SAFFRON
The December morning was cold enough that I could see my breath as Snapper and I walked into the Los Caballeros winery production area. The fermentation tanks stood in neat rows, their stainless-steel surfaces beaded with condensation. Our wine—the Christmas Blessing Wine—rested inside three of them, waiting.
Baron Van Orr stood near the tasting table with three wooden cases stacked beside him. He looked older than I remembered, his face lined with exhaustion or emotion or both.
“These are the last of the Van Orr Family Private Reserve,” he said, resting his hand on the top case. “What my grandmother contributed to the original blend.”
My father moved closer to examine the bottles Baron was pulling from the first case. The labels were hand-written in faded ink, and I counted twelve bottles per case. Thirty-six bottles in total.
“Do you know the amount used?” Cru asked.
“Ten percent of total volume.” Baron’s hands trembled as he set bottles on the table. “Two hundred liters.”
I watched him line up the bottles like soldiers preparing for battle. Each one represented a piece of his family’s history, his grandmother’s pride, decades of regret being put to rest.
Movement near the doorway caught my attention. Kick had arrived, standing just inside the entrance like he wasn’t sure he belonged here. Snapper’s entire body went rigid beside me. His jaw clenched, and I heard him exhale through his nose—the kind of controlled breathing people did when they were trying not to explode.
The conversation from last night came flooding back. Snapper pacing at his house at midnight, too angry to sleep. “I’ve never been this angry with him.”
Kick had betrayed his confidence twice. And to Isabel, which made it so much worse. Nobody seemed to know for certain whether the two were involved, and asking felt like stepping into a minefield.
“Let’s get started,” Cru said, pulling my attention back to the wine.
Baron opened the first bottle with reverence, then continued in the same manner, handing them down the line. We measured and poured, transferring the precious liquid into larger vessels. Baron opened bottle after bottle, the aged wine pooling together until we had enough to blend into our tanks. My mother stood beside my father, both of them watching with expressions I couldn’t quite read. Hope mixed with fear mixed with wonder.
Cru opened the valve on the first tank, and we watched the Van Orr Private Reserve disappear into our creation. The wine swirled together, young meeting old, three families reuniting after seventy years of separation.
“Thirty minutes for initial integration,” Cru announced. “Then we taste.”
Those thirty minutes crawled by. I paced between the tanks and the tasting table until Snapper caught my hand and pulledme against his side. His warmth steadied me, but I could feel the tension radiating through his body. He kept glancing at Kick, who stood on the opposite side of the room, examining equipment he probably knew better than his own reflection.
Isabel arrived halfway through the wait, but she and Kick didn’t speak or even acknowledge one another’s presence. Curious as I was, it was none of my business.
“It’s time,” Cru said, drawing samples from each tank, filling the glasses that he distributed around the table. I held mine up to the light. The color looked the same—deep ruby with garnet edges—but when I brought it to my nose, everything had changed.
The bright fruit was still there, but now, it had a foundation. The aged wine had given our young blend something to stand on. Berry and plum and cherry layered over earth and leather and time itself.
I tasted.
The wine hit my tongue, and I understood immediately what had been missing. The Van Orr component bridged the gap between fresh and complex, between promising and complete. The tannins that had been good were now remarkable. The acidity that had been balanced now sang. The finish went on and on, evolving as I held the wine in my mouth.
“Oh my God,” my mother whispered.
Around the table, faces transformed. My father’s eyes went wide. Baron pressed his hand to his chest. Even Snapper, who’d been so certain this would work, looked stunned.
“This is it,” Snapper said. “This is what they made.”
Baron set down his glass with a hand that shook. “My grandmother regretted her choice every single day for the rest of her life. And now—” It was as though his words stuck in his throat.
My father moved around the table, and he and Baron embraced while the wine their grandmothers had created came together again after seven decades apart.
Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I didn’t bother wiping them away.
“How long until we can bottle?” I asked.
“Two to four weeks for full integration,” Cru said. “The components need time to marry.”
Four weeks would put us past New Year’s Eve. Past the deadline. Too late to save anything.
