Chapter 14
Fourteen
Elise
In the morning, Sebastian greets me with the kind of warmth that could make anyone feel special. His smile is easy, his voice rich and rolling with an Italian lilt that makes even the word fermentation sound elegant.
“Elise, ma chère, today you see what true winemaking looks like,” he says, offering me his arm like we’re about to stroll into a ballroom rather than a cellar.
I don’t take it, but I smile politely. “I’m looking forward to learning.”
“Learning, yes. But first, seeing.”
I fall into step behind him, and he spends the morning guiding me through the sprawling Chateau, weaving stories of generations who cultivated the land, perfected the blends, and built a reputation the world envies.
His gestures are wide, dramatic, and more than once his shoulder brushes mine as we walk the narrow paths between towering tanks and endless rows of barrels.
He pushes open a heavy oak door and ushers me inside.
The air is instantly cooler, damp stone breathing against my skin.
Rows of barrels stretch into the shadows, their curved bodies glowing faintly under soft amber lights.
The scent is rich and layered—vanilla, spice, toasted wood, and the faint tang of fermenting fruit.
“Our barrels,” Sebastian says proudly, trailing his hand across the smooth surface of one. “French oak, of course. Some toasted light, others medium, each giving the wine a different whisper. We replace them every two years.”
I follow the sweep of his arm. There must be thousands.
At Paradise Hill, we’re proud of the three thousand oak barrels and two thousand stainless steel barrels we use each year.
This room alone could hold ten times that.
Kingston would probably run his palm across one of these barrels too, but with reverence, not the showmanship Sebastian wears like a second skin.
“Do you allow them to rest for long?” I ask, trying to sound knowledgeable.
He nods, pleased. “Two years, sometimes three. It depends on the harvest, the blend. You will learn to taste the difference.” His smile lingers on me a beat too long, and I bite my tongue so as not to remind him that I, too, grew up in a winery and have been tasting wine since I could walk.
As we exit, one of the younger women on staff passes by, clipboard in hand. Sebastian greets her with three cheek kisses, his hand covering hers as he questions where she disappeared to last night. She laughs, ducking her head, cheeks flushing bright pink before hurrying away.
The exchange is harmless enough on the surface, but the way she glowed under his attention sticks with me. I’m glad I see more clearly now this game Sebastian plays with women.
The next space hits me like a wall. The heat and noise are immediate—the hiss of steam, the metallic clank of valves, the low rumble of pumps pushing juice from one place to another.
Stainless steel tanks rise around me, so high they disappear into the rafters.
I crane my neck, dizzy with their sheer size.
Sebastian watches me, amused. “You look like Alice in Wonderland,” he says with a laugh. “Everything too big, too strange.”
“Not strange,” I manage, raising my clipboard higher against my chest. “Just…different.”
Paradise Hill’s tanks are squat and humble, lined neatly in a single row. Here, they loom like skyscrapers, dwarfing everything else.
He steps closer, pointing to a valve at chest height. “This tank alone holds more than your entire harvest back home, non?” His grin is teasing, not cruel, but it still makes me bristle.
“Size isn’t everything,” I reply lightly.
He laughs again, seeming delighted, and the sound echoes off the steel.
We continue on until the corridor opens into a room alive with clattering machinery.
The air smells of cardboard and fresh cork, the sharp tang of sanitizer biting my nose.
Glass bottles stream down a conveyor, their clinking creating a kind of music—fast, relentless, mechanical.
Workers in hairnets and gloves hover along the line, catching errors, sealing boxes.
I pause, stunned. “You bottle here? At this scale?”
“But of course.” Sebastian leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s not romantic, I know. But necessary. Wine is art, yes, but also business. If you wish to survive, you must understand both.”
His words give me a bit of a jolt. Business has never been the heart of Paradise Hill. It’s family, tradition, soil. Here, watching wine packaged and boxed like any other commodity, I feel that difference more than ever.
I nod slowly, committing the sight to memory. If nothing else, it’s a point of reference.
We step back outside, and I gulp in the fresh air, grateful for the break from the clatter and steam. The sun stretches long across the rows of vines, each one perfectly manicured, their leaves shivering in the light breeze.
At noon, Sebastian leads me to the staff cafeteria. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s full—long wooden tables crowded with workers in coveralls, boots kicked off at the door, laughter echoing against the stone walls. I look over at the wall for today’s menu.
Entrée: Country paté with cornichons and baguette
Plat Principal: Boeuf bourguignon avec pommes vapeur
Accompagnement: Haricots verts
Fromage: Comté, Theome de Savoie, and chèvre
Dessert: Tarte aux pommes maison
Vin du Jour: Bordeaux rouge (2019)
I blink at the menu. “How can you eat all of this and work in the afternoon?”
He shrugs. “We eat slowly, and sometimes we take a nap. Our midday break is three hours.”
I look at the clock. “Three hours?”
“Of course,” Sebastian says with a grin. “This is France, ma chère. The vines don’t hurry, and neither do we.”
Back home, lunch is a sandwich at your desk or maybe a stolen half-hour in the shade. Here, workers settle in like it’s a sacred ritual, wine glasses filled from a jug at the center of the table. Kingston would shake his head at the indulgence and probably tease me for falling into it so quickly.
I pick up a tray and follow Sebastian down the line.
He carries his tray like a king, greeting everyone he passes. I trail behind and take a spot near the middle of a long table, wedged between two vineyard hands. Conversation ripples around me in rapid French, and I catch only pieces—vendange, harvest, famille.
One of the men, gray-haired and smiling, nods toward me. “Alors, la Canadienne.”
I straighten, remembering my grandmother’s lessons, and answer in French. “Oui, je suis Canadienne. Je viens de Colombie-Britannique.”
For a second, they all stare. Then laughter bursts out around me.
“Ah, l’accent!” one of them says, dragging out the syllables in mock imitation. Another claps me on the back, grinning.
Heat floods my cheeks. My accent—French Canadian, not Parisian—must sound clumsy to their ears.
Sebastian only smiles, sipping his wine. “They laugh, but they are pleased you try. Don’t stop.”
I force a smile and continue, stumbling over my verbs but determined.
Every correction, every chuckle stings, but I push through, answering again and again, refusing to switch back to English.
By the time the woman beside me gently corrects my phrasing, I can feel the knot of embarrassment loosening.
Once I’ve finished my lunch and mopped up the sauce with bread, I feel strangely lighter, like I’ve passed some unspoken test.
Across the table, Sebastian leans close to a younger staffer, saying something low in her ear. She laughs, brushing her hair over her shoulder, and he moves on like it was nothing.
I chew my bread, unsettled. Is it the culture? Is it him?
And then, not five minutes later, I catch him talking with one of the older male vineyard workers. There’s no smile, no teasing, no touch—just a quick, businesslike exchange about deliveries. It’s all clipped words and brisk nods.
That unsettles me too. Maybe it isn’t a game. Maybe it’s just me, seeing things that aren’t there.
Sebastian rises, brushing crumbs from his scarf. “Come, Elise,” he says, gathering his tray. “The vines don’t hurry, but the cellar waits for no one. It’s time you begin.”
The rest of the staff lingers over their wine, but I follow him out, still chewing on my doubts.
The cellar smells like damp stone, sour must, and sweat. Sebastian points out the water spigots and explains that I’m to spend my afternoon cleaning. I’m startled because this is work usually done by a vineyard hand. But I don’t complain.
By the time Sebastian finishes his instructions and disappears with his glass in hand, I’m already dripping with sweat, the coarse rag rough against my palms as I scrub sticky residue off the concrete floor.
Every inch of my skin feels clingy—under my boots, tugging at my shirt, matting my hair against my neck.
The hose slithers across the floor like it has a mind of its own. It’s thicker and heavier than I expected, the rubber ridges digging into my hands until my skin feels raw. I drag it from vat to vat, water sputtering as I spray, but the weight pulls back, straining against me.
When I yank too hard, the nozzle jerks loose, and a jet of water blasts upward.
Cold spray catches me full in the chest, soaking through my shirt.
I let out a strangled yelp and stumble backward, my heel sliding across a slick patch.
For a terrifying second, my arms pinwheel, but I manage to catch myself against a barrel, heart hammering.
Across the room, a couple of workers laugh, muttering something in French too quickly for me to catch. Their voices echo, and my cheeks burn hot. Anger flashes in my chest. I didn’t come here for this. I came to learn. But swallowing my emotions, I grip the hose tighter and bend back to work.
My shoulders scream with each tug, the ache running down my spine. My hands are already tender, the skin now reddening where the rubber has rubbed them raw.
A shadow falls over me. One of the older workers—broad shoulders, sweat-darkened shirt—steps in, steadying the hose with one hand while I fight with the coupling.
His English is thick but kind. “Everyone starts here,” he says.
“Even him.” He jerks his chin toward Sebastian, who I just catch a glimpse of as he disappears down another aisle.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Good to know. But I’m only here for a short time, and I’m here to learn.”
The man shrugs, offering a quick nod before moving on.
His words are meant as comfort, but they don’t change my plight. Three months. That’s all I have here. And if I spend them doing the work of a cellar hand, I’m not going to learn anything about vintages or blends or how a place like this builds its reputation.
Still, I plant my boots, coil the hose again, and force myself through another stretch of floor. Every pass of the spray feels like both punishment and promise. If this is how he wants to test me, fine. But I won’t let this be the only thing I take away from France.
When I finally stumble back to my room that evening, every muscle screams. My clothes are damp with sweat and the lingering chill of the hose incident.
I peel them off piece by piece, dropping them in a pile by the door, and stand for a moment in my sleep pants and T-shirt, staring at the plain white walls.
This morning, I walked through the barrel rooms with my chest full of wonder, marveling at the scale of it all. Now, my body aches, my palms are rubbed raw, and the only thing I’ve learned is how hard it is to keep a hose steady.
I sink onto the narrow bed, pulling my laptop from the nightstand. My fingers hover over the keyboard, and after a long moment, I type the first words that come to mind.
You wouldn’t believe the size of this place…
I pause, staring at the line. I imagine Kingston reading it, picturing me here, covered in grime and doubt. My throat tightens. If I send what I’m really feeling, I’ll be admitting that I’m in over my head.
Slowly, I type the words. The screen looks wounded as I edit and reedit through my confession.
It feels good to have it written down, but maybe that’s enough. I change my mind. No. Kingston doesn’t need to know how small I feel here. Not yet.
I close the laptop, slide it into the drawer, and switch off the lamp. My body aches, but beneath it, a spark refuses to go out.
Maybe today was just part of joining the team. Or maybe it was something else. Sebastian can underestimate me all he wants. I’ll find my own way.