Frustration flickered across his face before he smoothed it away and dropped his hand. “Let’s go.” I hated how angry he sounded.
The walk back through the winery felt longer than it should have. Every step echoed in the cavernous space, and the silence between us grew heavier.
We made it halfway to the parking area before Lucia appeared, waving a dish towel. “Mija!Perfect timing. I have breakfast ready.”
I opened my mouth to decline, but she was already linking her arm through mine with the kind of determined warmth that made refusal impossible.
“You must eat. You’re too skinny, and you work too hard.”
I glanced at Snapper and saw the same amusement I had a few minutes ago.
“Thank you, Lucia,” I said as she led us toward the house.
“I made cinnamon rolls. The good ones, not the store-bought garbage.”
The kitchen smelled heavenly with coffee, cinnamon, and chorizo sizzling on the stove. Lucia settled us at the counter and started piling food on plates like we were still kids. Which, in a way, we were. She’d been feeding me since I was old enough to sit on these stools, alternating between Spanish and English as she scolded me for not eating enough vegetables or praised me for good grades or listened to me cry over mean things kids had said to me.
The memory of me complaining about Tommy Berkshire teasing me became clear as day. Why hadn’t I remembered it earlier when Cru brought it up? Why hadn’t Snapper reminded me?
This time when our eyes met, he reached over and squeezed my hand as if he knew what I was thinking. I expected him to let go, but he didn’t.
“I was thinking about Concepción’s formula for the Christmas Blessing Wine,” Lucia muttered as she used a spatula to separate more of the chorizo.
“And?” Snapper prompted.
She poured coffee into handmade mugs—the same ones she’d had since I was a child, each one slightly different, made by a local potter. “There’s one more place it could be.”
Snapper made a gesture with his free hand for her to go on.
“In the production logs. They go back to when your fourth great-grandfather made the first wine here in California.”
“What year would that have been?” I asked.
“Around 1875, if I remember right.” Lucia’s eyebrows flared, and she grabbed Snapper’s hand from across the counter. “His name was Salazar.”
“That’s kinda cool,” I murmured.
“No new names in this family. Everyone is named for someone.”
Lucia let go and smacked the back of Snapper’s hand. “We honor tradition,” she said, raising her chin.
He looked sufficiently contrite for his comment that she returned to the stove.
“Where would those logs be kept?” I asked.
“In the caves, but I have no idea where,” said Snapper. “The ones I’ve seen don’t go back that far.”
“They wouldn’t need to. Only as far as the mid-nineteen hundreds.”
“You’ll look after you eat,” Lucia said without glancing over at either of us. “Your grandpapa, Cristobal, would tell stories about how his mother, Concepción, could taste a wine and know everything about it. What year, which varietals were used, sometimes even who made it.”
“I remember seeing something in my great-grandmother’s journals about that.”
Lucia looked between her son and me. “Now, there are many female winemakers. Back then, it was very rare. Concepción and Marilyn Hope received many accolades for the Christmas Blessing.”
“Any idea why they decided not to make the wine again?” I asked.
She looked off in the distance for several seconds. “I remember Alfonso, Salazar’s father, talking about it, but I can’t remember the details. It may not have been their decision.”
