The first time they pressed the Merlot, Nora almost cried.
It wasn’t the mechanics of it—the forklift lifting the sludgy mass of skins and juice, the slow turn of the press, the river of deep purple trickling into the pan. She’d done that a hundred times. It was the taste.
She dipped the thief into the stream, watching the raw wine arc into her glass. It was murky, flecks of skin suspended. Young. Unfinished.
She swirled, sniffed, sipped.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“What?” Rhys asked, hovering with his own glass, eager as a kid.
She handed him hers, needing confirmation she wasn’t imagining it.
He took a sip. Closed his eyes. His throat worked.
“Fuck,” he said softly. “That’s…good.”
It was. Even in its rough state, it hummed with balance. Blue and black fruit. Fine, chalky tannins. A thread of acidity that made her gums tingle.
She felt…vindicated. For every decision. Every anxious night. Every argument with him about waiting.
“We nailed it,” she whispered. “We fucking nailed it.”
He laughed, a pure, unguarded sound that made her chest ache.
“You did,” he said.
“We,” she corrected automatically.
He looked at her, eyes bright. “We,” he agreed.
They tasted from all the lots. Some were less spectacular. One had a whisper of green she’d have to manage with oak and blending. Another was more plush, ripe, almost too generous.
“It’s not just one wine,” she told him as they moved down the line. “Each tank, each barrel, is a… voice. Later, I’ll decide who gets to sing solo and who’s backup.”
“You’re a conductor,” he said.
“I’m a cat herder,” she countered.
He smirked. “You’re very bad at accepting compliments,” he said.
“Occupational hazard,” she said, then winced. “Goddammit.”
He laughed.
The Cab, still fermenting, promised even more. Darker. More serious. The seeds were mostly brown now. The skins surrendered color easily. It tasted like the hill—dust and bay leaf and something wild.
“Five years from now,” she said, tipping a spoonful into her mouth, “this is going to make someone in New York think it rains oak leaves there.”
He cocked his head. “You really think about the drinker,” he said. “Even now.”
“Of course,” she said. “Otherwise what’s the point? I’m not making this for…competition judges. Or for scores. I’m making it for…some couple in a restaurant who doesn’t know what the fuck to order and trusts a bored server to steer them right.”
“And for yourself,” he said.
“And for me,” she conceded. “So that in five years, I can open a bottle and say, ‘Ah. 2023. The year the pump tried to leave, the bank tried to kill us, and the raider tried to save us.’”
He stared at her. “Don’t…put me on the label,” he said.
“Too late,” she said. “It’ll say, ‘Best enjoyed with bad decisions.’”
He laughed, then sobered.
They spent the next few days juggling press schedules and LOI revisions. The latter was reaching a critical point: both sides pushing for final language before the exclusivity window ticked down.
A provisional closing date took shape: December 15. Hanukkah. Holiday parties. A lifetime away and also right around the corner.
“You’ll be out of here by Christmas,” Yolanda said one afternoon, leaning on a stack of boxes as they labeled samples. “One way or another.”
“Men keep saying that to me,” Nora said. “Like it’s a comfort.”
“How do you feel?” Yolanda asked.
Nora hesitated. “Like I’m standing on a bridge that’s mostly built,” she said. “And the last few planks are made of dynamite.”
“Poetic,” Yolanda said. “For a science nerd.”
“I contain multitudes,” Nora said.
Later that week, Aurora sent a finalized LOI. Their redlines had mostly stuck: conservation language, development limits, Nora’s decision rights. They’d haggled over bonus metrics and equity vesting and what constituted “cause” for termination.
“They caved on the non-compete,” Rhys said, tapping the clause. “Originally, they wanted you not making wine within 200 miles for three years if you left. We got them down to one year, 50 miles. And even that’s probably unenforceable.”
She stared at the words non-competition.
“They think I’m going to steal their customers?” she asked.
“They think you’re good enough that someone would follow you,” he said.
She swallowed. That was…something.
The LOI was still non-binding. But it was more than an idea now. It was a map.
“Next step is the purchase agreement,” Rhys said. “That’s the book. This is the outline.”
“And we’re…signing this,” she said.
“We don’t have to,” he said. “But if we want to keep them at the table, we should.”
“We,” she repeated.
“I,” he amended. “Crestlake signs. You…initial the employment terms to show you’re open.”
She ran her finger over her name. Over the salary. Over the word Term: Three Years.
“I sign this,” she said, “and I’m agreeing to work for them.”
“You’re agreeing to try to work for them,” he said. “If the final agreement doesn’t suck.”
“And if it does?” she asked.
“We walk,” he said. “We both do.”
“You really…would?” she asked skeptically.
“If they gutted the north block?” he said. “Or tried to cut your authority to ‘influencer’? Yes.”
“In writing?” she pressed.
He hesitated. “As much as I can put in writing without getting sued by my own LPs,” he said. “Some of this is trust, Nora. I know you don’t like that. Neither do I. But deals like this…they’re as much people as paper.”
She exhaled, long. “You’re asking me to…trust you,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“But…” She stared at the screen. “I…want to.”
Something flashed across his face. Something like pain. And hope.
He picked up the pen he’d set between them. Held it out.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said. “Sleep on it. Scream about it. Throw something at me. We have three days before I have to respond.”
She took the pen. Turned it between her fingers.
“I’ll…think about it,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “You’re very good at torturing me,” he said.
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
That night, she lay awake in her narrow bed and thought about pens.
About the one her father had used to sign the original loan documents. About the one the bank officer had slid across the table with a smile that had looked reassuring until it didn’t.
About the one in her hand now, its weight absurdly heavy.
She thought of her mother’s face when she’d told her about the job offer. The way Rosa’s eyes had shone with pride and fear.
“Three years of not wondering if the lights will be on,” her mother had said. “Three years of…doctor’s visits that don’t involve counting cash first. That’s…something, mija.”
She thought of Marco’s words: You’re not betraying us if you take it. You’re…adapting.
She thought of Rhys, on the porch, saying regret like a confession.
In the dark, the house creaked. The pump hummed. The Merlot fizzed quietly in the cellar.
She stared at the ceiling until the first gray light seeped in, then got up and went downstairs.
Rhys was already at the table, laptop open, a mug of coffee by his elbow. He looked up when she came in, eyes flicking to the pen in her hand.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
She dropped into the chair opposite him. The LOI glowed on the screen.
“I had a dream,” she said. “Henry was there. He looked like you, only with worse hair.”
He winced. “Ouch,” he said.
“In the dream,” she went on, “he told me I was stupid to trust you. That you’d do what was best for your fund, end of story.”
“And?” he asked carefully.
“And then my dad showed up,” she said. “He looked…tired. But he smiled. And he said, ‘Take the money, mija. Take the job. I didn’t break my back for thirty years so you could be noble and broke.’”
His throat moved. “Dreams are…complicated advisors,” he said.
“They also had a water buffalo in the kitchen,” she said. “So, maybe not legally binding.”
He laughed. Then sobered. “What do you say?” he asked.
She stared at the screen. At her name. At his.
“I say…” She uncapped the pen. “That if I’m going to sell my soul, I want a seat at the closing table.”
He exhaled. “That’s…yes?” he said.
“That’s…yes,” she said. Her hand shook as she initialed the margin by her employment terms. NF.
The ink glistened for a second in the morning light. Then sank into the fibers of the paper.
He watched her. “I won’t…forget this,” he said quietly.
“You better not,” she said. “Or I’ll haunt your spreadsheets.”
He smiled, but there was something fierce in his eyes.
“I’ll send this to them today,” he said. “And then…”
“And then we’re…engaged,” she said.
He barked a laugh. “Non-bindingly,” he said.
“Perfect,” she said. “My mother’s been dying for me to get engaged non-bindingly.”
He sobered. “Joking aside,” he said. “This is…a big deal.”
“Feels like signing up for a three-year relationship with people I’ve never met,” she said.
“Welcome to private equity,” he said.
She flipped him off without heat. He laughed.
Later, after he’d scanned and emailed the signed LOI, he found her in the barrel room, sitting on the step, staring at the rows of wood.
“You okay?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Define okay,” she said.
“Not actively sobbing into a tank,” he said.
“Then sure,” she said. “I’m peachy.”
He sat a few steps down from her, leaving a respectful gap. The cool air wrapped around them.
“You did the right thing,” he said.
She looked at him sharply. “You don’t get to say that,” she said.
He lifted his hands. “Fair,” he said. “Sorry.”
“What if it’s not?” she asked, voice low. “The right thing. What if I just…signed up to be exploited for three more years.”
“Then we fight,” he said simply.
She snorted. “We’ve been fighting,” she said. “With nicer words.”
“I mean it,” he said. “This isn’t…set in stone. If they turn out to be assholes, we have leverage. PR. Reputation. The conservation easement. Your story. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“So I’m your human shield,” she said.
“You’re my partner in crime,” he said.
She blinked. “Partner,” she repeated.
“In this,” he amended. “In…making sure they don’t fuck it up too badly.”
“And after they close?” she pressed. “What am I then?”
He hesitated. “My…former partner?” he said weakly.
She laughed despite herself. “You’re terrible at this,” she said.
“At what?” he asked.
“Feelings,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “Occup—” He bit it back. “Raised by Henry.”
“You have a therapist,” she said. “No excuses.”
“She says I’m making progress,” he said.
“She hasn’t met me,” she said.
He smiled. “She’d probably tell me to stop working on active foreclosure deals where I’m emotionally entangled with the borrower,” he said lightly.
“Smart woman,” she said.
They sat in the semi-dark, the hum of refrigeration units a low backdrop.
“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly.
“Signing?” she asked. “Ask me in a year.”
“No,” he said. “Letting me…in. At all.”
She thought about that. About the version of this fall where he’d stayed in San Francisco, sending polite emails while a local bank officer oversaw harvest. Where she’d picked alone, negotiated alone, lost alone.
“No,” she said quietly.
“Even though I’m…me,” he said. “Crestlake. The raider.”
She huffed. “You’re also the idiot who rerouted a truck from Lodi and ruined his boots,” she said. “And the guy who tastes for seed color and not just Brix. And the one who made Hong Kong billionaires listen to my frost story instead of showing them drone footage of a yoga deck.”
He swallowed. “So…no,” he said.
“So…no,” she said.
He stared at the barrels for a long moment. Then said, almost too softly to hear, “Me neither.”
“About what?” she asked.
“Letting you in,” he said.
Her chest clenched.
“Oh,” she said.
Silence thickened.
Below, in the Merlot, things continued to change. Sugars fell. Alcohol rose. Aromas bloomed.
Up here, on a stair between worlds—the old one she’d known and the new one she’d just signed toward—two people sat with a decision they couldn’t take back.
The ink had dried. The deed restriction’s clock was still ticking. The harvest was nearly done.
Outside, the vines glowed in late afternoon light, leaves just starting to blush red and gold.
Soon, they’d drop.
Soon, so would something in her.
But not yet.
Not quite.
They weren’t done fermenting.
Not by a long shot.