Physical work helped. My shoulders ached by midday, and my hands were raw despite the gloves. Physical pain was easier—it made sense in a way heartbreak didn’t.
“You staying for dinner?” Snapper asked as we loaded tools into the truck bed. “Ma’s making tamales.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not? They’re your favorite.”
“Tired, I guess.”
He studied me. “When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”
“Don’t know.” I didn’t say it, but it felt like it had been weeks.
“Come up to the house. Ma will give you some to take with you.”
I shook my head. “She’ll try to talk me into staying.”
“You’re right. I’ll bring some over to you later.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He smiled as if he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll be there anyway. Saffron’s moving in tomorrow. Permanently.”
I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man. Have you set a wedding date yet?”
He cocked his head and looked at me like I’d grown an extra one. “We’ve been engaged less than a week, Kick.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Go sleep. Take something if you have to. I’m worried about you.”
Exactly how exhausted I was became apparent almost immediately when I felt myself tearing up. Which, of course, my brother noticed.
“See ya later, Kick,” he said as he walked toward the house and I went in the direction of my truck.
December twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth passed the same way. Work at the vineyard. Come home. Think about Isabel. Try to sleep. Toss and turn instead. Rinse and repeat, as they say.
New Year’sEve arrived cold and clear. The big auction was tonight—the culmination of everything Snapper and Saffron and, at the end, Isabel had worked on. The Christmas Blessing Wine would be sold, and the Hope family’s foreclosure would be paid off. Everything they’d fought for would come together.
I should skip it. Let Snapper and Saffron have their moment without me hovering in the background. But Ma had made it clear that all the Avilas were expected to attend, and I wasn’t ready to explain why I wanted to stay home.
I showed up at the venue just after seven. The place was packed—wine industry elite from around the world were dressed in their finest, ready to bid on history. Bottles of the legendary wine sat on display at the front of the room, catching the light.
I found Snapper near the bar. He looked good. Happy. Saffron stood beside him, her hand in his, and the way they looked at each other made my ribs ache.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” Snapper said.
“Ma would’ve killed me if I didn’t.”
He laughed. “True.”
We talked about nothing important while people filed in and found their seats. I scanned the crowd out of habit, looking for familiar faces. Everyone we knew was here, along with a whole lot of people we didn’t.
I noticed Baron Van Orr standing near the front, talking to another winemaker, Malcolm Warwick. He looked the same as always—expensive suit, cold expression, the posture of a man who owned everything in sight. I wondered if he’d heard from Isabel. But as much as I wanted to ask, I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to bring it up that wouldn’t make me look like a lovesick idiot. Which I was, not that I wanted anyone to know that.
The announcements were made.The auctioneer went through the preliminaries, building anticipation for the main event, and when he finally brought out the first lot, the room went quiet.
Bidding was fierce. The numbers climbed fast—not that I was paying attention.
Originally, when Saffron came to Snapper for help, she’d proposed a partnership. The Hope family would take half the earnings, and the Avilas the other half. When the Van Orrs got involved, that split became complicated. It was quickly resolved when Brix, my oldest sibling, who’d stepped into the role of family patriarch when our dad died suddenly when I was just a kid, suggested that everything beyond the Hope’s cut should be given to charity.
We’d taken a family vote, the support for Brix’s idea was unanimous, and when he presented the plan to Baron, he was all for it too.
