The grape was firm, tart, with a hint of sweetness. She let the juice linger on her tongue, absorbing the layers of flavors, imagining the taste in a year and a half when fermentation and oak and time combined to work magic.
“But first there’s plenty of work,” she murmured aloud, before loading the crusher.
She worked quickly, then flipped the switch. The machinery began to clink and grind, slowly crushing the grapes before they were moved into the presser. As the mixture traveled, she checked the temperature. If the grapes heated too much, they would begin fermenting as early as the pressing stage, which would be a disaster. But the weather was on her side. The day had been unseasonably cool, with a fog that never lifted. Her grapes were slightly chilled and a little damp.
She hurried to the far end of the presser and made sure the first vat was in place. After pressing, the grapes would settle, allowing sediment to sink to the bottom of the vats. That was as far as she would get tonight.
Tomorrow there would be more grapes. The process would continue through late September and harvesting of the Cabernet.
As the crushed mixture moved through to the presser, the smell of grapes grew stronger. Even with the doors open and a slight breeze drifting into the building, the sweet aroma became almost intoxicating.
She had just loaded another basket of grapes into the crusher when she heard footsteps on the cement floor. Instantly her heartbeat quickened with anticipation. Brenna found herself smiling even before she turned to see who had joined her.
“How’s it going?” Nic asked as he walked over to stand next to her. “I saw the truck pull in.”
She motioned to the clanking equipment. “This is it. The beginning.”
He grinned. “I thought about bringing champagne to celebrate, but that seemed like overkill.”
“Probably, but I appreciate the thought.”
“Nervous?” he asked.
“A little. I’m using this batch for my blend. They’re premium grapes and I know I’m right to do this, but I can’t help feeling apprehensive.”
“Bucking convention is never easy.”
“Not to mention the fact that I can hear my grandfather’s voice in my head as he yells at me for wasting the best grapes.”
“Need earplugs?”
She shook her head. “Just a little more time doing my own thing. I’ll get over it.”
He was standing close enough that she could see the stubble darkening his jaw. Nothing unusual there, she told herself. Many Italian men had heavy beards. Nic was simply one of those guys who had to shave in the evening before going out on a date. But this wasn’t a date and he hadn’t shaved and she found herself remembering how that stubble had felt against her skin when they’d kissed. The combination of rough beard and soft lips had been unbelievably erotic. Damn. It was hell to have peaked sexually at the age of seventeen.
Nic walked around to the presser. “How much are you doing tonight?”
“All of it. I want it settling before I leave.”
He glanced at the baskets of grapes on the floor. “You’re going to be here until dawn.”
“Probably.”
“Did you work today?”
She nodded.
“Are you working tomorrow?”
She smiled. “Sleep is highly overrated.”
“I guess.” He headed for the door. “I’ll let you get to it.”
“Sure. Thanks for stopping by.”
Brenna watched him go, trying not to feel disappointed. This was her dream, not Nic’s. He had his own winery to run-and he got to do it during the day, like a normal person.
She glanced around the big, open room, at the wooden walls, the staircase, and the cement floor. There wasn’t a stick of extra furniture. She was going to have to dig up a desk and maybe even a radio, she thought. Otherwise the nights were going to get incredibly long.
Fifteen minutes later she checked the level in the presser. The crushed mixture filled the big container. As she watched the process, she imagined what it would be like eighteen months from now when she would see the finished wine filling bottles. Maybe she would invite her sisters to come by and they could have a party.
A clunking sound made her turn. Nic had returned with a couple of folding chairs and a box.
“You’re not going to make it all night without coffee,” he said, putting the box on the floor.
She saw a coffeemaker along with cups and a big bottle of water.
“I’ll supply the grounds for tonight, but after that, you’re on your own.”
“Fair enough.”
She tried not to read too much into his friendly gesture, or the fact that he’d brought two chairs. If Nic stayed, that would be nice. If he didn’t, she would survive.
Nice, she thought as she picked up the coffeepot and carried it over to a wall plug. Nice? Right. Who was she kidding? Being around Nic wasn’t nice, it was exciting and terrifying. It was like swimming with electric eels. She never knew where the shock was coming from. A sensible woman would stay out of the water. Funny, she’d been sensible once, when she’d married Jeff. And look where that had gotten her.
Nic cradled his coffee mug. It was sometime close to midnight and he knew he should head back to the house. Still, instead of standing, he stretched out his legs and watched as the first of the juice flowed from the presser into the waiting vat.
Brenna danced anxiously around the equipment as if she could make the process go smoothly by sheer force of will alone. Her brown eyes glowed with an intensity he envied. This mattered to her. She would be involved from the loading of the grapes into the crusher, through bottling the last drop of wine. If she had time, he would bet that she would be out hand cutting every single grape.
Wild Sea was important to him, but he no longer had the same intimate contact with his wine. The company was too big. While there were vineyards he controlled personally, the majority had managers who handled the day- to-day details. He checked on the process, but he didn’t have a hand in every bottle they produced.
That’s what comes from doubling the size of the company, he reminded himself. If all went according to plan, he would soon be adding Marcelli Wines to his holdings.
“Have you picked a name?” he asked.
Brenna looked up. “Four Sisters Winery.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was and wasn’t able to stop himself from stiffening.
“What?” Brenna asked.
“Nothing. Great name.” He shrugged. “Family was always important to you.”
Now it was her turn to look uncomfortable. He waited to see if she would say anything, but she didn’t.
“Did I ever tell you how Wild Sea got its name?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “No one has ever told me.”
“The original plan had been to name the wineries after the family name. Your great-grandfather did that with Marcelli Wines, but Salvatore had a change of heart. In the 1920s there was only one way to come to America and that was by boat. It seems the crossing was very rough and my great-grandfather thought they were all going to die.”
Brenna winced in sympathy. “I guess they didn’t have great stabilizers back then.”
“Probably not. According to my grandfather, Salvatore made a deal with the sea. He promised to name his winery after it if it didn’t swallow them up.”
Brenna smiled. “I never thought of your great-grandfather as the whimsical type.”
“I don’t think he was, but fear does strange things to people.”
She sat next to him and sighed. “Sometimes I think it would have been very exciting to be alive back when Salvatore and Antonio started the wineries. All the promise of the future was in front of them.”
He didn’t point out that the first couple of years would have been filled with backbreaking work as the soil was prepared for the vines. No doubt there had been plenty of trips to church to pray for blessings and maybe even a miracle or two.
“I have my great-grandmother’s diary,” he said. “Sophia started it about five years before she married Salvatore
