Warmth spread throughout my body. “I didn’t know about that.”
“Because I handled it.” Snapper’s expression went hard. “Can we please check the grapes now?”
“Sure, sure.” But Cru looked delighted as he led us into the vines. “Just making conversation.”
We sampled the Syrah—smaller bunches than our Zinfandel, thinner skins. Cru explained the differences in the soil composition and how the limestone content affected the acidity.
“Twenty-one point eight right now,” he said after checking several vines. “So we’re looking at seven to ten days.”
I did the mental math. “That gives us time between harvests. We won’t be overwhelmed.”
“Exactly. And the Gamay will come in last, probably another week after that.” He glanced between us. “So, still think we can make this work?”
“Yeah,” Snapper said quietly, looking at me. “Of course I do.”
“Any luck finding more of Concepción’s notes?” Cru asked.
“Not yet. We found her journal, but it doesn’t have the formula.”
“Well, you’ve got another two weeks before you have to resort to plan B.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back—Daphne and I have an appointment this morning we couldn’t reschedule. Snapper knows where the Syrah block is. Block twelve.”
“Please tell Daph I said hello.”
“Will do.” He started toward his truck, then paused. “Hey, Saffron? For what it’s worth, I think this is good. You two working together. It’s about time.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Thanks, Cru.”
After he left, the silence felt heavier. Just Snapper and me, alone in the vineyard, with the morning sun warming the air around us.
“Cru loves busting your chops,” I said.
“Yeah, he really does.” But he was smiling. “Syrah’s this way.”
“So,” I said after we’d walked for a few minutes in silence. “You punched Tommy Berkshire for me?”
“I shoved him. And he had it coming.”
“What did he say?”
“Does it matter?”
“Kind of.”
Snapper was quiet. “He called you the nickname your sister uses. Said some other things that weren’t his business. I told him to shut up. He didn’t. So I made him.”
“My hero,” I teased. Except, really, I meant it.
“Don’t.” But color flooded his face. “I was twelve and stupid.”
“You were sweet.”
“I was pissed off that someone was being an asshole to you.”
“Still sweet.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
The Syrah block came into view, tucked into a south-facing slope. The vines were full of near-perfect fruit, and I felt a surge of excitement. I reached for a bunch, rolling a berry between my fingers. “Not quite ready. Another week, maybe more.”
“So October twentieth to twenty-third?” He was standing near enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him.
