I rolled up the door of unit 31, my hands shaking with dread, and the light fell on racks, floor to ceiling, of wine bottles, hundreds of them, laid on their sides in the cool dark, each one labeled in Walters careful hand with a date, and many of those dates were years in the future.
I stood in that doorway, my fear giving way to bewilderment, then to tears.
Real particular that no one be added but him, the man had said, and now I understood, my Walter was preparing a surprise meant to unfold over decades, and he could not risk anyone finding it and spoiling the secret, least of all himself, who could not keep one.
The man who would tell you your Christmas gift by Thanksgiving had been quietly laying down wine for seventeen years, one bottle at a time, and every bottle was marked with a date that mattered to us.
The year we married. The years our children were born. And most of all, whole racks marked for anniversaries and weddings and births still to come, our childrens future celebrations, our grandchildrens someday weddings, years and years into the future.
His letter, on a little table, explained. He wrote: Old girl, I started laying down a bottle for every big day this family will ever have, to be opened at the anniversaries and weddings and births still coming. Fine wine needs years to become itself. I wanted our family to toast every happy day for the next fifty years with wine I chose myself, thinking of them. I told the folks to add nobody but me because you know I would have spilled the whole surprise by Thanksgiving. I will not be at all those celebrations. But my wine will. Open them at the right times, and I will be there too. Love, Walter.
I wept among my husbands bottles, each one a future toast he prepared in advance, for days he knew he would not live to see.
Particular that no one be added, because he could not keep the surprise otherwise, and he meant it to last for decades.
I have been opening them at the right times ever since. At our daughters anniversary, the bottle marked with her wedding year, and we toasted the father who chose it. At my grandsons graduation, another. Each one a gift from Walter, arriving on schedule, from beyond.
My daughter did not know why I drove out to Route 11. Now she knows her daddy laid down a toast for every happy day this family will ever have. Particular that no one be added, so the secret would keep. We toast him at every celebration now. He is at every one. My thoughtful, loving Walter saw to it.