Dr. Spencer (Dempsey Follies #3)

Josie

One

I’m already awake. Today is the first day of my grandmother Evelyn Dempsey’s trial for sabotage of the winery next door, and my sleep thinned out around three and never fully returned.

By the time I’m in jeans and boots, the air outside carries that metallic edge that doesn’t belong in late April.

Bud break on our vines started this week. That makes this dangerous.

I head straight for Block Three, the low pocket near the lake where cold pools first. The rows stretch out in dim blue light, shoots faintly luminous against old wood, tender growth pushing into air that doesn’t yet deserve it.

Vineyard manager Mark Dunn’s truck pulls up behind me before I reach the hollow. Mark is my right hand.

“You saw it?” he calls, stepping out.

“I saw it.”

He checks his phone. “North block’s holding at 0.8. This pocket’s colder.”

“It always is.” I crouch and press my fingers against a primary shoot. Soft. Elastic. Alive. If it drops to zero and holds, these primaries will blacken. The vine will eventually push secondaries, but they’ll be weaker, fewer clusters, uneven fruit set. We’ll spend July compensating for April.

Mark studies the sky. “Forecast says it’ll turn in fifteen.”

“Forecast also said 1.2 overnight.”

He doesn’t argue with that. My phone vibrates in my hand.

Ric: Media is already reporting from outside the courthouse.

I slide the phone into my pocket without answering. It’s too early for that, and I have other things to worry about right now.

Temperature: 0.5°C.

Mark glances toward the equipment shed. “We can wait five minutes. See if it stabilizes.”

“No.”

He exhales through his nose. “Fuel’s not cheap.”

The temperature refreshes. 0.4°C. That’s enough.

“Start the wind machines in Three and Four,” I say. “Frost pots in the lowest section by the lake. I want air moving before it touches zero.”

He studies me a second longer, probably measuring whether I’m reacting to the weather or to the day’s impending court proceedings, and then reaches for his radio.

The first machine roars to life at the far end of the block, blades turning slow and heavy, pulling warmer air down from just above the inversion layer. The sound carries across the vineyard, mechanical and steady.

Temperature: 0.3°C.

A seasonal worker jogs toward us, breath visible. “Machine in Four’s not kicking over,” he says. “It’s trying but—”

“Battery?” Mark asks.

“Could be.”

I don’t wait. I head toward Block Four with them, boots slick with dew. The machine sits silent at the edge of the row, blades still, engine coughing.

“How long’s it been?” I ask.

“Two minutes.”

Two minutes at 0.3°C is long enough to matter in the low ground.

“Jump it,” I demand.

“We tried,” the workers say.

“Then pull the truck closer and try again,” Mark demands, coming up behind us.

Cables clamp. The engine sputters, catches, and then dies.

Temperature: 0.2°C.

The hollow feels colder against my calves than it did ten minutes ago. The air presses down, heavy and unmoving.

“We should have serviced this last week,” the worker mutters.

“We did,” Mark snaps.

“It doesn’t matter,” I snip. “Get it running.”

They try again. The engine grinds, hesitates, and finally comes to life, blades beginning their slow rotation. But I don’t breathe out until the machine is moving.

Across the boundary line, the Paradise vineyard wind machines are still off. Either their ground is warmer or they’re gambling. Temperature: 0.1°C.

Mark looks at me. “If it hits zero, we light the rest?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll double the fuel.”

I shrug. “We don’t have a choice.”

There’s no drama in it, just arithmetic.

The temperature flickers on my screen. 0.0°C. The number holds for three seconds that feel much, much longer.

“Light the pots.” We’ve placed fuel-burning heaters between our lowest-elevation rows of vines to raise the temperature and protect the grapes and buds from freezing.

The crew moves quickly now, metal clanging as they set and ignite the frost pots along the lowest stretch. Small flames bloom down the row, controlled and contained, adding just enough warmth to break the edge. The wind machines push the warmed air outward. 0.0°C… 0.1°C.

I watch the shoots in the nearest row, searching for the first sign of burn. Ice crystals would show along the tips if we were too late. I kneel and look closely. No crystallization or darkening.

Mark stands beside me. “It’s turning.”

The eastern horizon brightens, sunlight pushing over the ridge. 0.2°C. 0.3°C. The cold eases its grip, almost reluctantly. The machines continue turning as the light spreads across the rows, green shoots catching warmth.

“We’re clear,” Mark says.

“For now. Leave them running another twenty.”

He studies me. “You going to court today?”

“Eventually.” I turn away. I can’t look at him. I don’t have any desire to be there, but we’ve all agreed to attend on Evie’s first day of court. She’s essentially admitted to sabotaging our long-time rivals, the Paradise family, and it might take us down in the process.

Mark glances toward the boundary line. “Paradise didn’t start theirs.”

“I noticed.”

“Maybe they didn’t need to.”

“Maybe.”

Or maybe they decided the optics of visible frost defense weren’t worth the fuel cost on a morning when cameras are pointed at the courthouse instead of the vines. My phone vibrates again.

Ric: Judge moved us up to first on the docket.

The vineyard around me looks calm now, frost pots glowing, machines turning steady, shoots glinting green. We held the line, not because we panicked, but because we moved first. The morning could have cost us. Instead, we’ll pay for it in fuel. I’ll take that trade.

By the time I’m back at the house, it’s just after nine. The frost has lifted, the machines are quiet, and the crew has moved on to tying canes in Block Two. Court will be in session. My phone rings.

It’s Claire Rice with Costal Liquors, one of our largest buyers. She oversees a majority of the restaurant liquor sales here in British Columbia, which makes up a solid twenty percent of our annual sales.

She doesn’t usually call me. Distribution questions go through Sera, always. I answer anyway.

“Hi, Claire.”

“Josie.” Her voice is warm. “I’m sorry to call you directly. I tried Sera twice.”

“She’s at court,” I say. “What’s going on?”

There’s a brief pause—not uncertainty, but preparation. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. We’ve had a few restaurant owners reach out this morning. Nothing dramatic. Just concerned.”

“Concerned about what?”

“The coverage,” she says carefully. “The news is running older footage. Talking about the feud. Your grandmother. The sabotage.”

“That footage has nothing to do with what’s in their cellars.”

“I know that, and our team knows that. But guests don’t always separate the wine from the headline, and some owners would rather avoid the conversation altogether.”

I lean against the counter and look out at the vineyard, where everything appears orderly and unaffected.

“They’ve already committed to fall placements,” I say. “The wine is bottled, labeled, warehoused.”

“Yes. And this isn’t about the wine itself.”

Of course it isn’t.

“Paradise has been calling too,” she adds.

My ears perk up. “Saying what?”

“That they understand this is a difficult season. That they’re focused on stability and community. That they’re looking forward.”

The television in the kitchen is muted, but I see Max Paradise standing in front of cameras, and the closed captioning running across the bottom has him blabbering about unity in the Black Bear Valley.

My grandmother sits in court today, but his day is coming.

He’s just as much a part of this as she is.

“And?” I ask impatiently.

“And some restaurants feel it may be simpler to shift attention away from the headlines.”

Simpler. “What are you telling me, Claire?”

Another breath. “My boss has decided to cancel part of our order.”

The words feel like a blow. “Which part?”

“Estate Reserve.”

The Gold. Two weeks ago Claire and I stood together in London while they called Black Bear Estate Reserve to the podium. She shook my hand in the lobby afterward and told me it would change everything.

“That’s the bottle your buyers poured at the tasting,” I say. “That’s the one restaurants build menus around.”

“I know.” She sighs. “It has nothing to do with the quality of the product.”

“But you’re pulling it.”

“We’re shifting it,” she says gently. “To Paradise. For now.”

“For now,” I repeat. “One hundred cases.”

“Your wines are important to us…” she begins, but I stop listening.

Black Bear can move distribution elsewhere. Smaller groups would take us. But Coastal gives us reach, leverage, visibility we won’t be able to replicate overnight, and we both know that.

“We could move our business,” I interrupt after a moment, not as a threat, just a fact laid on the table.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she replies, and she sounds sincere. “We value Black Bear. This isn’t about quality.”

“It’s about discomfort.” My head is beginning to hurt.

“Yes.”

“It’s about a guest asking a server why the name on the bottle is also on the news.”

“Exactly.”

Silence hangs between us, heavy with the reality that neither of us controls the decision that’s been made.

“If things quiet down,” she says, “we can revisit placement.”

Nothing about that wine has changed. Nothing about how we farm has changed. But the story did. My grandmother’s choices have implications she will never be able to acknowledge.

“I’ll send an updated invoice,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“And Claire?”

“Yes?”

“I wish you’d called before the decision.”

She pauses, and this time the hesitation is sharper. “It wasn’t my choice, and I tried to reach Sera,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hearing it second-hand.”

“Well, thank you for that.”