Chapter 15
Fifteen
Kingston
Before I go to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner, I sit at my desk with a mug of cold coffee and type out a letter to Elise.
Subject: For your second week
Elise,
Hello from Black Bear. You wrote that you barely have a spare minute these days, so I can only imagine the pace they’re keeping for you. Still, I have no doubt you’ll find your rhythm. You’ve always had a way of absorbing more than anyone expects, even when you’re stretched thin.
You asked what I’ve been working on. Most of my time has been tied up with Renew Motion.
We’ve got a new joint we’re refining, and we believe we’re close to something special.
It feels good to sink into the work—clean, straightforward, nothing like the politics of wine.
I try not to get tangled in vineyard business anymore, but Sunday dinners have a way of pulling me back in.
That said, I’ve been keeping a closer eye on my land. After the water main was set to run during the snowstorm, I realized being “too busy” isn’t an excuse. I check things myself now. Slower, yes, but safer. You don’t have to worry about the vines while you’re away.
Your stand-in made quite the impression while I was in Calgary. I came home to find out he’d thrown a party big enough to make Simone call the police. She’s still fuming and keeps asking when you’re coming back to restore order. I told her not soon enough.
For now, though, I like imagining you in those vast French cellars, studying their techniques, storing away every detail. It reminds me that what we’re both working toward—here and there—will matter when you come home.
The house still feels different without you. Quieter. And there’s a chair at Sunday dinner that should be yours.
Write me when you can, and tell me about the people you’re working alongside. I want to know the names and faces that make up your days.
Always,
Kingston
I hit send, shut down the laptop, and pull on my jacket.
Dinner isn’t for another hour, but as I told Elise, these days I like to walk the vineyard before I go.
The air is sharp with evening chill, the rows long and bare, still waiting for spring to wake them.
I pass the spot where Elise’s truck got stuck during the storm.
The rut it left behind remains, ugly and deep.
I make a note to have it filled before it causes trouble.
At the helicopter pad, I run my checks—rotor, fuel, gauges.
The blades roar to life, and soon, I’m rising over the rows, banking out across the lake.
From up here, the valley looks endless—vineyards stitched to the hillsides, the lower lake stretched long and silver.
It’s sixty-five kilometers end to end, though barely ten wide.
Driving around takes over an hour. Flying?
Just under eight minutes when you’re not meandering.
I set down on the strip beside the main house, and Dad’s already crossing the lawn, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
“Today was a record,” he calls as the blades spin down. “Seven minutes, fifty seconds.”
“Beats cursing through traffic,” I say, climbing out.
He grins. “Your mother prefers this too, though she’ll never admit it.”
We fall into step as we move toward the house, gravel crunching. The windows glow with light, silhouettes moving inside. I glance at him. “What about you two? End of the year’s coming fast. What happens after retirement?”
Dad makes a face. “Your mother wants to go on one of those cruises. Europe, then Asia. A floating hotel with three thousand strangers. Not my idea of fun.”
“But you’ll go?”
“She’s earned it. Forty years of putting up with this place? She gets what she wants.”
I nod but veer toward the barn. “I’ll meet you inside.”
The old building smells of hay and oil. Tarryn’s office is tucked into one corner, its walls plastered with maps, notes, and security printouts. She’s bent over her laptop when I step in.
“Don’t you ever take Sundays off?” I ask.
“Not when someone’s cutting corners,” she says without looking up.
I lean against the doorframe. “How’s Elise doing?”
That gets her attention. She brushes hair from her face. “Busy, tired, but positive—always is. She admits she’s stuck with more grunt work than time with Sebastian, but she still calls it a learning opportunity. That’s Elise for you.”
I keep my expression neutral. I’m not ready to tell her that Elise writes to me or how I wait for her name in my inbox. “How is the guy who’s here in her place?”
“That’s a better question for Mitch, but from what I understand, Jér?me isn’t good for much more than hand work.”
“He’s used to a bigger operation and more targeted duties,” I surmise.
Tarryn shrugs. “Look at this,” she says, swiveling the laptop toward me.
The infrared footage shows a figure crouched near a tractor, hands glowing against the machinery.
“What am I looking at?”
“Brake lines,” she says, her voice tight. “He cut them. If one of the guys had taken it out on the hill, it could’ve been catastrophic.”
Papers are scattered across her desk, half-drunk coffee cooling beside her. She’s restless, wound tight.
My jaw hardens as I study the shadowy figure. “That’s not Zach.”
“No,” she agrees. “Not his build, not his gait. But whoever it is, they knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Have you told Mom and Dad?” I ask.
She sighs. “They’ve seen the footage, but without proof of who’s behind it, there’s not much we can do. They still want to keep it quiet.”
I understand that, but the idea of brake lines cut clean through sends a zing of fear through my blood. The string of sabotage has been unending, and eventually, someone is going to get hurt. I need to help her figure this out.
Dad’s voice carries across the yard, calling us in.
I rest a hand on her chair. “We’ll find out who’s behind this. But you’re right. It’s not Zach.”
Her jaw sets, and she nods.
Together, we cross the yard and step into the glow of the dining room.
The table can seat twenty-four, but tonight, it’s just Mom and Dad, me, Tarryn, Greyson, Trinity, and Theo in a highchair.
More empty chairs than full ones, but Mom has food like an army’s on its way.
Theo pounds his spoon on the highchair, shrieking with glee.
A second later, he slaps both hands into his mashed potatoes.
A glob sails across the table and lands squarely on my sleeve.
The group erupts in laughter.
“Well,” I say, dabbing at the mess, “guess I’m officially Theo-approved.”
Greyson grins. “Badge of honor.”
“Better aim than Beckett’s jump shot,” I add.
“Hey,” Tarryn cuts in, smirking. “Don’t insult Beckett when he’s not here.”
“Doesn’t stop me when he is,” I counter, earning another round of laughter.
Theo squeals again, reaching for his father with a potato-smeared hand.
“My son’s out to get me.” Greyson says, leaning back.
“Payback for those three-a.m. diapers you sleep through,” Trinity teases.
Dad shakes his head, smiling. “Reminds me of when you lot were kids. Food fights every other Sunday.”
“They were better behaved than that,” Mom says primly, but her lips twitch. “Except Kingston. He was the ringleader.”
“Allegedly,” I say, raising my hands.
“You once fed mashed peas to the dog,” Tarryn adds.
“And succeeded,” I remind her, earning more laughter.
Theo smears more potatoes across his tray. Trinity’s giggling so hard she has to wipe her eyes. Dad jumps in with a story about me climbing the trellis when I was four, getting stuck halfway up, and yelling at the top of my lungs until he pulled me down. My ears burn, but I can’t help smiling.
For a moment, as the table ripples with warmth, I think of Elise.
It surprises me, but I can’t deny it. She’s on my mind in a way no woman has been for many years.
She would tease me mercilessly about the potatoes on my shirt, join in with this laughter, and maybe even steal the spoon from Theo to join his chaos.
The thought of her laugh stirs something in my gut.
But then Greyson clears his throat, his tone quieter now. “If we could talk business for a moment, there’s the matter of ongoing sabotage around here. Tarryn and I went through the security tapes again. Whoever cut those brake lines was not Zach.”
The laughter dies.
Mom frowns. “Not Zach? Are you certain?”
“Positive,” Greyson says. “And the same man was caught on tape yesterday, tampering with the fermentation tanks.”
Dad swears under his breath. “So someone’s targeting us. But if not Zach…”
“It’s not Max,” I cut in. “And the Dempseys wouldn’t risk something so sloppy.”
“Then who?” Tarryn asks. “Could it be someone we’ve hired?”
Trinity hesitates, glancing at Greyson before speaking. “I’m not sure we should be so quick to dismiss the Dempseys. Franklin’s son, Dylan, he’s been around, asking questions. He’s got the same edge his father had.”
I picture Dylan the last time I saw him, leaning against the wall at Mikey’s, restless, jaw tight like he was itching for a fight.
Dad shakes his head. “That boy’s trouble. But accusing him without proof would light this valley on fire.”
“I’ll get proof,” I say. “We have a private investigator at Renew, and I’m going to reach out to him. Whoever’s behind this, he’ll find them. And we’ll stop them.”
Theo drops his spoon again with a clatter, the sound echoing in the silence. Tarryn meets my eyes across the table, gratitude and fear mixing in her look. Mom lays her hand over mine. “Hire the private investigator, but you’ve got a lot on your plate. Let Tarryn do this.”
I squeeze her hand, but I don’t answer. She’s right. I don’t want to take over for Tarryn. She’s more than capable. I just have the money to finance this, and I haven’t seen all the P&L statements to know how flush the vineyard is these days.
Dinner carries on, but I barely taste a thing. When the plates are cleared and Mom shoos everyone toward the living room for dessert, Dad catches my shoulder. He steers me out to the porch, away from the others, under the silver moon.
“You can’t let this sabotage take over your own work,” he says. “You’ve got your company, and Tarryn and I will figure this thing out.”
I stare out at the rows, jaw tight. “I have more money than my grandchildren’s grandchildren will ever be able to spend. Let me get you some professionals. I want to protect us.”
“Protect us, yes,” he says. “But don’t lose yourself in the fight. This place needs you whole.”
I nod as he steps back inside. I don’t tell him what churns inside me, that the vineyard weighs on me, that being the oldest means I’ve always carried the responsibility, despite walking away. That I can still see Tarryn’s cottage burning and all the sabotage we’ve endured in the last three years.
A vibration in my pocket seizes my attention.
I pull out my phone and see an alert glowing on the screen—Elise.
An email, waiting. I don’t open it, not yet.
I just hold the phone in my hand, her presence somehow steadying me for a breath, reminding me of all the reasons to fight for land and legacy.
I look out at the silver rows stretching into the dark and make my vow all over again.