“We found a photo of her with my great-grandmother, Marilyn, and Concepción Avila. No one could identify her,” Saffron explained.
“Then we found an entry in Concepción’s journal that was written in February, two months after the first Christmas Blessing Wine was released. It said, ‘E says she won’t allow us to make the wine again.’ Do you know why?” I asked.
“Sadly, I do.” Baron took a seat at the table. “Your great-grandmothers were the winemakers. They came up with the original formula, and their two families worked together to create the wine. However, when they first tasted it, they knew something was missing.”
“Just like this,” I said, raising my own glass.
“My grandmother was good friends with the two women and suggested what became the final component—an aged blend from the Van Orr family cellars. As far as why the wine was never made again, I didn’t know the full story until I was sixteen,” Baron continued. “My father sat me down, opened one of the last remaining bottles, and told me everything. He said he was doing it to teach me a lesson. About pride. About ego. About the cost of both.”
No one in the room spoke.
“My grandmother made a choice that my father said brought a great deal of shame to our family.”
“What choice?” Tryst asked.
“To let her pride destroy something beautiful.”
Baron took a breath, and my hand found Saffron’s under the table.
“Marilyn and Concepción’s original idea was to raise money for those struggling during the holidays. That year had been particularly hard on many families in the valley. Bad weather, poor harvests, economic struggles.” Baron looked between Saffron and me. “Your great-grandmothers were brilliant. Winemakers ahead of their time.”
Then his gaze shifted to Tryst. “You remember.”
Tryst’s eyes shone and he smiled. “I do.”
“They developed the formula using their combined expertise,” Baron continued. “California and Spanish ancestral techniques. The carbonic maceration was revolutionary for the time. My grandmother didn’t create anything. She provided access to something that already existed.
“Her father—my great-grandfather—had bottled a particular vintage for family only. By all accounts, it was extraordinary, but the production was limited. Ellen suggested they try blending a little with the wine they’d made. It wasn’t much, maybe tenpercent of the total volume. But it was the missing piece. The bridge between young fruit and aged complexity.”
Exactly what our wine was missing.
“The limited run sold out in hours and raised enough money that local families were able to have a nice Christmas. It saved many of them from losing everything.” He paused. “Then a prominent industry publication wrote about the charitable project and praised the wine’s quality.”
My chest tightened when I realized where the story was going.
“The article gave Marilyn and Concepción all the credit, as was only right. My grandmother’s name was never mentioned.”
“That’s why she was unwilling to give them what they needed to make it again,” I said. “But why didn’t your great-grandfather intervene?”
“Both he and my grandfather, Ellen’s husband, were deceased by then, and it was her decision alone.” He shook his head. “She lost so much because of it, including two of her closest friends.” Baron removed his glasses and scrubbed his face with his hand. “On her deathbed, she told my dad the story and how she regretted that decision her entire life.”
I glanced over at Isabel, who stood near the back of the room with her arms crossed. She was too far away for me to know for certain, but it appeared she might be crying.
Tryst stepped forward. “Baron, do any of those bottles still exist?”
“A few. My father kept them in our private cellar.” Baron set down his wineglass.
Hope flickered in my chest, and I felt Saffron tense beside me.
“Can we go look?” I asked.
“Of course. Who is coming?” Baron asked.
“Saffron and me for now,” I said, taking her hand.
“We’ll come too,” said Kick, who was following behind us with Isabel.
While I wanted to say no, it wasn’t really my call. We were headed to her family’s cellars.
