Awakened

by HELEN HARDT

  “Does green pepper even have a smell?” Blondie asks.

  “Think of the smell of the taste of green pepper,” I say.

  She huffs. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  Dale finally chimes in. “Actually, it makes perfect sense. Your sense of taste and sense of smell are intertwined. You know what green pepper tastes like, so think of that flavor as you smell the wine.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just not getting it.”

  There goes the tension in Dale’s jaw again. “Much of wine tasting is subjective. Are any of the rest of you getting green pepper?”

  “I am. Definitely,” says Syrah man.

  Dale nods at him. “Good. What else are you getting, sir?”

  Dale is baiting him. Syrah man spoke unkindly of Cab Franc, and Dale wants to prove his Cab Franc is the best. I see this even if Syrah man doesn’t.

  “Tobacco, I think. And maybe some violets?” He sniffs the wine again. “This smells different than any Franc I’ve ever had.”

  A look of satisfaction crosses Dale’s beautiful features.

  “Wait until you taste it,” I say. “Cab Franc isn’t my favorite either, but this wine is to die for.”

  Dale winces at my use of “to die for.” I don’t care. The wine is to die for, and I may as well speak the language non-oenologists will understand.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s taste this puppy.”

  Dale winces again.

  “As before, take a small amount and let it sit on your tongue for a few seconds before you swallow. Think about how it feels on your tongue as well as how it tastes. Think also about how it feels in the rest of your mouth. Contrary to popular belief, our taste buds are only a very small part of our sense of taste.”

  “It’s…light on my tongue,” a woman says.

  “Yes, common for Cabernet Franc. How about the tannins?”

  “What are tannins supposed to taste like?” someone asks.

  “It’s not a taste so much as a feeling,” I explain. “They’re going to feel dry in your mouth. Think about a very strong cup of tea and how it feels against your tongue. Those are tannins.”

  “I definitely feel the tannins,” Syrah man says. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but this is a lovely wine.”

  Another smirk of satisfaction from Dale.

  “Told you so, didn’t I?” I give him a wide smile. “What else are we tasting? Are you tasting the same things you smelled?”

  “I’m still getting blueberries,” says blueberry lady.

  “Good. I still think you’re tasting black currant, but since you’ve never actually had a black currant, blueberries are close.”

  “I never knew what tannins were,” another taster says, “but it’s part of what I like about red wine.”

  “You probably drink a lot of Cabernet Sauvignon,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “What else?” I ask. “Anyone getting blackberries? Plums? Black pepper?”

  “There’s a spiciness on the finish,” says Syrah man.

  “What’s the finish?” Blondie asks.

  “It’s the last impression of the wine,” I reply. “What you taste once you’ve swallowed it.”

  “Oh.” Blondie bats her eyes at Dale. “What do you think of this wine? Do you like it?”

  “That’s a loaded question.” I keep myself from erupting in laughter. “He made this wine.”

  “Oh!” Blondie smiles. “How wonderful. I absolutely love it.”

  Yeah, right. And if Dale said it was crap, she’d agree.

  I keep my mouth shut, though.

  Because frankly, I’m kicking this tasting’s ass. The tasters, other than Blondie, are responding to me. They’re learning, and they’re having fun. Already I know they’ll leave here with wine.

  I’m killing it.

  I shoot a satisfied grin toward Dale.

  Chapter Forty

  Dale

  Damn.

  She’s good at this, and I have to follow her to do the other two wines—our top-of-the-line Cab and our Ruby, the Rhône blend, one of Uncle Ryan’s signature wines.

  “Would anyone like another taste of the Cab Franc?” Ashley asks.

  Several tasters hold their glasses up for a refill. Good. Ashley will continue to talk about the wine, giving me time to figure out how to top her performance. Of course, this isn’t a competition, so why do I feel the need to top her?

  Voices buzz around me as Ashley asks questions and the tasters respond. I don’t hear their words, only the din of noise. The young woman with blond hair stays within three feet of me at all times, sometimes whispering and giggling with her friend, also blond, and sometimes trying to talk to me.

  I’m not interested in her, and even if I were, she’s way too young for me. Of course, she’s twenty-one or older or she wouldn’t be able to come to the tasting. Ashley is only twenty-five. Also too young for me, so why can’t I get her out of my mind?

  Yes, my parents are ten years apart in age, and they met when they were the exact ages that Ashley and I are now.

  But I’m a mess. For the same reason that my little brother goes from woman to woman, I choose to stay out of relationships altogether. Donny is an extrovert to my introvert. Womanizing is easy for him, and as long as he’s never serious with any of them, he doesn’t have to try to make anything work for the long-term.

  Womanizing is not easy for me. The few flings I’ve had were fun, no doubt, but I never felt enough for any of them to consider working hard at a relationship.

  And I would have to work hard at any relationship.

  My father might have been able to make it work with my mother, but he didn’t have my background to contend with. He grew up on Steel Acres his whole life. Nothing happened to break him. He lived his whole life in privilege, and he didn’t have memories that plagued him for twenty-five years.

  Indeed, my father is a hero. During his time in the military, he was credited with saving six lives when his platoon was attacked by Iraqi insurgents.

  I could talk to my father about my developing feelings for Ashley. He would be receptive, encouraging even.

  But there are some things about my life that even my father will never understand. The only person who might hope to understand is my brother, and he has chosen to deal with his past in a different way.

  The tasters still mill around, asking Ashley questions. She answers each one, and she does so in a way that makes them happy and ready to buy wine. She shows her superior knowledge without talking down to them. She’s gifted. Truly gifted.

  I haven’t given her nearly enough credit. Instead, I berate her for using words like lusty and flirty, but those words speak to people who like wine but don’t have an intimate knowledge of it. In other words, customers.

  She’s good. She’s really good.

  Someone tugs on my shirtsleeve. It’s the blond woman.

  “Did you say your name is Dale?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “Dale Steel. I’m the assistant winemaker.”

  “I just want to tell you again how much I love this wine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it true what she said? Did you really make this wine?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Wow. You’re amazing. By the way, my name is Katie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmur.

  “My friend and I are driving into Snow Creek for dinner.”

  “Have a nice time.”

  “Could you recommend a good place to eat?” She pauses a moment. “Better yet, why don’t you join us? You can show us the best places.”

  She’s very pretty, and so is her friend. Donny or Brock would be all over this, but the thought of going to dinner with two strangers—albeit two attractive strangers—makes me want to break out in hives.

  Plus there’s a bigger reason I don’t want to go, and she’s finishing up the Cab Franc tas
ting at this very moment.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Katie, “but it’s my turn to lead the tasting of the next two wines.” I walk toward Ashley.

  “How’d I do, Coach?” she asks coyly.

  “Adequate,” I say, taking care to keep my voice monotone.

  “It will just kill you to give me a compliment, won’t it? Well, at least I got one before the tasting started.” She smiles sweetly and gestures to the other bottles of wine. “It’s all yours.”

  I nod, paste on my smile, and get ready to go into wine guru mode. I’ve perfected my fake personality over the years. I smile and I talk about wine. The wine talk is easy. The smiling not so much.

  Funny, though. For the last couple of days, since Ashley arrived, I find myself having to keep from smiling. Something about her tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I know enough about myself to realize it’s not just the passionate kisses.

  This woman touches something inside me—something I’ve never let anyone touch.

  My broken soul.

  I’ve been through therapy with the best, and I’ve learned to live with what happened to me all those years ago. I have a wonderful life and wonderful opportunities to fulfill my creative aspirations. I’m content. Yes, I still have the nightmares sometimes, but I accept them for what they are, for what they will always be. A link to my past that I can never change.

  Acceptance.

  The last stage of grief.

  I accepted long ago that those experiences changed me, almost at a molecular level. In some ways, I actually find myself embracing them, for without them, I wouldn’t be me.

  I wouldn’t be Dale Steel.

  Dale Steel is far from perfect, but he’s me, and I’ve learned to live with him.

  The status quo works for me. Bringing someone else into the mess inside me wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

  No matter how much I yearn for Ashley White.

  I clear my throat. I want to give her something, so I open my mouth to speak.

  “Ashley is our intern this season,” I say. “Let’s give her a round of applause. She’s great, isn’t she?”

  I steal a glance at Ashley, whose jaw has nearly dropped to the floor, while the tasters clap for her with enthusiasm.

  “She’s a tough act to follow,” I continue, “and I have about a tenth of her personality, but I’ll do my best to make the rest of the tasting entertaining for you.” I pick up the Ruby. “We’ve been making this wine since before I was born. When my uncle Ryan took over as master winemaker, he wanted to create a blend as close to a red Châteauneuf-du-Pape as possible. This has been one of our most popular wines since he introduced it, and we continuously improve on it with every bottling. We use the GSM blend—Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre.”

  “Love me some Syrah!” says the gentleman who’s been talking about Syrah all afternoon.

  “You’ll definitely feel the Syrah in this blend,” I say.

  “Does this blend mimic the northern Rhône or the southern Rhône?” he asks.

  “That’s an excellent question. Châteauneuf-du-Pape comes from the southern Rhône region of France. Red wines from the northern Rhône area are made with mostly Syrah, so I imagine you would love them. Some of them are very age-worthy, such as Hermitage. Southern Rhône blends tend to be more drinkable when they’re younger. We age this wine in stainless-steel barrels for at least two years before bottling.”

  Ashley takes the lead and pours the wine into another set of clean goblets. She begins to distribute them.

  “Let’s start with color,” I say. “Ashley guided you through the color of the Cab Franc. Do you see any differences in this wine?”

  “Is it called Ruby because of its color?” Katie asks.

  “No. If you look closely, it’s darker than a Ruby. My uncle named it after his wife.”

  “It’s beautiful,” a woman says. “Like a clear garnet.”

  “Definitely,” says someone else. “I don’t think it’s lighter than the Cab Franc, just a slightly different hue.”

  “Swirl it around in the glass,” I say. “Does the color coat the sides of the glass?”

  “Maybe very slightly,” the man who likes Syrah says. “Just the slightest tinge of pink.”

  “Let’s go ahead and check out the nose,” I say. “What scents are you getting?”

  “It smells…red,” Katie says.

  “Colors don’t have smells,” someone huffs.

  “Oh, they can,” Ashley says. “Do you have synesthesia, Katie?”

  “Cinnamon what?” Katie asks.

  Ashley doesn’t laugh, which surprises me. Instead, “Synesthesia is a condition some people are born with where the senses cross. For example, I have synesthesia. For me, sounds have colors, and sometimes, colors have sound. Others with synesthesia see letters and numbers and colors. And though it’s rare, for some, smells have colors. Do smells have colors for you?”

  “I don’t really understand,” Katie says.

  “Then you probably don’t have synesthesia.” Ashley smiles. “Which means, when you say this wine smells red, you’re thinking of something else red that you’re smelling. What might that be?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe another red wine? The one we just smelled?”

  “To a novice,” Ashley says, “red wines can smell similar. Our job here is to help you discern the differences.”

  “Ashley’s right,” I say, expecting to feel reluctant about it but instead feeling a sense of pride. I’m proud of her. “Think about the aromas you associated with the Cab Franc. Do you smell them here?”

  “Cherry,” a woman says.

  “Excellent.” I smile. “This wine definitely has cherries on the nose. Anything else?”

  “Spice? Like cloves, maybe?”

  “Very good.” I nod. “Cinnamon, cloves, allspice. All very common fragrances with Rhône blends. Try digging a little deeper. Anything else?”

  “I’m getting a little bit of cardamom,” says the man who likes Syrah.

  Ashley nods. “I’m getting that as well.”

  “Haven’t you tasted this wine before?” he asks.

  “I haven’t. I just started my internship today.”

  “Really? You did an amazing job with the tasting.”

  Her cheeks pink slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “Anything else? If not, we’ll move on to taste.” I swirl my glass once more. “Take a sip, and as Ashley instructed you earlier, let it sit on your tongue for a few seconds before swallowing.”

  “Oh, it’s delicious,” the woman says.

  “Yes,” someone else says. “It’s completely different from the Cab Franc. I love them both, though. I’m not sure I could say which one I like better.”

  “I like the Cab Franc better.” Katie beams at me.

  I give her a tense smile. From her facial expressions, I can tell that the only wine she’s truly liked so far is the Fuji apple. That’s the only one she committed to buying. She’s trying to get my attention, and she thinks stroking my ego is the key.

  I steal another glance at Ashley. She’s darting daggers at Katie with her eyes.

  I hold back a chuckle. Katie is no competition for Ashley. I’ve already made up my mind who I want.

  The only problem? I have no business bringing a bright light like Ashley White into my darkness.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ashley

  Once we’re done tasting all four wines, a few other employees come in and take orders from the customers. Katie purchases a whole case of the apple, and, surprise of surprises, a whole case of the Cab Franc, Dale’s wine.

  I’d bet my weight in gold she can’t tell a Cab Franc from a Concord grape, but what the hell? It’s a sale, and I’m pleased. Sort of.

  Syrah man, whose name turns out to be Levi Jones, orders two cases of the Cab Franc and a case each of the Ruby and fine Cabernet Sauvignon.

  As an employee writes up his order, I smile at him.

&nb
sp; “I’m surprised you’re going for more of the Franc than the Ruby. The Syrah notes are very apparent in the blend.”

  “I have a ton of Syrah in my wine cellar,” he says. “You’ve definitely expanded my horizons today. This is the most interesting wine I’ve tasted in a long time.”

  “The credit goes to Dale,” I say. “This is his baby.”

  “Will you be helping to make the wines during your internship?”

  “I’ll be doing a little bit of everything,” I reply. “But my interests aren’t in winemaking so much as tasting and selling. I hope to eventually end up as a sommelier in a fine restaurant.”

  “I’m sure you will. How did you end up here at a boutique winery?”

  “You already know I’m a doctoral candidate in oenology. Ryan Steel, Dale’s uncle, did a lecture at UCLA over the summer, where I met his niece and she introduced me to him. He offered me an internship on the spot.”

  “Honestly, I think your talents are being wasted here. You should already be working at a restaurant.”

  “I want to finish my degree first. I’m lucky that I’ve gotten full rides during my entire college career.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re an amazing talent.” He smiles. “I hope this isn’t too forward, but could I take you to dinner?”

  I regard him. He’s a nice-looking man, probably slightly older than Dale. His dark hair is cut short, and he has kind blue eyes and a handsome face.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “I won’t deny that I’m attracted to you, Ashley,” he says, “but that’s not my main reason for the invitation. My family owns a chain of fine steakhouses in Nebraska. We’re always looking for the best people.”

  “Oh?” My heart pounds slightly faster. “I do want to finish my education first, but I love to make any contacts that I can. Do you work at one of your restaurants?”

  He shakes his head and hands me a business card. “I’m the vice president of marketing for the company. Plus an amateur oenophile. I’m always looking for excellent wines to add to our wine lists. I think my family will love this Cab Franc.”

  Hmm. No harm in the platonic dinner date that could end up as a business contact. “I need to check with Dale to see what time we’ll be done here. Are you staying in Snow Creek?”