Page 38 of The Sweetness of Life

She looks down at the deep red wine, thoughtful, and swirls it in the glass. “I think it’s dry and not as sweet as the others: earthy, coffee, chocolate, maybe cherries. I want to say it has a bit of spice to it like the syrah, but then I don’t know. It has a zing to it also, similar to the whites. What’s it called?” I turn the bottle around, and she quietly says, “Norton. I’ve heard of this wine.” She looks at me for confirmation.

“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Over the last couple years, it’s popped up more in articles and magazines.”

“This wine is definitely making a comeback.” Pulling the glass toward me, my fingers brush against hers, and another longing sets in. What would it feel like to have her hands on me? Her warm fingertips running across my shoulders and down my back . . . I take a sip of the wine, shaking off the equally wanted and unwanted thought. The wine is very dry, smooth, and has a kick at the back end.

“Tell me about it.” She picks up the bottle and pours more into the glass for us to share.

“The Norton grape is America’s oldest grape. It was bred here and, at one point, was the most widely grown grape in the States, predominantly on the East Coast and in the Midwest. It’s what my ancestors were brought over to grow and harvest.”

“What happened?” She places her elbow on the island and leans into it.

“Prohibition. Any wine vine that was found, they ripped out. Somehow, they never found ours; I don’t know how they hid them, but those vines are generational and have been going strong now for over a hundred years. At one time, the Norton wines rivaled the Old World wines.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know. Either people love this wine or they hate it. I love it, not only for its strength, but also for its ability to stay for such a long time. It’s a huge part of our family.”

“It’s my favorite of the reds.” She reaches for the glass, and a piece of her hair slips from behind her ear as she takes a sip. I don’t stop myself from leaning forward and tucking it back in place. She freezes, and when I realize just how close we are, I force myself to lean away again.

She chews on the inside of her lip. I affect her. Good.

“It’s great for blending, too. You’ll have to come back once the Norton-Claret we have aging in the cave is ready.” Wait, what? Why did I say that? She’s not coming back here. “Or I can mail you a bottle.” I retract the invitation.

Her face falls a little. The move is slight, but I see it, and it makes me feel horrible.

“So, that’s it. Those are our reds.” I need to wrap this up before I say something else.

“I think they’re amazing. Other than the first one, I would buy the other three any time.”

“Shh, don’t say that too loudly—you’ll hurt the syrah’s feelings,” I mock scold her.

She giggles, and I realize it’s time for me to go. We tasted the wines, and there’s no reason for me to be here.

“I’ll leave these here, and we can finish them another time.”

“Okay,” she says quietly.

“What are you doing tonight?” It crosses my mind to invite her to the tasting room, but for what? It isn’t as if I need to spend more time with her. I’m already starting to want what I can’t have—well, shouldn’t have—and less time together will definitely be better.

She looks around the cottage and lets out a sigh. “I haven’t decided yet. I might stay here tonight and work on the other article since I need to send it off soon. I appreciate you coming down here for this—saves me the trouble of having to get dressed up for the camera.” She smiles then slides off the stool and starts moving things to the sink.

Following her lead, I stand and help her clean up the mess she made of the kitchen.

“All right, well if you change your mind, Michelle is almost always behind the bar, and I’ll be in my office playing catch-up from yesterday and today.” My inbox is exploding.

“Sounds good. And thanks for taking all of this up there.” She tilts her head toward the food as she washes one of the wine glasses.

I chuckle. “I don’t think there will be any complaints.” I walk to the far end of the island and pick up what looks like barbeque brisket, which makes my mouth water. Then I scan the rest of the food and realize something.

“All of this is perfect for white wines.” I don’t know why I’m so moved by all of it, but I am. She made this for us, for Wolff wines, and it looks amazing.

“Yep, I have a few more things to test over the next week, but I’m super happy with how this stuff turned out. Let me know what you think of the barbeque sauce. I can tweak it so it’s more your taste, since this is your place.” She wipes her hands off on a towel.

“I’m sure it’s great. My mother always says don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I can’t imagine I won’t like it.” I look over at her and have this sudden urge to take her in my arms and hold her. Seriously, between her fingers in my hair, those legs, and now this food, I’m losing my ability to rationalize.

She smiles, and it’s so genuine my insides clench.