“Let me help you with the glasses,” Julia said to Mrs. Mercer. She poured the lemonade, then took a sip. “This is so refreshing. My grandmother made it exactly—down to the mint leaves!”
Mrs. Mercer smiled at Julia and interjected smoothly, “Oh, Dr. Da Silva, you must tell me again about that marvelous new hygienist you hired. Mildred, wasn’t it?”
At this, Dr. Da Silva launched into a new monologue about Mildred’s exceptional dental technique. Julia nodded along, feigning interest. After a while, she excused herself with a mention of early morning plans. Mrs. Mercer took the cue and walked her to the door while Dr. Da Silva’s monologue continued, undeterred by Julia’s departure.
“Such a busy girl you are. Thank you for this lovely visit,” she said, patting her hand. “And the gardenias!” Busy, yes. But perhaps, also a little lonely. Julia felt a pang of disappointment. It had something to do with the sadness Mrs. Mercer had guessed in her.
When she entered her apartment, the long weekend stretched in front of her. She was hungry. Her hair needed washing. She opened her computer and clicked on her usual online haunts, including the wine forum. Nothing new or exciting had been posted. She stopped typing and looked at her chipped fingernails. All of a sudden, she felt that all of her was broken. She headed for the freezer, grabbed a pint of raspberry sorbet and returned to the couch. What was CabernetCrusader doing on a Friday night? She wondered. The thought struck her as ridiculous. It had been a long draining week. She just needed some rest.
Their online standoff might have continued indefinitely, if not for a single post that would change everything between them.
Chapter 3
Direct Messages
On Sunday morning, Julia woke up, made a pot of coffee and posted about discovering a bottle of 1967 Château d’Yquem while cleaning out her grandmother’s house:
HaintBlueJulia: Found this treasure hiding behind mason jars of peach preserves. Label is pristine. Fill level looks good. Worth saving for a special occasion. She saved it for 50+ years—not sure she ever found an occasion special enough.
Dylan read the post three times. Possibly the greatest sweet wine in the world, Château d’Yquem was known for its incredible complexity, longevity, and balance. There were numerous legendary vintages, but few rivaled the reputation of the 1967 for its luscious sweetness and the vibrant acidity that allowed it to age well over decades. It was a lucky find. Dylan was excited, just reading about it.
Before he could second-guess himself, he typed:
CabernetCrusader: That vintage is extraordinary—honeyed, complex, with notes that unfold for hours. But wine isn’t meant to be preserved indefinitely. The special occasion isn’t what warrants the wine. Sometimes, the wine makes the occasion special.
His response was more personal than anything he’d written in a while. Dylan hesitated before posting, aware he was revealing too much about his current state of mind. Everything he knew about wine, he owed to Uncle Tobias. His late uncle, who loved life and wine in equal measure, and who often said that uncorking a young Bordeaux was to commit infanticide with a corkscrew, what would hesay about HaintBlueJulia and her treasure? He’d probably advise to wait for a spectacular occasion, worthy of this wine. But after what happened in Turkey, Dylan wasn’t so sure. Was there an occasion in life big enough for a bottle like this? He meant what he had said to HaintBlueJulia. But he didn’t want to get too personal in an online forum crowded with strangers.
Julia read his comment, surprised by the recognition. Here was someone who understood the cost of perpetual postponement. Someone who, like her, might be holding back.
She typed a more personal response, too:
HaintBlueJulia: You have a point. Anticipation can become its own trap. I think Grandma was saving the bottle for a mythical “perfect moment” that never came. Maybe the lesson isn’t about finding the right occasion. Is a bag of tortilla chips special enough?
CabernetCrusader:A bag of tortilla chips? Well, it depends on the chips. Are we talking artisanal, small-batch, heirloom corn chips with a story? Or the kind you find at a gas station, destined for immediate, unapologetic crunching? Must confess, I was picturing something a little more … candlelit.
HaintBlueJulia:Oh, a purist, are you? Candlelight can be arranged. Intrigue, too. You can always start with the Yquem and then … improvise? If only we were bold enough to give this bottle a fair shake.
Dylan stopped, a thoughtful pause, then a smile you could almost hear.
CabernetCrusader:A fair shake. Now, that’s an intriguing proposition – to let the wine guide the evening. It’s a kind of defiance against the tyranny of the ’perfect’ occasion. And perhaps the wine will feel less judged.
HaintBlueJulia:Precisely! No pressure for it to be a Nobel Prize ceremony. Just two people, a legendary bottle, and the courage to make an ordinary night unforgettable.
Dylan stared at her reply. It was more of a challenge. Her post challenged him to think beyond his own carefully-curated world. He liked the controlled connection they had, a friendship without the complications of deeper involvement. The complexity of a new relationship—even a digital one—felt like more than he could handle at this point. But it also bothered him that their public exchanges were drawing attention from other members. Several had commented on their lengthy discussions, some with amusement, others with mild irritation.
Before he could change his mind, he typed:
CabernetCrusader:I think we’re in agreement. No need to wait for world peace, or a comet strike! The best kind of special occasion might be the one you create. And besides, that bottle has waited long enough. Should we take this conversation private?
After a few minutes of internal debate, Dylan composed a sort of disclaimer. The disclaimer felt necessary—a gentle way to set expectations.
CabernetCrusader:Fair warning. It may take me a while to respond. Too much to explain here. I’ve genuinely enjoyed our exchanges, though.
Julia’s stomach did a flip-flop. Fair warning. Given her own wariness about rushing into things, his caution was reassuring. Sort of.
She waited until early Sunday afternoon to send him the first direct message:
Dylan was in his workshop, an airy space just outside Newport, when his phone buzzed.
