The bewildered old man just blinked at me.

Turning toward the crowd, I brought it to my lips. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve got something to say.”

The room hushed. Expressions ranged from curious to concerned to shocked—I was generally a quiet, dignified sort of person. Not at all the type of woman to commandeer Santa’s mic and lecture a room full of people just trying to enjoy their Bloody Marys and quiche.

“For any of you who don’t know me, I’m Sylvia Baxter—at least, I’ve been Sylvia Baxter for the last fifteen years. And Sylvia Baxter is classy. Sylvia Baxter takes the high road. Sylvia Baxter behaves.” I paused. “Sylvia Baxter is on the Nice List.”

A disapproving murmur rippled through the room.

“But there are some people in this room who are not on the Nice List. In fact, there are some people here at the top of the Naughty List.”

A child in line to see Santa burst into tears.

“Philandering husbands who cheat and lie about it—they’re on the Naughty List.” I glared at Brett and then at Kimmy. “Naive salesgirls from J.Crew who spread nasty gossip—they’re on the Naughty List.” I stared down Tippy and the rest of my former confidantes. “Disloyal social climbers who call themselves friends even as they stick knives in your back—they’re on the Naughty List.”

At that point, Brett left his table and was starting to walk toward the dance floor.

Oh, hell no. I would not let that man silence me.

But I knew I should probably wrap this up.

“The rest of you are probably on the Nice List,” I said, talking more quickly now that Brett was headed my way. “And if you want to make sure you stay there, it’s actually really easy.” I shrugged. “Don’t be an asshole. Merry Christmas, everybody. Peace out.”

Then I held out my arm and dropped the mic.

It sounded terrible. It looked ridiculous. Santa was going to switch me to the Naughty List, and people around here were going to talk shit about me for years to come.

But it felt really badass.

And that was worth it.

Two

Henry

“Hey. You still here?”

I looked up from the oak barrel I was working on, surprised to see Declan MacAllister walking across the stone floor of the cavernous winery cellar. As the CFO of Cloverleigh Farms, he didn’t poke his head back here too often. “Hey, Mack. What’s up?”

“I saw your car in the lot. It’s Saturday night, DeSantis. You’re a swinging single dude now. You’re supposed to be out hooking up with chicks, not here in this bunker giving your wine a massage.”

I laughed. “Bâtonnage, not massage.”

“Whatever,” he said, watching me insert a long metal baton into the hole in the barrel’s side. “God, I really want to make a sexual joke right now. Would that be considered workplace harassment?”

“Listen, this is about as sexual as my Saturday night is gonna get, so no jokes, please.” I worked the baton back and forth, scraping its curved metal foot along the bottom of the barrel.

Mack shook his head. “That is depressing as fuck. I can’t even bring myself to make fun of you for it.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“Come on, you need to get out of here. Let’s go to my house for a beer and some dinner. Frannie has a roast in the oven.”

“No way. I’m not intruding on your Saturday night with your wife.” But my mouth watered at the idea of a roast. I hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal like that in forever. But Mack, a single dad of three girls, and Frannie had just gotten married a couple months ago—right about the time Renee, my ex-wife, had served me with divorce papers and left for good.

“Are you kidding? I’ve got three kids, DeSantis. There is no Saturday night that does not involve intrusion. And what else are you gonna do tonight, huh?”

I hesitated. The truth was, tonight’s itinerary looked something like this:

1) Eat some shitty leftovers straight from the carton.

2) Watch some terrible porn that didn’t even turn me on.

3) Jerk off anyway.

4) Go to sleep.

But I couldn’t say that. And I didn’t want to be anyone’s Saturday night charity project. “Actually, I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll be here for a while.”

Mack wouldn’t give up. “Listen, Henry, I’ve been the divorced guy. I know all about the crappy takeout food and talking to your TV and feeling like everybody else in the fucking world is having a better time than you.” He gestured toward the barrels. “Although, in your case, it might be true.”

Laughing, I pulled the baton out, replaced the air lock valve, and moved on to the next barrel. “I actually enjoy my work.”

“But you’ve been in here nonstop since the harvest,” he went on. “I’m beginning to think you’re sleeping here.”

“I go home eventually.” But the truth was, I preferred the bright, open spaces of the winery to the dark, empty rooms of my house. As head winemaker, I always had something to do here. We were a small operation, but I was involved in every single step of the process, both out in the vineyard and here in the cellar. And we did everything by hand, at my insistence, which meant a lot of extra patience and skill and time, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. At home, all I did was sit around and wonder where the fuck I’d gone wrong.

But that wasn’t Mack’s problem.

“What are you still doing here anyway, if Frannie’s got dinner in the oven?” I asked.

“I had to bring a bunch of Christmas presents from Santa to my office to hide. The girls are constantly on the hunt for them.”

Hiding presents from Santa—just one more rite of fatherhood I wouldn’t get to experience.

I buried the thought before it got to me. “They still believe in Santa, huh?”

Mack pulled on a knit winter hat. “Winnie does for sure. She’s only five. Felicity’s eight and suspicious of everything, so that’s a maybe. Millie is thirteen, so probably not, but she’s putting on a pretty good show. Frannie told her anyone who doesn’t believe gets three fewer gifts so she wouldn’t ruin it for her sisters.”

“Smart.”

“She is.”

“How’d you get her to marry you, anyway?”

Mack looked genuinely perplexed as he shook his head. “Seriously, I’ve got no fucking idea.”

After Mack left, I finished up my barrel work, returned some emails, tasted some riesling from the tanks, made some notes, straightened up the lab, and looked around to see if there was anything else that needed to be done before I headed home.

There wasn’t, but I didn’t feel like facing my empty house yet, the one I’d hoped would be full of family by now. So instead of going out to the parking lot, I zipped up my coat, pulled on a hat and gloves, and went out to the vineyard.

It was cold, late December in Michigan cold, but I didn’t mind. I liked the smell of winter, the sharp sting of the air in my lungs, the crunch of the snow beneath my boots. I walked the rows of dormant vines, thinking over the past season, getting a feel for the energy of the upcoming growth, contemplating new strategies for each block of vines. I was always happiest out here in the vineyard, no matter the season. The vines could be cooperative or temperamental, fragile or hardy, but they spoke a language I understood, and I knew how to nurture, shape, and renew them into something beautiful year after year.