in faltering Spanglish. He’d told her his grapes were magic grapes and she’d asked him what made them magic and he’d told her what made them magic.
‘The sparkle of the sea.’
His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. ‘Sí. The grapes with the view make the best wine. They say that is why our txakoli wine sparkles when it is poured.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Of course it is true. And also it is to do with the fermentation process as well. But why wouldn’t grapes be happy with a view such as this?’
They stood together for a moment, looking out over the vista, as the vine-covered hillside fell away to the low rolling countryside to the coast. And the sea did indeed sparkle under the morning sun, just as her skin tingled where it was touched by the heat of him.
‘But I am boring you,’ he said. ‘When you care nothing for the vines. Thank you for the coffee. I should get back to work here.’
She took the cup, still warm, cradling it in her hands. She didn’t care for the vines. And yet there was something about them that tugged at her. Maybe it was just the remnants of a short time in her childhood when the vineyard had been her playground. ‘Surely you have more important things to do? I thought you had a business to run.’
‘I grew up doing this work. I like it and these days I so rarely get a chance to do it. But it is good to be closer to the grapes.’
‘How are they—can you tell?’ And she surprised herself by caring to know the answer, even as she knew she was putting off returning to the house. ‘Do you think there will be any point harvesting them?’
He nodded and looked back at the vines above his shoulder, where bunches of small grapes hung down from the vines. She tried to look at the grapes and not the Vee of skin at his neck where his white shirt lay open. She couldn’t help but notice the man made an innocent white shirt look positively sinful, the way it pulled over his shoulders and turned olive skin darker. ‘It would be a crime not to pick them. The vines should have been pruned in the winter, of course, which is why they are such a mess now, but they are good vines—old but strong—they have still produced good fruit. Has Felipe had the grapes tested at all?’
She looked blankly back at him.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I assumed not. But soon they should be tested for their sugar and acidity levels. That will tell when they are right for harvest. But it is only a matter of weeks. Two, maybe three at the most.’
Her teeth found her lip. She shook her head. ‘Could I manage it, do you think? I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘You can help, but the job will be bigger than just you.’
She smiled stiffly. ‘Will you talk to Felipe about it, then? You know so much more than me about what is needed to be done.’
‘You think he will listen to me?’
‘At least you speak the same language. With me, our conversations are limited to the basics. I want him to see that all is not lost, that life goes on, that the vines go on.’
‘Then I will talk with him. I will come up to the house before I go.’
‘Thank you.’
She turned to leave but he caught her hand. ‘I could ask you the same question.’ And when he caught her frown, ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You know already. So he has a chance to smile before he dies.’
‘Sí.’ He nodded. ‘But why? Why do you care so about a grumpy old man who lives halfway around the world and who you barely know? Why have you given up an inheritance for him?’
She smiled at the ‘grumpy old man’ reference. There was no point in objecting to that. ‘He’s all I have left in the world.’
‘Is that enough to do what you are doing? I ask myself if it is enough and still it makes no sense. Why do you care so much?’
Why did she care? She turned her face up to the wide blue sky. And suddenly she was back, that seven-year-old child with long tangled hair and an even more tangled family and a promise she’d made when her screaming mother had wrenched her in tears from her grandmother’s arms, their one brief attempt at bridgebuilding over, with a vow never