as I’ve got them. Enjoy your wine.”
I return to the tasting bar, where Felix is pouring a taster of the Mile High Merlot for the young couple, discussing the aging techniques used (lightly smoked in an American oak barrel for twelve months prior to bottling).
“Can you cover the front?” I ask, returning the Snowy Day Syrah to its place on the long wooden tray behind the counter. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Felix says.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
The bell over the door jingles again and a group of business-casual individuals stroll in—coworkers, if their awkward interactions are any indication. They’re likely here for some sort of team-bonding activity. Leaves scatter across the hardwood floor from a gust of wind, strong enough to hold the door open.
“Go be brilliant,” Felix says. “I’ve got this.” He plasters a winning smile on his face and greets the new arrivals, gracefully bypassing the leaves and clicking the door shut.
He’ll have them eating—er, sipping—out of the palm of his hand in no time.
As for me, I slip into the back.
Fun fact: most red wines stem from the same species of grape called Vitis vinifera. So, no matter how different the evolutionary path might have been, a red blend is ultimately a return to a similar root. I keep this in mind as I dole out samples of different vintages into vials.
The Malbec, cabernet sauvignon, cabernet franc, and merlot from last year’s harvest have finally each achieved just the right individual flavors for blending, a practice typically done after independent fermentation in order to better balance the final product.
Propelled by Gladys’s inquiry, I set up a station on the stainless-steel counter. Empty beakers, fresh pipettes, and blank labels are at the ready. With my hair secured by a tie-dye headband and my hands gloved, all I need are safety goggles to complete the transformation from vintner into mad scientist.
The wind beats against the outside of my winery, sending a chill through the cavernous space. The stainless steel and vaulted ceilings sufficiently keep this area a few degrees cooler than the tasting room, which is preferable for fermentation, but not so much for idling.
My fingers dance over each of the vials, the shades ranging from a nearly translucent coral to an inky purple, and the viscosity from watery to jamlike.
The key to blends, like relationships, is balance. Combining wines already good on their own in such a way that the whole becomes greater than the sum of the parts. Easier said than done.
I gather a bit of merlot into a pipette and squeeze it into a beaker, carefully noting the exact amount of milliliters on the label. The sweet simplicity of merlot makes it the perfect starting canvas. Next, I add cabernet franc, a varietal renowned for intense peppery flavors and tobacco aromas.
Then I pause.
Should I go with old reliable, cabernet sauvignon, or something spicier, like a Malbec? And how much of each dare I try? The last thing I want to do is add so much of one that it overshadows the nuanced flavors of the others.
This is why you’re testing, Parker, I remind myself. It doesn’t have to be perfect.
Still, my brain seems to be incapable of making a decision. Or of thinking about anything except Reid and how maybe wine blends are like romantic pairings. A relationship either grows stronger during times of stress and change, or breaks down completely.
When the door to the storefront opens, I welcome the interruption. That is, until I realize it’s my mom, who, for the second time this week, has dropped by unannounced.
“Okay, seriously, someone didn’t die, did they?” I ask. Someone else, I’m tempted to amend.
“Of course not,” she says. She’s in a block-print tunic, leggings, and loafers. “I just wanted to bring you something.”
She digs through her tote. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that items are almost impossible to locate in a woman’s bag. “To help with your winemaking.”
Well, color me intrigued, and slightly stupefied.
“How were the Iyerses?” I ask, removing my latex gloves. Honestly, what I’m really wondering is if there are more enchiladas up for grabs.
She continues sifting through her belongings. “Oh, fine, dear. They asked about you and your business.” She purses her lips as she says this.
Yet another reminder that if my mom had her way, I’d be working with her at NIST as an underling analyst for Sai instead of an entrepreneur hocking an alcoholic beverage, hallowed as it may be. Too bad I’ve always had a mind of my own.
“Ah, here it is,” my mom says, passing me what looks like a red thermometer.
“Uh, cool?”
“That’s my favorite pH tester,” she explains. “I was reading that precision is important for fermentation, and this is the most precise in the field.”
Her words catch me off guard. “I—uh—wow,” I say, readjusting my headband. Finally, I remember my manners. “Thank you.”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. But this right here—my mom and I having a real conversation about my vocation—is something I’ve craved for longer than I care to admit.
I consider her again. Frizzy raven hair laced with silver, trademark cat-eye glasses, and short pear-shaped frame. It’s my mom, all right.
My attention snags on something she just said. “Did you say you were reading about fermentation?”
“Yes,” she says. “What you said yesterday got me thinking, winemaking is a little bit like chemistry, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.” I crack a smile, dipping my chin. “Do you want to stick around while I take measurements today? You can even take a turn at punch downs if you play your cards right.” I tap my biceps.
She eyes the bins of grapes surreptitiously and then checks her watch, the numbers of which are in radians. “I’d better be going.”
My spirit depletes faster than a bottle of wine at a book club. Clutching my new pH tester, my voice reaches a false pitch as I respond, “Right. Maybe another time.”
She nods, her frizzy hair as flustered as she is. “Any news on Reid?”
“He had his arraignment this morning. Long story short, it didn’t go well.” I navigate around my mom and place my new pH tester on the shelving unit where I store my lab kit, next to the crusher de-stemmer.
I turn back around and find her watching me, the lines around her eyes drawn in pity.
Let me tell you, the only thing worse than your mom saying something you don’t want to hear is when she’s intentionally biting her tongue.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” she eventually says. She squeezes my hand as she passes, showing herself out through the door that leads into the back alley.
I sniff loudly, my nose suddenly runny, turning my attention back to my blending station. A sense of helplessness settles over me.
Oscar would have loved this task. The experimenting and tweaking to come up with something truly special, the finesse and patience required. He’d thrived under pressure and embraced challenges, and even rushed to the aid of others facing hardships. He was passionate and good, and it’s not fair that he’s gone.
But I can’t think any more about Oscar. Or Reid, for that matter. Because thinking isn’t doing.
And I finally know what to do.