“Dammit, Snapper, I said I wasn’t hungry.”
Marcy looked between us, then scribbled on her pad. “How about I bring an extra plate?” She walked away, shaking her head, not waiting for either of us to argue.
Snapper rested his forearms on the table. “What’s got you tied up in knots?”
“Nothing. I just don’t feel like eating.”
His nostrils flared, but he sat up and rested against the booth. “So, what’s the favor?”
I set the journal on the table. “Does the name Concepción Avila mean anything to you?”
His expression shifted to curiosity. “She’s my great-grandmother on my father’s side. Why?”
“I found this in our attic a few days ago.” I opened the journal to the page I’d marked. “It was my great-grandmother Marilyn’s, and in it, she mentions something about her, Concepción, and their husbands making wine.”
“The Christmas Blessing?”
“Yes. Exactly,” I said, somewhat surprised he knew about it.
“It’s been a long time since anyone’s mentioned it. Everyone thought it was an urban myth.”
“According to this, I think it was.”
He leaned forward, and I turned the journal around. His finger traced what was written and I watched those hands, trying not to imagine them touching me with the same focus.
“Wow. This is wild,” he muttered. “So, how does this relate to all the favors I owe you?”
I flipped through the pages. “Here, my great-grandmother says that she kept her half and Concepción kept hers. She goes on to say something about maybe having a falling out and that’s why the wine was only made once.”
Snapper’s food arrived in a clatter of plates. The lumberjack special covered half the table—eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and a stack of pancakes that could feed three people.
“This is incredible,” Snapper said, but I wasn’t sure if he meant the food or the journal. He picked up his fork, then set it down and pushed his plate of bacon between us. “Have some of this.”
I picked up a strip to appease him. The salt and grease actually tasted good enough that I reached for another piece.
“I keep asking what the favor is, and you keep avoiding answering me.” He cut into his pancakes, but his eyes stayed on me.
“I need you to find Concepción’s half of the formula.”
“Of course.” No hesitation. No questions about why or what for. Just instant agreement. “When were you thinking of making it? Next year’s harvest?”
“No.” I grabbed another strip of bacon from his plate, needing something to do with my hands. “It has to be this Christmas.”
He set down his fork. “Next year maybe, but this year would be impossible.”
“You’re wrong. The journal says they used carbonic maceration?—”
His finger moved down the list, stopping at each grape varietal. “Gamay, Syrah, and Zinfandel—those would work. But still…” He shook his head, and when a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, my fingers itched to brush it back. “This takes planning?—”
“We have Zinfandel. A reserve block we left unpicked for late bottling. And we have some Syrah, but not much—maybe a quarter acre.”
“But no Gamay.”
“Right. And not enough Syrah.” I met his gaze directly. “I need your Los Caballeros’ grapes.”
He rested against the back of the booth. “That’s not a small ask.”
“I know. And there’s more.” I might as well lay it all out. “I need winery space—our tanks are all full from this year’s fermentation. I need the carbonic maceration equipment, the CO2 injection systems, and I need a crew for handpicking. The clusters have to stay completely intact, which means no mechanical harvesting.”
