The Harvest Office – Part 2: First Shipment

The wine made the ship by six hours.

They stood at the quayside in Buenos Aires in the early morning, watching the container swing up into the sky on a crane and settle among its fellows. Gulls shrieked. The river was grey and wide. A cargo horn boomed across the water.

"It's gone," said Sofía.

"It's on its way."

"Nine days."

"Plus the weekend."

She laughed, and her eyes suddenly filled. All week she had been brisk and unflinching. Now, in the cold light, she let herself be tired.

Gonzalo took a bottle from his jacket. "I saved one."

They sat on a bollard on the dock, facing the water, and he opened it with a pocketknife. The cork came out with a soft sigh. He poured into two paper cups. The wine was purple-black in the early light.

"To the blend," he said.

"To the deadline."

They drank. It had changed in nine days: deeper, rounder, with a long silky finish. Sofía closed her eyes.

"It's perfect."

"It's almost perfect. In a year it will be."

"Then I'll wait."

"Can I ask you something?" said Gonzalo.

"Yes."

"Would you have dinner with me? Not at the winery. A restaurant with a tablecloth."

"I would love that." She turned to him. "May I kiss you first?"

"Yes," said Gonzalo, startled, pleased. "And if you say stop, you must let me choose the next deadline."

"That's a terrifying punishment."

"I know."

She kissed him, wine-sweet, her hand on his rough sweater. He kissed her back with slow, steady warmth, a hand cupping her jaw. The river lapped at the quay, and the crane swung away, empty.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Sofía. "Very green."

The label on the bottle, printed in a hurry, says only Nueve Días. Nine Days. Nobody has ever asked why.

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