Auri’s head turned at my voice, something soft and startled flickering across her face like the compliment landed and unspooled her a little. Color rose high in her cheeks; her fingers fussed with the stem of her glass before she bit her lip and shook her head at me, smiling that small, private smile she only ever gave when I’d hit the center of her.
We followed Colette out of the grape rows toward the olive side of the estate, the ground tilting gently toward the sea. “Okay, quick map for the non-wine people,” Colette said, plucking a leaf and holding it to the light. “These vines here are Assyrtiko. They’re older plants, so the roots dive deep. I’ve kept them dry-farmed the last two seasons, which basically means no irrigation so the fruit gets concentrated flavor.” She pointed across a narrow lane. “Over there I’ve got Aidani with a little Athiri mixed in. Those are lighter, more aromatic grapes we blend with the Assyrtiko to keep the acidity lively.”
We stepped past a low stone wall and the landscape shifted into thicker tree trunks, the leaves a deeper, silvery green. “And now you’re in the olive grove,” she said proudly. “My greatest challenge and yet, my biggest reward.”
Aurélie lit up. “What’s been the hardest part? Pruning? Pests? Pressing?”
Colette laughed, a little self-conscious. “All of the above. I’ve had more consultants out here than I care to admit—soil folks, arborists, an old guy from Crete who speaks in proverbs and knows everything. The owner’s daughter gave me a crash course after the sale closed—enough to keep the trees from sulking—but then she wiped her hands and disappeared. After that it was me, the wind, and a lot of trial and error.”
She stroked the bark of a nearby trunk, affection softening her mouth. “These are Koroneiki trees. Small olives, huge oil. Think peppery, grassy, a little buttery if the harvest hits perfect. Sterna’s old bones are good ones.”
“God, you can taste the history in the air,” Aurélie breathed. “These roots must run deep.”
“Deeper than my patience some days,” Colette grumbled wryly. “But they reward devotion.”
Ivy fell in on Aurélie’s other side, already in planning mode. “Okay, picture it: sunset, ridge line, cypress framing, strings of lights. Lucy, barefoot with a guitar, something soft while we all sob, because, let’s be so for real, you two have found something we all dream of someday. It’s inspiring and beautiful and deserves to be celebrated.”
Lucy sighed, slipping her arm through Kimi’s. Kimi’s thumb smoothed over her knuckles, seemingly absently, like a habit he’d had for years, notching the corner of his mouth up in a private smile. A rare public softness. “I can play something dreamy,” she said. “Maybe write something new?”
Auri looked at me over her shoulder, pure joy sparking off her. It hit me square in the chest.
Colette crooked a finger. “Come see the press house.”
We followed a path that cut between vines and olives, the ground warm and forgiving underfoot. The press house was near the bottom of the slope, its doors thrown wide to a cool interior scented with stone, must, fruit, and old wood.
Inside, Colette spread her arms. “Okay, another crash course. That,” she pointed to a wide, squat machine with slatted sides, “is a basket press. Think of it like a very gentle, very strong hug for grapes or olives. Fruit goes in, pressure comes down, juice comes out. Old-school, careful, romantic. Your Nonna would approve, Marco.”
Marco’s face softened at the mention of his Nonna. He touched two fingers to his chest like a blessing. “She would,” he confessed quietly. “She’d light a candle for this place and call it a chapel.” He looked around, a little awed. “Feels like one.”
Colette tipped her chin toward the wall. “Those big terracotta pots are amphorae. Clay. They breathe a tiny bit, so the wine or oil inside gets to relax without picking up wood flavors. The stainless steel tanks,” she rapped a knuckle on one that gleamed like a mirror, “are the control freaks. Perfect for keeping things cool and clean and exactly how I want them. And back there,” she nodded toward a dim room that glowed like amber, “is the barrel cave. That’s for aging wines that want a little kiss of wood.”
Auri’s voice dropped without thinking. “Is that acacia?” she asked reverently.
“Good eye. You’ve still got it,” Colette praised. “Yes. Acacia keeps the aromatics bright with flavors like honey and white flowers, but without the vanilla bomb you get from new oak. I use it for the Assyrtiko when I want texture without turning it into dessert.”
My head spun at all the details. Christ, I hadn’t realized how much of this was chemistry, ratios, and trial and error. I understood almost none of it, but I knew Auri would lie in bed later and explain every ounce, hands flying, eyes bright, and I’d memorize the sound of her happiness.
Ivy peered into an amphora. “Do any of these come with a ‘reduce PR crises’ feature?”
“Only by the glass,” Colette retorted dryly, already reaching for a stainless thief. “Here, try this straight from the tank. It’s unfiltered, a little wild. Like love affairs and good headlines.”
“God, that’s apt,” Marco joked, and everyone chuckled.
Auri laughed, eyes shining as Colette filled a large decanter and poured it into each of our glasses. Auri lifted the glass,inhaled, and closed her eyes like it was a prayer. And just like that, the room felt like the beginning of something. We all took a sip except for her, and collectively hummed at the crisp bite. It was clean and bright enough to make your taste buds sit up and pay attention.
Then she took her first sip and closed her eyes. “God, Colette. It’s saline and stone and… lemon pith? And something like fennel pollen at the back.”
Ivy and Lucy drifted to the door, looking out at the grove while they sipped and discussed semantics. Marco and Kimi staged a serious argument about who would be best man “adjacent” if we were technically eloping.
“Please marry me,” Colette deadpanned.
“Get in line,” I said, slipping an arm around Auri’s waist.
Colette tipped her head back, her auburn curls bouncing with the movement, then lifted her glass toward the back door. “Come on. Let’s go to the ridge.”
We stepped out of the press house, climbing a gentle rise where the olives thinned and the sea took over the horizon. Wind moved through the cypress above us in a low hush. Below, the vineyard pitched toward the water in neat green bands. The sunlight went honey-soft around the edges of everything.
Colette stopped at a flat patch of earth surrounded by wildflowers. “Option one,” she said. “Barefoot aisle between olive and vine. Sunset straight ahead. If you want the breeze to catch a veil, this is your spot.”
