“You already know who, Saff. But I’m not sure you’re ready to hear me actually say it.”
“What if I am?”
I rested against my chair, wishing she truly was. Until she could bring herself to confide in me, I’d gone as far with this conversation as I was willing to go.
“What about you?” I asked instead of telling her what she wanted to hear. “What do you want?”
Her laugh was hollow. “Besides making this wine?”
The opening was right there. I held my breath, waiting for her to say it. To tell me about the foreclosure, to admit why recreating this wine mattered so much.
“Yeah. Besides that. If you could do anything, be anything, have anything—what would it be?”
She stared at her wineglass, tracing the rim with one finger. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. There has to be something.”
“I don’t—” She stopped, then started again. “I’ve never let myself think about it. Everything’s always been about the winery. About keeping things going. About not letting my family down.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. She startled at the contact but didn’t pull away. “Think about it now. If you had no obligations at all—what would Saffron Hope want?”
She was quiet for so long I thought she might not say anything, but she eventually did. “I’d want to travel. See the places where wine comes from instead of just reading about them in books. Walk through vineyards in Burgundy and Tuscany and Rioja. Taste wines that have been made the same way for centuries.”
“That’s a good start.”
“I’d want to learn more. Languages. Art. History. All the things I didn’t have time for because I was too busy in the vineyard.”
“Keep going.”
“I’d want—” She stopped, looking down at our joined hands. “I’ve never been out of the United States. How sad is that? I read about Paris and Rome and Barcelona, but I’ve never actually gone anywhere. I watch cooking shows about Italian food and French pastries, but I make the same ten meals on rotation because that’s what I know how to make. I have travel books loaded into my e-reader that I’ve read from start to finish, but the farthest I’ve ever been from home is New York for a wine conference three years ago.”
The way she spoke sounded more like she was admitting to crimes instead of just being human.
“Why not?” I asked gently.
“Because there’s always been a reason not to. Dad needed help with the harvest. Mom needed help with the tasting room. Felicity got married and moved away, so someone had to stay. The vines didn’t perform more than one year in a row. Every harvest, more equipment breaks down. There was always something more important than…”
“Than what?”
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve made myself so small that I don’t even know how to want things anymore.” She eased her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself. “I stopped dreaming about anything beyond next week’s work schedule. I stopped thinking about my life as something that could be different.”
Her vulnerability made my chest ache. “Saff?—”
“You asked what I wanted, and that’s the truth. I want to remember what it feels like to want something just because I want it, not because it serves some purpose or helps someone else or keeps everything from falling apart. I want to be selfish for once in my life and not feel guilty about it.”
I stood and moved around the table, pulling her to her feet. “Then be selfish. Right now. Tell me one thing you want that has nothing to do with anyone else.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “I want to stop being terrified every second of every day.”
“Terrified of what?”
“Of this.” She gestured between us. “Of wanting you this much. Of letting myself feel something real instead of just safe.”
I framed her face with my palms. “I know you don’t think you can trust me, but I’ll keep saying you can, proving you can until you’re ready to.”
“What if you get tired of waiting?”
“I won’t.”
