Thirty-five
Trinity
G reyson and I haven’t been very social with others in the week since I returned to Paradise. It seems we have a lot to catch up on. But I am visiting my mom every day, and I’m also finding my footing with my new contract with the hospital back in Vancouver. They’re building a new wing, and I’m in charge of making sure the disruption to care is minimal. Greyson seemed surprised that wouldn’t just happen naturally. I’ve determined, yet again, that as long as things work well, doctors are pretty oblivious. They don’t know how much work goes into making sure that happens.
But today, it’s the weekend, and we’re headed to the crush fundraiser at the vineyard. I’m looking forward to seeing Tarryn and the rest of his family again.
As we drive past rows upon rows of lush grapevines, Greyson’s voice is tinged with pride. “This event is a big deal around here. We’re hosting it to benefit Backpack Buddies this year, a program that helps kids take food home to their families who are in need.”
I glance out the window, feeling my anticipation build. “Sounds incredible,” I reply.
The car rolls to a stop behind the family home. We step out, and together we ascend the hill toward the event, the sound of chatter and laughter growing louder with each step.
The scene that greets us is organized chaos. The event isn’t open yet, and everyone is scurrying around, preparing. Vendors are setting up booths, the food trucks are busy doing prep, and people everywhere are waving and calling out directions. Greyson spots his parents in the thick of it and insists on introducing me.
His mother’s laughter reaches my ears before I see her. And then Greyson waves as we approach. “Mom, Dad, this is Trinity,” he says, beaming.
His mother envelops me in a hug so warm and encompassing it feels like coming home. “Welcome, dear! Call me Vicky,” she says.
Trace, Greyson’s father, follows with a firm handshake, his weathered skin a testament to years of hard work. “You’re in good hands with this one,” he says, nodding toward Greyson, his gaze steady.
“Any of the rest of the family here?” Greyson asks, scanning the crowd.
Trace gives a look that’s equal parts amusement and resignation. “Everyone but Beckett. You know your brother, probably trying to make an entrance.”
“Or just lost track of time,” I quip.
Greyson chuckles.
“Always late,” Vicky adds, shaking her head fondly as if tardiness is an endearing trait only Beckett could get away with.
It’s clear they’re a family stitched together by love and gentle teasing, a family I’m beginning to feel a part of, even if just on the periphery.
“Let me show you around,” Greyson suggests, and I nod, ready to immerse myself in the heart of Paradise Hill.
He leads me toward the large stage where a microphone stands, waiting for the day’s serenades. “Rebel Luv will be rocking us later.” He grins, pointing to the band’s vintage-style poster tacked up on a nearby tree. The name alone promises a throwback to slicked-back hair and guitar twangs that I can’t wait to hear.
I survey the circle of food trucks nearby, each one with a quirky name emblazoned on its side in bold, colorful letters—Green Machine, Cone Zone, Wok This Way, Burger Bus, Taco ‘Bout It, and BBQ Bandit. The aromas mingle in the air, a heady perfume of sizzling spices and sweet desserts. My mouth waters.
Then Tarryn, a whirlwind of enthusiasm, charges toward us with arms flung wide. “Trinity!” she exclaims, nearly tackling me in a fierce hug. “Welcome home! When you start planning your wedding, count me in! I started as the event planner here when I was fifteen. I know all the ins and outs.” Tarryn beams.
“Whoa there, Tornado Tarryn.” Greyson chuckles, stepping between us with a playful wag of his finger. “Give her a chance to breathe. She just got here.”
“Trust me, if you don’t want half the guys here hitting on her, you’d better lock it down,” Tarryn teases, waggling her eyebrows.
“Tarryn!” Greyson groans.
I pat his arm. “We’re not quite there yet,” I tell her. “But I’ll remember you’re the go-to for planning.”
“Promise?” Tarryn’s smile is bright.
“Cross my heart,” I affirm, and for a moment, I’m swept up in the possibility of a future filled with love and laughter, right here in this little slice of paradise.
I’m still basking in Tarryn’s warm welcome when a voice cuts across the parking area.
“Did I overhear someone’s getting hitched?” The man who ap proaches wears an easy grin.
Greyson’s expression tenses for a split second before he turns to me. “Trinity, you remember my older brother, Kingston.” He gestures to the man with the playful smirk.
“Nice to see you again.” Kingston extends a strong hand that swallows mine in a firm shake. “Glad to see Grey took my advice on locking down a good one.”
Before I can process the comment, another figure joins us, bearing a striking family resemblance.
“Ryker, it’s nice of you to join us,” Tarryn says.
A third, whose features echo the familial lines, trails behind him. “Our cousin Zane,” Greyson adds.
We exchange pleasantries, their warmth drawing me in immediately.
“Everything looks incredible, Tarryn,” Kingston remarks, sweeping a hand toward the festivities.
“Doesn’t it?” Tarryn beams and accepts their compliments with a flourish. “Couldn’t have done it without your help,” she says, including them all in her gratitude.
The moment is punctuated by a sudden swell of sound as the front gates open, unleashing a stream of eager attendees into the venue. Children’s laughter ricochets off the hills, mixing with the chatter of adults. Tarryn seizes the opportunity, her voice carrying over the crowd.
“Everyone, make sure you hit the Grape Stomp! The little ones will start in half an hour, and trust me, it’s the highlight of the day.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Greyson assures her, a smile stretching across his face.
“Congrats again, Tarryn,” I add, feeling swept up in the communal spirit that seems to thrive in this place.
She hurries off, and Greyson and I weave through the bustling crowd, his hand a reassuring presence at the small of my back. The air buzzes with laughter and chatter, the scent of ripened grapes mingling with a medley of savory aromas wafting from f ood trucks stationed like colorful sentinels at the perimeter.
We continue on, drawn by a chorus of giggles and splashes. At the Grape Stomp, children clad in swimsuits and goggles cluster eagerly around barrels overflowing with plump grapes.
“Let’s hang back a bit,” Greyson suggests, smiling as we find a spot to watch from a safe distance.
After a few minutes, Tarryn takes the makeshift stage. She explains the rules, and then says, “Each one of you gets ice cream from Cone Zone after! And I’ve got special gift bags for you brave stompers!”
Her words are met with cheers and clapping hands.
“Ready… Set… Stomp!” Tarryn commands, and the barrels erupt into chaos. Legs flail, grapes burst, and juice begins to flow. One little girl hesitates, a crinkle of distaste marring her brow.
“Come on, honey, make some grape juice!” Her mom encourages, and the girl’s reluctance transforms into exuberant stomping.
“Who knew making juice was such hard work?” quips a boy, earning laughter from onlookers.
The timer winds down, and the children peer into their respective bottles, assessing their liquid accomplishments.
“Look at them go,” Greyson says. “Reminds me of my first stomp.”
As the timer buzzes, we drift away from the joyful pandemonium. I’m getting more than just a glimpse into Greyson’s childhood. I’m becoming a part of his present, wrapped up in the traditions of Paradise Hill and the heart of its community.
We’re caught up in the ebb and flow of the crowd when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
“Trinity!”
I turn, and there’s Frankie, her smile bright. She sweeps me into an embrace that feels like homecoming. “Your m om’s doing so much better since we moved her out of memory care,” she says, pulling back but holding onto my arms.
“Thank you for helping with that,” I reply. “I have to agree. I have lunch with her every day, and she’s sharper than I’ve seen her in a while.”
“Every good day is a blessing.” Frankie nods.
We share another moment of small talk before the flow of the party pulls us in separate directions. Greyson takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd. As we pass a group laughing over glasses of wine, I catch sight of Beckett leaning against a barrel, the sunlight catching the gold hints in his hair.
“Beckett!” Greyson calls as we approach.
“Hey, look who’s gracing us with her presence,” Beckett says with a grin, pushing away from the barrel to greet us. Beside him stands a woman whose smile rivals the brightness of the day.
“Trinity, this is Sara Demetrius,” Beckett says, gesturing toward her with a casual hand. “Nurse extraordinaire from the hospital’s labor and delivery department, and she’s also my best friend’s little sister.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sara says as she shakes my hand. “Welcome back to Paradise!”
“Thank you, Sara. It’s great to be back,” I reply.
“Greyson’s is all the better for it,” Beckett adds.
We chat briefly, exchanging pleasantries, and then Greyson and I continue our stroll, leaving Beckett and Sara behind. Greyson rolls his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“He’s slept with half the hospital, huh?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.
“More like the whole thing,” Greyson retorts, shaking his head. “He never learns. But hey, that’s Beckett for you—heartbreaker, lifesaver, and perpetually tardy.”
We laugh, the sound mingling with the chords of a guitar tuning up on stage, and I feel a deep sense of contentment. Here, amidst family and friends, the complicated threads of life seem simple r, woven together by the shared joy of this moment, under the wide-open sky of Paradise Hill.
We spend the afternoon eating and tasting wine, and I’m sure I’ve met half the town. I’m exhausted by the time it’s over and more than ready to go back to Greyson’s and relax.
“Tarryn, it was incredible,” I tell her as the crowds dwindle.
“Thanks so much, Trinity. It means the world to hear you say that,” she replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Fantastic job,” Greyson chimes in.
“Next year will be even better,” Tarryn calls as she’s whisked away by a volunteer needing her attention.
Leaving the bustle of the festival behind, Greyson and I make our way down the hill, the vineyard sprawling out before us like a patchwork quilt. New memories nestle themselves within the old, and warmth settles in my soul. The thought of leaving Vancouver still feels like shedding a part of myself, yet every step through these vines pulls me closer to something I continue to realize how much I’ve needed.