Kick shook his head.
“What in the hell is going on?” Snapper whispered in my ear.
“No idea,” I whispered back. “But let’s not allow her to ruin this.”
“Okay, everyone. Let’s get wine in those glasses you’re all holding.”
Everyone moved toward the barrel and formed a loose line with my parents in front. Cru poured a couple of ounces for everyone until he reached the end of the line, where Snapper and I stood.
“We’re tasting this for the first time together,” he said, raising his glass to us, then facing those in the room. “Everyone here had a hand in creating what’s in this wine that represents more than just the Hopes and the Avilas. It represents the collection of families who were the founders of the Central Coast wine region. The blend we’re about to sample is forty percent Gamay, thirty-five percent Syrah, and twenty-five percent Zinfandel. We used whole-cluster carbonic maceration, then pressed and completed the alcoholic fermentation in stainless tanks. The three-varietal blend has been integrating for eight days.” Cru raised his glass in the air once more. “May Bacchus grant his favor on the Christmas Blessing Wine.”
“Hear, hear,” Snapper and I said simultaneously as we took our places around the long table.
After taking a deep breath, I held my glass up to the light and examined what we’d created. The color was a beautiful, deep ruby with hints of garnet at the edge.
“Excellent color development,” Tryst commented, and I agreed. It was remarkable, given how young the wine was.
The second step was swirling and sniffing. I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled deeply, letting the aromatics fill my senses. Complex layers were immediately apparent—also extraordinary. Dark fruit—blackberry, black cherry, and hints of plum—dominated, followed by clove, black pepper, and cinnamon. Underneath it all were rich earths like forest floor and turned soil after rain.
“Nice nose,” Bit said from where he and Eberly stood across from us.
The third step was tasting. This was the moment everything came down to.
I raised the glass to my lips and let the wine flow over my tongue.
My first impression was that the wine was good. Really good, actually.
The fruit came forward immediately but was balanced by the structure underneath. The tannins had integrated beautifully, smooth rather than harsh or grippy. I could taste the backbone of the wine, the architecture that would let it age well. The acidity was bright and clean, lifting the fruit and keeping everything fresh.
I swallowed and tasted again, searching for that transcendent quality, the spark that made people remember a wine seventy years after they’d tasted it—something extraordinary to bloom across my tongue, for the kind of experience that would make collectors fight over the right to own a bottle.
But it wasn’t there.
The wine was good. The kind of wine any winemaker would be proud to produce. Well-made. Balanced. Drinkable. Something I could serve at any dinner table without a moment’s hesitation.
But not extraordinary. Not the kind of wine that would command auction prices high enough to save us.
I looked around the table at the faces of the people who had helped create this. Everyone was tasting with the focus and concentration of experienced winemakers doing what they did best. They swirled their glasses, tasted again, held the wine in their mouths before swallowing, evaluated, and considered with decades of combined experience.
A long silence stretched out across the room. Nobody wanted to speak first.
Finally, Brix broke the quiet. “This is really well-made wine.” His comment was measured and thoughtful but conveyed more in what he didn’t say.
“Beautiful balance,” Noah Ridge added.
“It’s definitely market-worthy,” said Kick.
All of those assessments were accurate. All of them were complimentary. And all of them were devastating.
Because it wasn’t enough. We needed something that would make wealthy collectors open their wallets wide enough to save us from foreclosure.
“It’s lovely,” Tryst said with the kind of sympathy that made my stomach drop. “Truly.”
A pause stretched out.
“But something’s missing,” I said, forcing myself to say what we all knew. “Isn’t it?”
Everyone in the room seemed to exhale at once, relieved that someone had said what we all were thinking.
