34. Daniela

Isip coffee while I rifle through my makeup bag for under-eye concealer. With all the last-minute details for the gala tomorrow night, I’ve hardly slept in the last two days. I’m running on nervous energy and caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine.

For us, the harvest celebration actually began late yesterday afternoon when Antonio ferried Valentina, Rafael, Lydia, her husband Edward, and me into a helicopter, to one of his vineyards in the northernmost part of the valley.

At first, he didn’t tell us where we were going, just to dress casually. Lydia and Rafael clearly had some inkling, but no matter how many questions Valentina asked, they weren’t talking.

When we arrived at the winery on the property, where some Huntsman Port is made, I began to have an inkling, too.

We were here for the corte, the first stage in the treading process, where the newly harvested grapes are placed in lagares, granite troughs, and the treaders link arms, shoulder to shoulder, and stomp, crushing the juicy grapes gently to extract the sweet pulp from the skins.

While they tread, an accordionist plays and everyone sings. It’s a centuries-old tradition, and even Port houses that have turned to modern methods of crushing grapes still participate in some form of the corte. It’s an integral part of the storied history of Port wine and our region.

Although we were vintners, and not wine makers, my family was always invited to participate in the corte by at least one of the Port houses. Even my normally dignified father would step, barefoot, into the wide, thigh-high vessels and tread. But in a million years, I never expected Antonio Huntsman to roll up his pants and link arms.

As we follow the accordion music, I catch Antonio’s eye and grin like a child awaiting Santa Claus. My husband, my beautiful husband, who has once again surprised me, glances at Valentina, and flashes me a conspiratorial wink. He wants to surprise her. And he does.

After we watch the treaders work for a while, a middle-aged woman beckons us to join them in the lagar. I gaze at Valentina, who seems unsure, unlike me, who’s wanted to climb in from the minute we arrived.

“Come in with me,” I urge, laughing. “It’s so much fun.”

In a fit of giggles, Valentina steps into the lagar behind me, and links arms with Antonio and Rafael, first, and later with Lydia and me. Every time she laughs, my heart fills with joy.

While I’d participated in the corte, even after she was born, Valentina never did. It wasn’t simply that she was a bit young, but she was my maid’s daughter, and wasn’t invited to attend with me. When I was sixteen, it hit me hard, that this was the way it would always be.

As they tread arm in arm, Rafael whispers something to her that I can’t hear, and the laughter bubbles from her chest. I cling to the moment, letting the happiness envelop me, because I’ve learned that life is fleeting, and you have to savor these moments as they happen.

Some of the treaders would work all night, but we left after rinsing our feet and enjoying a hearty supper with them, which involved more singing and merrymaking. I’m pretty sure I still had a smile on my face when I fell asleep. Or maybe the smile was from the devilish treats Antonio had for me when we were alone in our bed.

I’m finishing my makeup when Antonio comes into the bedroom. Speak of the devil.

“It’s so odd to have you home at this hour of the morning, in the middle of the week.”

“That’s a very modest outfit, in a very innocent color,” he observes, stalking toward me. “If I hadn’t heard you whimpering for my cock last night, I might even think you were a chaste little thing.”

“You don’t like my suit?” I ask, a little concerned that I’d chosen the wrong outfit for the luncheon.

“It’s perfect,” he murmurs, with one hand on my hip, and the other fingering the ends of my hair. “Like you. Pink is almost as beautiful as red on you.” His eyes sparkle with the kind of mischief we don’t have time for.

Pity.

“Where’s Valentina?” he asks, as his growing erection grazes my hip.

“She and her friends are organizing the prizes and materials for face painting tomorrow.” I smile as I say her friends. Antonio’s little school idea took a lot of doing, but it changed her life overnight.

“We don’t need to leave until ten forty-five. Maybe we should take advantage of the hour we have before we leave,” he says, pinning me against the bedpost.

We don’t have time for this, but that doesn’t stop the pulsing between my legs.

“As much as I’d like a repeat of last night, there won’t be time to shower, and I don’t want to walk into the luncheon reeking of sex.”

“Why not?”

“Because I heard they’re giving out prizes, and announcing a vintage year.”

“Really?” His eyes twinkle madly.

I nod. “A Huntsman Port made exclusively from grapes grown at Quinta Rosa do Vale is getting one. The top one,” I whisper. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

“No one tells me anything.” He smirks. “But unless one of those pompous bastards on the committee has been whispering in your ear, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I’m not getting ahead of myself, and he knows it. “This is your moment.”

“This is our moment,” he says, with his hard cock wedged between us. “We should celebrate. Right here and now.”

“I thought we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves?” I ask, much too cheeky.

“Are you denying me?”

A zing of pleasure rumbas through me as Antonio tugs on my hair the way he does before he wraps it around his hand.

“Never.” I shake my head. “But I have to be downstairs when they deliver the china for the gala tonight.”

“When I asked you to oversee the events, I didn’t mean for you to manage every detail yourself. You should have delegated more.”

For a second, I feel a twinge of sadness. Nelia, who planned our wedding, and died in the bride’s parlor at Santa Ana’s, is the one who oversaw the harvest events for Antonio in the past. I worked from the meticulous notes she kept, wishing all the while that she was here to help me. We would have had such a great time doing it together.

“I delegated plenty,” I assure him, straightening his tie. “And once we get on that helicopter in an hour to go to the luncheon, I’m done. From then on, it’s all in the hands of party organizers and the caterer. But I’ve loved every minute of the planning. It’s been a great joy for me, Antonio.”

“I know,” he says, dragging his thumb over my cheek. “I love the things you added. The greater focus on charity, especially. It makes me proud to have the Huntsman label sponsoring those events.”

I’m proud too, not because the flowers and the linens we chose are perfect together, but because every meal we serve this week, and there will be thousands and thousands, the local food kitchens will also serve. Same food, prepared by the same chefs. It’s in honor of my mother, who believed it was our collective responsibility to feed the poor.

When I ran it past Antonio, he said, “I think it’s a great idea, and I don’t care about the expense, but everyone doesn’t need to know our business. The donation should be made anonymously.”

What I’ve noticed, especially since I got involved with the harvest, is that in addition to what the Huntsman company does to support charitable organizations, Antonio donates generously to myriad causes—always anonymously.

“I’m proud of you, too.” I press my hand to his heart. “I’m certain that your young Port is going to take a prize—probably first place—but I know you would trade it in a heartbeat for a vintage year for the valley. You’re a good man, and a great leader. My father was so right about that. Enjoy your moment.”

“Our moment,” he reminds me, again, in a husky voice. “Go do what you need to do, because you’re far too tempting. If you don’t leave now, not only will there not be anyone to approve the place settings, but we won’t make it to any of the festivities.”

I cup his jaw. Even recently shaven, it prickles my skin. “Promise me you’ll enjoy this week. That any time you’re feeling irritable, or like you want to kill someone, you’ll tap into this moment.”

He nods. “I’ll come find you when it’s time to go.”

“I’ll be in the tent.”