“Why?” I ask cautiously, even though I know the answer has to do with money.
“It would increase production of our most sought-after Port. But more importantly, if we were successful, it would ensure that if anything happens to the vines, all is not lost. Those vines are an important piece of our history.”
Of my history.But it’s a fair statement. “It’s been tried before.”
“Without success. But we have a good team on it. I’m confident that one day we’ll be able to cultivate a similar variety.”
“Nothing grown in a greenhouse ever tastes like it came from the earth. Plus, the greenhouse can’t mimic the microclimate that makes those grapes special.” It comes out sounding more churlish than I intend. I certainly didn’t mean to insult him, or discourage any attempt to preserve the vines. “What I meant to say—”
“Shhh,”he says. “I agree with you, but we have to try. Taste this.”
He slips a toasted almond between my lips and puts a glass in my hands. Then he sits back and waits for me to taste the Port.
I take a sip while he watches intently.
“It’s extraordinary.” I meet his gaze before taking another sip. “I meanreallyextraordinary.”
He nods. “I think so too.” His voice is bursting with pride but not a trace of arrogance.
“How old is it?”
“Fourteen months.” Outwardly, he’s controlled, but I can almost feel the excitement rumbling inside him. “I’m hoping it will be declared a vintage.”
I smile. It’s not an ordinary smile. This one involves my entire body, heart, and soul. Vintages are few and far between. Some port houses, centuries old, have only a few declared vintages in their history.
“Huntsman, or more widespread?”
“The biggest vintage declaration to date,” he says, almost reverently. “If it happens, it will involve many houses, some that are long overdue. Everyone’s bone-tired, and frazzled. The drought and the fires that took some established vineyards last summer made the season especially hard on everybody.” There’s genuine sorrow in his eyes and a real sense of loss in his voice. “We need this,” he adds from somewhere distant.
My heart clenches. Not just because of what a vintage means for the battered region, but because he showed me a piece of his soul. A piece that’s not ugly or selfish, but distinctly human.
This is not a greedy man who wants a good year for himself and to hell with everyone else. This is a man who truly cares about the valley and the industry that keeps it humming. But perhaps more than anything, this is a man who carries the burdens of the region on his shoulders.
It’s still impossible for me to reconcile, but my father had his reasons for choosing Antonio. Not just to protect his vineyards, but me too. I hope that one day I can find it in me to forgive him.
“Quinta Rosa do Vale?” I ask cautiously. The fires didn’t reach us, but the drought caused problems. As with everyone else, it seems, the year before last was a special year. I want to know how special.
“She shined. Even among the stars, Quinta Rosa do Vale was the brightest. The Port you sampled is made from her grapes. A single vintage.”
I stop myself from leaping to my feet and throwing my arms around him, but it takes some doing. “Antonio.” I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, but still, the tears threaten. “Thank you.”
I thank him because although those vineyards no longer belong to my family, they were tended by them, reared for generations in the way that precious children are reared. I won’t be spiteful about their success. I want them to continue to thrive.
“We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” he warns. “The institute hasn’t declared anything yet. Not formally.”
“You have influence. Especially as president of the foundation.”
“I do. But I won’t cheat. That would cast a pall on the history of the region and diminish the value of any vintage that came before or after.”
It’s an interesting declaration—stunning, almost.
I believe the apt term ishonor among thieves. The man who would kill another, and force a woman to marry him, won’t tip the scales on declaring a vintage.This is why my father’s trust in him never wavered.
I eye the Tawny Port that we haven’t tried yet. I pour some in a glass and take a spoonful of flan, bathing it in the rich caramel before bringing it to his mouth. “It’s your turn.”
22
Daniela