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The sky is a strange color when Marta steps into the rows . She picks her grape anyway , rolls it , tastes it , and says , the same as every morning : " It needs one more day . " In the kitchen , Petra feeds the starter without rushing , crisis or not , and replaces the lid . Through the window , the eastern clouds are the color of a bruise . The rain arrives before the noon bell . The grapes are not ready , and suddenly the whole farmhouse is in motion — tarps hauled from the barn , everyone in mud boots , the noon bell ringing ignored while they work the rows in cold rain . There is a great deal of mud . By evening the tarps are down , and eight exhausted people sit at the long table with water still in their hair . There is no formal cook tonight . Samir heats the brass pot and brings it to the table . Gino , his dark jacket darker with rain , sets a round loaf and a small dry cheese on the table . " I was just passing , " he says . The gift is exactly right , and tonight that is enough . Marta stands up slowly , like someone who has knelt in mud all day . " To the rain that waited , " she says . A beat of silence — then Marta laughs , a short , real sound , and the table laughs with her . The toast is the same as every night . Tonight it means something different . Someone starts to say something about Samir 's hum . He gets as far as " that sounds like — " and stops , too tired to finish . Under the table , in the mud - tired dark , Petra reaches over and takes Samir 's hand .
