Since the first whispers of her winery, Juan Carlos and the Consejo had thrown every difficulty in her path to make her adhere to their winemaking rules that resulted in mediocre wine. And yet, he had the gall to stand in front of her and talk about adding this and that. He would follow the rules—aging in French oak and bottling for the prerequisite years before release. And while the wine aged, he would throw in powdered tannin to add texture and beet sugar to help it ferment and Mega Purple to deepen the color, all artificial enhancements that the Tempranillo of the Monte del Vino Real didn’t need.
It was as much a crime to the integrity of wine as stealing notes and words were a crime to the integrity of music.
“I’m fortunate that none of my growers installed new vines,” he said, shaking his head. “Tragic what’s happening.”
Sofia commanded him to shut his mouth as she stood. “¡Cállate!”
They’d only begun installing the Tempranillo Vino Real a few years ago, so many growers had tender one-to three-year-old vines that were suffering in the heat. Crop insurance that covered devastating losses wasn’t available until vines were five years old. Her brother was getting as little sleep as she was, trying to come up with a solution.
He liked the old ways? Well she was princess and he was her subject. “Don’t mock our people because this heat wave fits your agenda.”
“My agenda?” Juan Carlos sneered. “We’re in this situation because of the crazy ideas of you and your brother. You strive to disrupt what has worked for six hundred years and our people suffer for it. I offer your growers a way out and you spit in my face. Maybe you shouldn’t be the one answering? Carmen Louisa, why don’t you share what I’ve said with your compadres. Let them decide who truly has their best interests at heart—the delusional princess who will let their fruit burn to feed her fantasy or the Consejo that has been caring for them for centuries.”
Sofia glared at him as she waited for Carmen Louisa’s response. And waited.
She swiveled her head to look at her friend. “Carmen Louisa?”
Finally, the grower said, “My answer will not change. The other growers will come to you themselves if their answers are different.”
Sofia didn’t have to look up to see the satisfaction coming off Juan Carlos. “Perfect. Remind them not to dawdle; they only have until sundown.”
As he left her office, her longtime friend and mentor met her eyes. “I can’t make this decision for them.” Carmen Louisa never shied away from what was hard. “I can ride out a couple of bad years. Not everyone can.”
Sofia would willingly cover the losses of her growers. But these were proud people who cared for their vines like parents. They would rather see a year’s labor go into something—even if it was Familia Pascual’s jugs—then shrivel away to nothing. And maybe, with the continued negative press about the winery and Sofia’s inability to fake #Aishia and the devastating effect of the heat wave, that’s what Carmen Louisa believed Sofia offered them.
Nothing.
“You still believe we can do this, don’t you?” Sofia whispered the words.
Carmen Louisa looked at her with troubled eyes.
Sofia’s office door opened again.
“I think I have an idea.”
At the sound of Aish’s voice, the habits of two weeks and the emotions stoked for ten years crowded in Sofia’s throat. But she gulped them down as he strode toward her in crisp black jeans, high-top Converse, and a black canvas work shirt.
“I think I’ve got something that can help,” he said, steepling his long fingers on her desk.
Contrary to her wishes and wants, he stole her breath when he was this close, looking at her in that eager, lightning-flash way.
“Help with what, Aish?” Speaking to him normally felt like learning a new language.
“With the heat wave. My uncle used something at Laguna Ridge.”
As Aish began to explain, it sounded impossible. Then unlikely. Then she thought that she needed Aish to talk to Mateo. And they’d need Roxanne’s plane.
For all the ways she’d publicly scorned him and privately abused him, Aish was still here. She’d taken her pound of flesh and he’d still shown up, every day, on time, and seemed to find as much relief in giving her space as she’d found in getting it. His own apologies—taking part of the blame for what happened in her cellar, showing real regret for exposing her in a song—had been a shock. The Aish she’d known had never taken responsibility for anything.
The hushed conversation in her suite had gone a long way to heal the wound of what she’d done to him, a fresh wound she doubted they could playact around.
“What I did to you was the worst mistake of my life.”
That wound still stung, despite the years of scar tissue, and they couldn’t go anywhere near it if they were going to successfully get through this month. That he finally seemed to get that wove a strand of gratefulness into her dark, complicated emotions for Aish Salinger.
They might actually survive this month and come out ahead. As long as they could save the crop.
When she looked at Carmen Louisa, she was watching him with amusement as he paced. It was the first time she’d seen that gentle, laughing-at-the-world smile on her friend’s face in days. Unaware, Aish continued to talk and strategize with flashing eyes and flying hands. He was equally mesmerizing in front of two as he was in front of two hundred thousand.
“Vale, chico.” Sofia stopped him short, putting her hands up. “It’s better than what we’ve got. Venga. Let’s go talk to my brother.”
Later, in the dying twilight of the still-hot day, Sofia swiped her sweaty forehead with a red bandanna as she stood on an open truck bed. Bodega Sofia workers, superstar interns, and—most importantly—growers stood in the dusty road
