37. Daniela

The luncheon is something I’ve always known about, but it’s a private affair that only involves the Port houses. A grand private affair.

We were thirty minutes late, but they held the lunch for us, because Antonio personally notified them that there was a malfunction with the helicopter. I guess that’s what we’re calling dead gunmen these days. He doesn’t usually lie—he doesn’t have to—but with the gala at our house tonight, it seemed wiser to keep the details under wrap.

It’s been kept so quiet that even Valentina doesn’t know. Or at least she didn’t mention it when I spoke to her on the way to the luncheon. Hopefully she doesn’t know. I’d hate to think that my sweet girl is so jaded that an intruder with a gun isn’t worth mentioning.

Premier, the Port house that Abel Huntsman owns, had no one in attendance. They’re apparently in disarray, mired in legal woes, because Antonio is insisting that with Tomas missing, and Abel incapacitated, the company belongs to Rafael. Not everyone agrees.

The young Huntsman Port walked away with all the important prizes. I was positively giddy, but Antonio entered the end zone, cool as a cucumber, like he’d been there before. I suppose he has—although never like this.

What took me by surprise is that each time Huntsman Port was called to the podium to collect a ribbon or a trophy, Antonio took my hand, eyes shining with pride, and pulled me to the stage with him. It sent a clear message to everyone in the room: I was not just his wife. I was his partner. No one appreciated that message more than my heart.

The helicopter descends, circling Quinta Rosa do Valebefore it lands on the west side of the property. I haven’t been here in more than six years, and I’m flooded with emotion. But I’m prepared for the onslaught. I expected a wide range of feelings. After all, this is where I grew up, where my parents died, where I first learned to be a mother, and what I abandoned when it became too dangerous for my little cobbled-together family. Those are just the highlights. Millions of memories are sandwiched in between.

Antonio takes my hands and presses a small kiss to each knuckle while we wait for the blades to stop. “We can stop at the house before we leave, but we won’t have much time to spend there.”

I shake my head. “I’d prefer to come back when there’s more time.” And no one to witness my emotions spilling out all over the place. I want to see the house. I want to wander through the rooms and soak up the memories while I have a good cry. But I’ve waited this long. I can wait a while longer. Today isn’t the day.

An armored SUV takes us to a covered picnic area in the vineyards where Antonio will congratulate the workers and tell them that the Port they made won the big trophy and a dozen ribbons. He’ll hold them up, one by one, and they’ll cheer.

The results from the luncheon are always kept closely guarded, until everyone has had an opportunity to go back and share the news, sometimes good, sometimes not so good, with the workers who had a hand in production. It’s a respected tradition.

We pass the winery on the far end of the property that was built while I was in the US. Wine was never made here until Antonio took over the property. This winery is where the prize-winning Port was made from grapes harvested from the D’Sousa southern vineyards. My mother’s vineyards.

When the car stops, Antonio gets out, and helps me out, too. He holds my hand tight as we duck into the covered pavilion, to raucous applause.

My head is whirling. I’ve been present for moments like this for much of my life. Winning Port is rarely made without D’Sousa grapes.

Some of the faces I see are new, and others are old friends, who recognize me and wave madly. I wave back, feeling inside like a little girl with braids who skipped through the vineyard with her dollies, and later her friends.

I feel my parents. I see them in the faces of many of the workers. It’s a poignant moment, but there’s a pure joy that overcomes the wistfulness.

Antonio climbs three steps to a raised platform. I stand nearby, feet firmly on the ground, wrestling with emotions that are bubbling precariously close to the surface.

“You don’t fool me,” he says, playing to the crowd. “I know your cheers are for the friend I brought along.”

More applause. Whistles. Laughter.

My cheeks are warm, but I grin from ear to ear.

“I want to thank each of you for all the hard work you do, day after day, to keep the vines healthy and lush, the grapes juicy and sweet, and the Port stellar. Without you, our Port would be just another bottle of wine.”

More applause. Almost deafening. I clap, too. The crowd is respectful, but not reserved, even in the face of Antonio Huntsman, who has a well-earned reputation of being ruthless. But he treated them all fairly when he took over after I left. He honored contracts, gave everyone a raise, and made enhancements to the property. He earned their loyalty.

“I know you’re waiting to learn the results from today’s luncheon,” he teases. “I’m going to let someone special tell you about it.”

Antonio steps off the platform and puts his hand out so I’ll go up. We didn’t plan this—at least I didn’t. I must look like I’m about to faint, because he leans down and whispers, “This is your moment, Princesa. Enjoy the hell out of it.”

The crowd begins to chant D’Sousa, D’Sousa, as I climb the steps to the microphone, with my head spinning like a top.

I compose myself while they chant and cheer, and by the time they’re quiet, I know exactly where to begin.

“It’s my great honor to be here today, on behalf of my parents, and representing Huntsman Port. I’ve missed you so much.” That last part wasn’t rehearsed inside my head. It just came gushing out of my heart.

“We missed you, too!” Several people shout back, to more whooping.

My entire being smiles, as I put out my arms. “You did it!” I cry, practically doing a little dance on that mini-stage. “Huntsman Port, made exclusively with Rosa do Vale grapes, won everything! You did it!”

“We did it!” a man shouts from the back, as people leap to their feet, hugging each other.

This isn’t just a windfall for a company. This is a point of pride for every single person in this room. They didn’t just create an outstanding Port; they’re celebrating their part in the rich history of the Douro Valley. Vintage years live forever.

“Te amo,” I mouth as Antonio tries to hand me the prizes and trophies, but I don’t take them. Instead, I take his arm and tug him toward the stage, begging with my eyes for him to join me. And he does.

We hold every ribbon in the air, every trophy, then display it on a table for people to admire close up as they leave.

“Before we go, and leave you to get on with your day,” Antonio tells the crowd when we’re done, “I have one more announcement.” He nods to a man in the corner, who brings a standing easel, draped with a velvet cloth, to the stage. He places it at the edge, where everyone can see.

“Do you want to unveil the masterpiece?” Antonio asks me, before turning toward the room, his eyes glittering. “She doesn’t know what this is, either,” he says in a stage whisper to the crowd, who are eating out of his hand.

This is the boy I fell in love with as a child.In charge, always, but not afraid to be playful. I don’t see this side of him often enough.

“These good people don’t have all day, woman. Get on with it.”

I laugh with everyone else while I carefully remove the cloth.

I gasp, clenching the velvet to my chest, while I step back to admire a rendering of the Huntsman and Rosa do Vale logos, melded together to create something new. When I glance at Antonio, the dam breaks, and my tears and smiles twirl joyously.

“The Port that garnered so many of this year’s awards will be released under a brand-new, exclusive label. The new label will only feature special vintages. It celebrates the partnership between Huntsman and D’Sousa. This is the first new label that Huntsman has put out in a century.”

I can barely breathe as I leap into my husband’s arms like no one is watching.