The Wine Cellar – Part 2: The Last Bottle

The vines went on for miles in the evening light, their leaves turned gold and copper, the grapes long gone. Thomas walked slowly along the rows with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to pull a dried leaf from a stem, the way a man might check the pulse of a sleeping child.

"My wife planted this row," he said. "The year we married. She said the soil was too stubborn to be grown in, and she grew it anyway."

Camille walked beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed. "She sounds formidable."

"She was. She laughed at me for being so serious about wine." He smiled, faint and sad. "She said I should taste the grapes before I judged them, not after."

"Did you?"

"Only after she died," said Thomas. "I used to think I had all the time in the world to learn what she already knew."

They reached the end of the row, where a stone wall ran along the edge of the estate and the land fell away into a valley of mist and lights. Thomas leaned on the wall, and Camille leaned beside him, not touching but close.

"Can I say something honest?" he asked.

"Always."

"I like your palate. And I like that you don't pretend. I haven't liked anyone's palate in a long time."

Camille laughed softly. "That's the most romantic thing a winemaker has ever said to me."

"It's the most accurate," said Thomas, without a trace of embarrassment. "And now I'd like to say the difficult thing."

"Say it."

"I'm afraid that if I open the last bottle, I'll have to stop being the man who keeps it. And I don't know who I'll be after that."

Camille turned to face him. The light had almost gone, and the lanterns of the château were coming on, one by one, along the drive.

"Then don't open it for the memory," she said gently. "Open it because you want to taste what's there now. Which might be grief, or regret, or joy, or all three at once."

Thomas was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded slowly.

"Will you taste it with me?" he asked. "Not as a critic. As the one person I'd like to share it with, who isn't afraid of the truth in a glass."

"Yes," said Camille. "But can I ask you something first?"

"Anything."

"Would you kiss me, here, on the wall, with the valley watching? Because I've wanted to since you told me I taste what's really there."

Thomas's breath caught, and his eyes softened into something warm and certain.

"Yes," he said. "But only if you say stop, if you want me to. I'll wait."

"I won't want you to," said Camille, and reached up to touch his face.

He kissed her slowly, his hand resting lightly at her waist, his mouth tasting faintly of the afternoon's last sip of red. It was unhurried and kind, and when they parted, the lanterns of the château were glowing gold behind them.

Later, in the cool dim cellar, Thomas took the unlabelled bottle from the top shelf and set it on the wooden table with a quiet, careful reverence. He drew the cork slowly. The scent that rose from the glass was dark, soft and sweet, like a summer night in an old garden.

Camille poured two glasses, and he tasted first, eyes closed.

"Well?" she asked, very softly.

"It tastes like her," said Thomas, and his voice cracked. "And it tastes like today. Both at once."

"Then drink to both," said Camille.

They drank together, in the silence of the cellar, and when he set down his glass and looked at her, his eyes were wet, and his face was open.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," said Camille, and reached for his hand across the table. "Very green. Let's taste it again. Twice, like you said."

Thomas laughed, the sound breaking softly into the quiet, and the old barrels held the sound a long time.