The hills around Keuka learned a new smell before the town learned a new word.

First came a green smell, sharp and hopeful. Then a warmer scent rolled down the slopes—grapes. It smelled like sun on skins, crushed leaves, and a little bread-sweet from wild yeast waking up.

Wooden stakes went into the ground. Wires stretched from post to post. Vines reached and curled, like careful handwriting across the hill.

A girl named Vera walked the rows with her father. The earth was dark and crumbly under her boots. The wind in her hair told stories.

"South wind tastes like peaches," she said one day, licking her lips. "West like apples that crunch. North like a cold hand on a warm cup."

Her father laughed softly. "Grapes are stories," he told her. "Each cluster is a chapter. Don't rush the ending."

One afternoon, Vera stood on a flat rock by the lake, choosing stones. She picked only the thin, flat ones. "You," she told one stone, "can fly." She skipped it across the surface—one, two, three, four skips.

Just then, a green-gold head rose nearby.

"Good throw," Karl said.

Vera gasped, then grinned. "Hello," she said. "I'm learning about bubbles."

"Water makes many bubbles," Karl said. "Which kind?"

"The kind in bottles," Vera said. "Father says we borrow winter from the cellar and give it back to summer in a drink called wine." She leaned in and whispered, "He says not to say 'champagne' in front of anyone from France."

Karl laughed his deep, dock-board laugh—huh-huh-huh—and drew a bright, friendly curve so the minnows would stop panicking.

Harvest came like a joyful storm. Baskets filled. Baskets emptied. Hands moved fast, sorting fruit by sound as much as by sight. The press sighed and sang as juice flowed. In the cool cellars of Pleasant Valley and other wineries, bottles rested in long rows, learning to sparkle in the dark.

Some nights, frost tiptoed down the hill, trying to bite the lowest vines. Karl rose into the shallows and pushed a thin sheet of lake-breath into the air. The gentle fog slid over the coldest rows and bought them another precious hour.

Vera's father walked the vineyard with a lantern. When he saw the thin mist guarding his vines, he lifted his light like a man tipping his hat to a neighbor.

Far away, in Paris in 1867, judges at a great fair tasted a sparkling wine from this valley. They gave it a prize. A telegram carried the news home. The paper crackled with excitement.

Men tried the word "Paris" on their tongues and smiled. Women laughed that quiet, shining laugh that means of course while pretending surprise so the moment could taste even sweeter.

Vera stood on the cooperage step with a cork in her fist. "Bubbles to bubbles!" she shouted toward the lake.

Down at the fork, Karl felt the news come as pressure and brightness all at once. He traced a shining ring on the surface. Fish nosed the circle, as if to say, Well done, hills. High over Bluff Point, a hawk tipped one wing. That was how hawks clapped.

The hills were learning to sing in a new key. The lake listened. The keeper smiled.