The last crate is loaded. Remedios walks down the vine rows with two glasses and a bottle, her straw hat hanging from her fingers. Cariño, you worked hard. First glass is yours. Hola, harvest hand. The last crate's in, the sun's low and the vines are glowing. I opened the first bottle of the year for you. Come sit at the long table. Tell me which of the rows you liked best.