We took the left fork into the east branch. Back here, the passages narrowed and the ceiling dropped lower.
“I’ve never been this far into the caves,” Saffron said.
“Not many people have.”
The storage area opened up ahead—still carved from the same hillside stone but fitted with modern shelving units thatheld boxes and crates stacked from floor to ceiling. A single wooden table sat in the center with two chairs that looked like they’d been there since my grandfather’s time.
“Where do we start?” Saffron moved to the nearest shelf, running her finger along the edge of a dusty box.
“Ma said Tryst organized everything about ten years ago. So there’s some kind of system.”
“Theoretically.”
I reached for the first box and set it on the table. Inside, we found production logs from the 1980s—my father’s handwriting, strong and angular, recording tonnage and Brix levels and fermentation temperatures. I flipped through a few pages, then set it aside.
Saffron opened the next box. “Nineteen seventies.” She looked at me. “We’re going backward in time.”
“Then we keep going.”
We fell into a rhythm. Pull a box, check the dates, set it aside if it was from the wrong decade. The next shelf back held logs from the sixties. Then the fifties. Each decade took us deeper into the past, into handwriting that grew more ornate, ink that faded to sepia, and paper that felt thin enough to crumble.
“Look at this!” She opened a leather-bound book that was cracked with age. “December 1955.”
I moved to look over her shoulder. Tucked between two pages near the back, there was a folded piece of paper. She gasped as we both read what was on the page.
Christmas Blessing Wine Blend
Gamay: 40%
Syrah: 35%
Zinfandel: 25%
Beneath the varietals and percentages, there were detailed notes about temperatures, timing, CO2 levels for the carbonicmaceration, how long to let it ferment, and when to rack it. Everything we needed.
“Oh my God.” Saffrons said barely above a whisper. “This is it. This is actually it.” She turned in my arms—when had I put them around her?—and looked up at me with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. “We found it.”
Then she was hugging me, her face pressed against my chest, her arms tight around my waist.
I held her, one hand sliding into her hair and the other splayed across her back. I wanted to sink into her and allow myself to feel the same relief and happiness she felt, except I couldn’t. Not until she admitted why making the wine this year was so important.
Tell me,I silently screamed.Trust me.
She leaned away just enough to look at me. Couldn’t she feel my hurt even if she didn’t see it?
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” I said after several seconds of silence. “To celebrate.”
Her brow furrowed. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to. A real dinner. Not my mom’s kitchen or the diner. Somewhere special.”
“Snapper—”
“Please, Saff. Let me do this.”
She hesitated before answering. “Okay. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
