Twenty-one #2
Zach waves a hand. “So we eat it. It’s a premium vintage. People expect corks.”
“But do they?” Kingston leans forward. “Studies show screw caps preserve flavor better for whites and light reds. And they’re easier to open.”
“They’re cheap,” Max snaps. “And they look it.”
“It’s not about how it looks,” I chime in. “It’s about what’s smart. We’ve got fewer bottles this year thanks to the frost. If we can cut costs without sacrificing quality, why wouldn’t we?”
Sadie stays quiet beside me, but I feel her tense with every volley across the table.
Max scoffs. “This is the problem with your generation. Always chasing efficiency instead of heritage.”
Tarryn sets down her fork. “Max, this isn’t about tradition. It’s about survival. We lost a third of the crop to the frost, and another quarter to smoke taint from the fire season. If we keep pretending we’re invincible, we won’t be around to argue about it next year.”
Zach clears his throat. “We could cut the restaurant allocations. Keep it direct-to-consumer only.”
“Or,” Max says with a smirk, “we could stop wasting resources on vinegar and tasting room fluff.”
Tarryn’s eyes narrow. “The vinegar line made a twenty-two-percent profit last quarter.”
“But it’s not wine,” he says with a shrug. “It’s novelty.”
Sadie leans over and whispers to me. “Sometimes novelty is what keeps the doors open. ”
The whole table goes still. Max’s eyes lock on hers, and for a second, I’m ready to step in. But she doesn’t flinch.
“Well,” he says, lifting his glass, “if you’ve got something to say, why don’t you tell all of us.”
“Things like the tasting room and wine gifts are a great value,” Sadie says. “People impulse buy all the time, so in my opinion, if the margins are good, why complain?”
“Miss…” He waves at me.
“Calloway,” she says. “Sadie Calloway.”
Max takes a sip. “Of course you are.”
Whatever the hell that means.
Mom swiftly changes the subject, asking Kingston about Black Bear’s irrigation around his house. The tension lifts slightly, but it lingers in the corners of the room like smoke that won’t quite clear.
After dinner, while the others are helping clean up, I guide Sadie out to the back porch. “You okay?” I ask again.
“I held my own.”
“You did,” I say. “I’m sorry he’s an ass.”
She leans on the railing, looking out over the vineyard where the last of the light is bleeding into the hills. “I should have saved my comment for the ride home. It’s my fault. But I see where Zach gets his attitude from.”
I slide in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Everyone at that table except for the two of them agreed with you. You don’t have to be quiet to belong here.”
She exhales. “What is their problem?”
“Tarryn. She’s a natural with this business. She’s not afraid of trying new things or making changes when things need to be changed. They want her to fail so they can sweep in and fix it all.”
I’d love to stay out here with Sadie all night, but eventually, I look at my watch. “We need to get going. I have an early morning.”
We go back in to say our goodbyes, and it takes us almost fifteen minutes to get out of there .
I’m trying to put the family frustrations behind me once we leave, but I don’t even make it to the end of the gravel drive before I let out a sharp breath and thump the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “God, he’s insufferable.”
Sadie sits quietly in the passenger seat, hands tucked in her lap. The porch light from the main house fades behind us as I take the turn toward the road, tires crunching over loose rock.
“I know Tarryn can handle things,” I mutter, “but Max bulldozes every damn conversation just to push his own agenda.”
Sadie’s voice is calm. “He doesn’t respect her.”
“No,” I agree. “He doesn’t. He respects control. Power. And in his mind, neither of those things belongs to Tarryn. Or to me, honestly.”
I glance over. Sadie’s watching me carefully, not with judgment, but like she’s seeing something new. Something I don’t show anyone else.
“He wanted Zach to run the winery,” I say, jaw tight. “Always did. Said it outright at a family dinner once, when Zach was seventeen and could barely tie his shoes without help. He called him the natural heir. Like the rest of us were just squatting in his legacy.”
“And you think he still believes that?”
I laugh once. “We’ve joked that he’d burn the place down before letting Tarryn take full control. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s really a joke. And Zach—he’s not really malicious, he’s just…lazy. Entitled. He’s not built for this.”
Sadie’s quiet for a few beats. “But you are.”
I shake my head. “I’m not running the vineyard. That’s never been my path. Tarryn’s doing an incredible job. Max just refuses to see it because it doesn’t fit his narrative.”
There’s a long pause as I pull onto the main road. The mood lightens a little, like just saying these things out loud drains some of the poison.
When we get home, I drop the keys in the bowl by the door and toe off my shoes. Sadie follows, wordless, but I can feel her gaze on my back.
We settle on the couch, not quite touching.
She’s the one who breaks the silence.
“You always carry it like it’s yours,” she says.
“What?”
“The family,” she says softly. “The winery. All of it. Even when it’s not your responsibility.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Because it is mine. At least in the way it matters. I see the cracks before things fall apart. And what if no one else steps in until it’s too late?”
Her voice is gentle. “That’s a hard way to live.”
I don’t answer.
She shifts closer, tucking her feet beneath her on the couch. “Beckett…”
I glance over. Her eyes are soft.
“You take care of everyone else,” she says. “Let me take care of you.”
Something in me breaks open.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just…quietly. Like a hairline fracture letting in light.
I nod.
Sadie leans into my side, her head resting on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer. And for the first time all day, I let myself breathe.
We sit like that for a long time. No expectations. No performance. Just warmth and steady presence.
Eventually, I murmur, “You make it easy.”
She looks up. “What?”
“Being still. Feeling seen.”
She reaches up and touches my jaw, fingers feather light. “Maybe that’s what we’re both learning to do.”
I tilt my head, pressing my mouth to her forehead, her temple, then finally her lips. It’s not rushed. Not hungry.
Just honest.
And when we part, her eyes shine. “I like being here with you, Beckett.”
I like it too.