Lexi stood barefoot in the vineyard, the dew soaking her skin through thin cotton pajamas tucked hastily into tall

the refractometer

ly slicing a grape in half and squeezing the juice i

he cover, hold it to the light, and

with a nod. "Don't

the juice onto the crystal lens. She angled it towar

"That's good. We need at lea

reading. "These

st to himself. "Strange weather. Could

ce onto her shirt, and marveling at how the flavor changed subtly with each hill's contour. By

ree at the edge of the property, a basket

w York?" Étienn

ss the anonymity. The noise. The rush. But also.

d h

e admitted. "But it's

your grandfather sent you let

hey're in my suitcase. Som

ik

vender soap. "This one says: 'The vines have long memories. Listen to th

it. "Sounds like your grandfather

-

to a section sealed off from the rest. "These barrels were his pr

eper. Lexi ran her fingers over the oak

Étienne admitted. "Out of

d poured it into a glass. The wine

ed, swirle

is... incredible. It's

. "A field blend. Maybe four or fi

me earthy, some bright. One had notes of che

y. Inside were her grandfather's tasting notes, scrawled in his looping script, inter

over her should

er head. "I

-

steps watching lightning flicker over di

re's more?"

tilted h

e was telling a story. Leaving a trail. Maybe th

then the stars above. "T

-

shb

o a crystal decanter. "Wine is not a drink," he'd told her. "It's a

en. But now... now she f

-

light across the pages. One sketch caught her eye-a map. Not of Tuscany, bu

grandfather had written

r, when she is ready

eath c

rets. And tomorrow, s

-