Page 54 of Sweet Escape

But people who work with grapes on a regular basis tend to know some of the secrets that make it easier to identify an area of the vine that has a higher likelihood of producing a big, swollen grape. And having either tagged along with or worked alongside my father and grandfather for twenty-four of my thirty-one years, I’d say I know a few of those secrets.

After a minute or two, I zero in on a handful of bunches, tucked up into the vine at the very top, about two hundred feet from the end of the row.

“I think I found the winner!” I call out, grinning when a handful of retorts come flying back.

“Yeah, right, Memphis!”

“Try again! Mine is way better.”

“How do we know you didn’t come out here weeks ago to scout your favorite grape?”

That last one was Vivian, and I turn back, peering through the vine to where she’s searching.

“Trying to throw me under the bus?” I ask.

She laughs. “Hey, I call it like I see it.”

I shake my head and turn around, returning my attention to my bunches to decide which grape to pluck.

The one-minute warning echoes out from the bullhorn just as I make my decision, plucking a fat purple grape from its home. Then I head down to the end of my row and wait for the final countdown.

“Lemme see yours.”

I close my fist gently around my grape, hiding it from Vivian.

“Oh, come on. You’re no fun.”

Chuckling, I hold my closed fist out. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Vivian giggles. “You’re a child.”

“Rarely. But you bring it out of me.”

Something soft crosses her face, and she holds her hand out, her grape resting in her palm. It’s a pretty good one, especially considering Vivian isn’t a wine worker. I open my fist as well, showing her the one I selected.

She stares at both of them, side by side, then peers up at me with an embarrassed expression. “I can’t see any difference.”

“Yours is a little bit bigger than mine,” I begin. “So you have that going for you. But yours is a little bit lighter, which means it didn’t get as much sun and might not have as much sugar.”

“You can see a difference in the colors?” she asks, bringing her grape closer to mine, still staring at them. “They literally look exactly the same.”

I shrug. “Part of the wine game, I guess.”

She closes her fist around hers again, just as the alarm sounds. “Well, I’m still pretty confident. You’re going down, Hawthorne.”

We all make our way back to the house, where Sarah sits at a table with a scale and a notepad. Then we rotate in front of her, one by one. She inspects each grape, then weighs it, before putting it in her mouth. It’s a time-consuming process, and we alleviate the waiting game by passing out small plates of chocolate cake that were prepared earlier.

Finally, after far too long, she stands, grinning at us all.

“There were three contenders for the winning grape. Jorge. Micah. And Vivian.”

I hear Vivian gasp. Then she bumps me with her hip. “Told you.”

“But when taking all the information, I’ve decided that the winner is ... Jorge. Congrats, for the third year in a row.”

The crowd cheers, and Jorge waves at everyone with his plastic fork, his mouth filled with cake.

“Thank you, everyone. You’re free for the evening. We’ll see you all at two o’clock.”

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