“I’m getting ripe strawberries laced with black currant, pomegranate, the forest after it’s rained.”
“Yes!I get wild roses, strawberry jam, a field in early spring,” she says, the excitement in her voice growing. Unable to wait any longer, Laine closes her eyes and lets the wine kiss her lips. The liquid beads on the shell of her mouth before slipping in and down. It’s fascinating to watch—the thinking divot between her brows faint, then disappearing altogether as her eyes open, widen, and gleam. “It’s …Zoe, stop staring at me and try it!”
I laugh a little, lost in the happiness that’s rising on Laine’s face like the morning sun. I finally tilt the glass up, letting the wine tumble across my lips, pool into my mouth, splash against my tongue. My brows quirk up as the flavors dance across my palate. Balanced, its tannins rich but neutralized, creating a fuller body on my tongue than it has any right to have—everything I could want in a young red wine and more. It’s not my mother’s red blend, but it is, perhaps, its daughter. The similarities are there as much as the differences. I’ve only ever tasted my mother’s reds in their tawny old age, after mellowing in their bottle homes for years. Laine’s version has a delicious bite, softened by the faintest touch of sweet—likethe wild blackberries I’d find along the creek at summer’s edge. Tart and light, a waking dream, and so, socomplex. I sip again, trying to hang onto the feeling of it and all the memories it’s evoking as it trails down my throat. Fresh spring and lazy summer, crisp fall and the deep gray of winter—this is the kind of wine that takes your moment and builds upon it, whenever it is.
“Laine, it’s … perfect.”
Laine grabs me by the hips, then sinks one hand into my hair, pulling until my chin tips up to take her fevered kiss. The taste of her hard work, her genius mixed with my mother’s, of Bluebell Vineyards and all it can give the world, is shared between us. The press of her velvety mouth is as tart and sweet as the wine. “Really?”
“I love it, Laine. It’s incredible.”
I love you, Laine. You’re incredible.
Both thoughts swim through me, both true.
She laughs as she presses her forehead against mine. “God, I’m so relieved. After all those promises I madeEveryday Bon Vivant… I’m so glad I came through for you, baby.”
“You did.” The smile she gives me is achingly tender as she brushes a loose tear from my cheek with the soft pad of her thumb.
“With a little help from your ma.” She throws her head up to the ceiling. “Thanks, Ma!”
My own laugh bubbles up at that, rising through the heady mix of emotions I’m making space for in my life now. Vulnerability. Love. Trust.
Yes.Thank you, Mom.
Laine gives me some of her seltzer water and a hunk of baguette she keeps on hand for palate cleansing, but even still, I’m not prepared for the switch to the Georgia Girls sample. I hold up a hand, spit the wine into the bowl, then take another long drink of seltzer.
“Okay, let me try that again.” Laine nods, but her demeanor’s changed, too. She watches me closely. I sniff the wine first, and there are all the telltale smells—honeysuckle and peach—but they seem muted somehow. A different presence rises above them, elbowing in at the table. Earthier, different. When the golden wine slides over my tongue, the earthiness is present in the taste, too. All the things I love about Georgia Girls take a back seat to this new flavor, and the effect is disconcerting.
I clear my throat. “This tastes a little …”
Off.
Wrong.
Flat-out bad.
“Different,” I finish weakly. Laine’s fully on edge—I see it in her stance, the pinch of her shoulders. “What’s making that … difference?”
“I cut back on the sulfur dioxide treatments, to give Bluebell’s offerings a more organic vibe. That’d help us stand out in the Blue Ridge market, give us a modern edge that’d appeal to eco-conscious consumers.”
“But don’t the sulfur dioxide treatments prevent bad yeast overgrowth that can … affect the taste? Could that be what’s causing this, uh, flavor?” I don’t have the heart to openly criticize what she’s done to Georgia Girls. After all, this is next year’s batch—it has a whole year after fermentation to settle and develop. Real criticism is premature at this point. But at the same time, Josiah’s right. Georgia Girls has never tasted like this, not at any juncture of its process. The bottom of my stomach drops out.
“Yes,” Laine grudgingly admits, “but I—”
“Should we do a sulfur dioxide treatment now? Head off this taste before it really digs in?” I know I’ve cut her off, but my courage is rapidly dwindling, and I need to get this out before the bliss I’ve been swimmingin ever since that night in the grape-crushing barrel convinces me to stay quiet.
Laine frowns, and it feels like I’ve done something wrong. “I don’t think we should give up and turn tail at the first sign of something different. We discussed this—the wines will taste slightly different with more organic processing, but not worse. If anything, it will elevate Bluebell’s classic offerings.”
I bite my lip, the fear of tanking an entire season of our best-selling wine warring with my desire, myneedto trust her on this. Finally, I nod. When Electric Daisy, C’est la Grigio, and the rest of our white wine samples present the same off-putting musty taste, I keep my mouth shut. I’m going to trust Laine. It’s just Bluebell Vineyards entering our hippie lesbian era, the wine equivalent of hot ladies with hairy pits.
It’s gonna be fine.
Laine’s relief at getting through all the samples with no more criticism is evident, and she shoos me out as soon as we’re done. No objections from me. It’s the first time we’ve butted heads over our professional differences since we started shacking up, and it’s left us both feeling shaky.
I step out into the warm October afternoon and force my shoulders to relax. The faded red boards of our barn stand in stark contrast to the bright blue of the afternoon sky. The rolling mountains have finally started to let go of summer, their dying leaves crisping into the reddish brown of a good Irish ale. Our vines have begun to turn, as well. Soon they’ll retreat into their roots and cozy up for the long winter’s sleep. Baahlzebub’s out in the field, munching away, and I join him at the fence, rubbing the space between his horns while he chews.
“What do you think, Bub? Will it be okay?”
