41.1

“You learn,” he said simply. “Let your tongue to decide. The grapes are ready? Or no, they need more sun.” Jacques had a habit of omitting certain words when he spoke in English, though I’d heard him speak fluently when talking to other winemakers at a meeting we attended recently. When he was flustered, words dropped.

“I know how to read the refractometer,” I told him, hoping we could just fall back on the science of numbers. Those, at least, were clear.

“That is half,” he said, huffing out a breath. “Maybe less than half. Wine . . . it is art. It is shadows of certainty. The winemaker, he is decisive and smart. He—or she—must trust the heart, the mind, the mouth. You decide.” He poked me in the chest, hard.

I stepped back and pulled a grape from another bunch, closing my eyes and letting the juice burst on my tongue. I knew I was supposed to be measuring the sugar content to determine whether these grapes were ready to harvest or not, but I didn’t have a lot of experience trusting m