Page 15 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Bastard.
Nate
I’malreadyawakeandstaring at the patterns of ice decorating the corners of my windows when my dad knocks on the door. In truth, I’ve been awake since yesterday. The predicted freeze weighed so heavily on my mind that the handful of hours I spent horizontal consisted of tossing and turning more than sleeping. I must have checked my phone every half hour to see the temperature outside.
When it dropped below thirty degrees around two in the morning, I gave up pretending to sleep. I’ve showered, cleaned my kitchen, reorganized my toolbox, and rewatchedTop Gun: Maverick.I’ve been mainlining coffee and waiting for my dad since the sun peeked over the horizon, revealing rows of sparkling silver vines.
It was beautiful. And it made me want to cry.
“You sleep?” Dad’s eyes are worried, the wrinkles and creases that snuck up on him bruised with lack of sleep.
“No. Need coffee?” I wave him into my cabin, and he steps inside.
“Thanks. Your mother is still asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her.” He doesn’t move away from the door, keeping his coat and shoes on.
I leave him there to dig out a second travel mug and pour him some coffee before topping off my own, then meet him at the door.
“How bad do you think it’s going to be?” I follow Dad up the hill toward our tasting room before we turn down the nearest row of vines. “Maybe the east-facing slopes will be okay?”
Dad just grunts. “Dropped all the way down to twenty-four degrees. I think we’re gonna lose all the primary buds on the chardonnay. Pinot might be alright. Don’t know about the riesling.”
Sunlight dances off the frost-covered vines, the glint teasing me with its beauty. If it were January, I could enjoy a leisurely stroll through the dormant vines. Let my mind wander to the promise of growth in spring, the sleeping plants gathering their strength for a new year’s crop.
But I’ve already done that. A few weeks ago, as the weather warmed up and rain soaked into the earth, I walked these rows and felt the first stirrings of growth. The buds pushing at the woody vines, little nubs just waiting to explode with green. And a week ago, when bud break began on a few of the chardonnay, I breathed a sigh of relief at the evidence of the new season.
And now all I see are the same delicate frills of leaf frozen beneath frost. Too young and small to survive one last cruel trick of the weather.
“What’s the weather report for tonight?” Dad asks, stopping at the base of the hill and looking back up toward the big house and tasting room.
I pull out my phone to check. “Low of thirty-five.”
Rubbing at his chin, he’s quiet for a long moment. “Might be okay. Might not. Won’t know for a couple of days. We’ll have to let Sophie know. She might want to come take a look.”
I snort. “Sophie Sutton doesn’t have any idea what a freeze-damaged bud looks like.”
“Maybe not, but she owns these plants, and we have a responsibility to let her know. Theo might have some ideas.”
His reminder that the Ridge is no longer ours rankles, but I push my feelings down. Neither of us slept, and we’re both worried about the damage—even I know better than to pick a fight right now.
We walk the rows in silence, and for a while, I’m just a kid again, following my dad through the vines while he explains primary, secondary, and tertiary buds. That the bulk of our fruit will grow from the primary buds. If they’re all lost to this frost, then the secondary buds will make up the bulk of our crop, a much lower yield.
But it’s too soon to tell, so for now, we wait. And hope.
All the ideas I’ve had over the years to diversify our income stream come floating back to me the longer we walk in silence. Christmas trees near the south field that Kel cleared. Apple trees for cider. We used to sell rootstock back to Europe, but with lower demand, we’d cleared the space for the new pinot meunier vines we planted last year.
I’d had plans before I left for France the first time. Plans I hadn’t told anyone buther. There’s a chance some of them could still happen, but I don’t trust Sutton to give them a fair chance. Either of them.
The reality is, I have as much of a chance of Sydney seeing me as anything other than the man who broke her heart, and occasionally fingerfucks her, as I do of being able to expand Sunshine Cellars into more than a local gathering place.
“Do you think Sophie will care if there’s a low yield this year? Selling wine isn’t exactly a big priority to her.”
Dad stops and turns to stare at me. “Why wouldn’t she care? One of these days, son, you gotta give the woman a fair shake.”
I snort and turn to examine the wooden supports beside me, tugging to make sure the wire supporting this row of vines is secure. “The Ridge is a hobby for her. As long as she has enough wine to drink, why would she care?”
“I know you don’t like them on principle, but they do more than just spend the occasional weekend out here, and you know it.”
He’s right, even if I refuse to say it out loud. Mom sends Sophie a report on the accounts once a month, and Sophie asks enough questions that I know she reads and understands it. She doesn’t seem to be concerned one way or another as long as there’s nothing outrageous. Dad always discusses large expenses with her ahead of time, anyway.
