Chapter 26 #2
If it weren’t for Claire, I think I might have packed up and gone home. She listens when I unravel. She reminds me why I came, why this matters, why I can’t let him break me. She’s been my lifeline.
And today, there was a crack of light. Once again, I noticed something before anyone else did. I was right. Luc confirmed it. Sebastian still brushed me off, but for one sharp, clear moment, I knew I belonged. All the scrubbing and the silence and doubt haven’t been for nothing.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this now. Maybe because I’m tired of pretending. Maybe because I need you to know how much I lean on you, even from across an ocean. The thought of home and everything that means is what steadies me when everything here feels like it’s slipping.
Always,
Elise
I shouldn’t send it. I’m venting, and he doesn’t want to hear that. But I want to. I want him to see me, not just the vintner but the woman underneath. That want is the dangerous part. And I press send anyway.
The whoosh sounds final, irreversible. I flinch at it, and then sit frozen. Relief and fear churn together until I can’t tell which is stronger. “I shouldn’t have,” I whisper into the stillness. The dormitory creaks, and still the laptop glows.
I shouldn’t have, but part of me is glad I did.
The building stirs to life at dawn—pipes rattling, footsteps in the hall, voices muffled behind curtains—but I’m already awake, my laptop perched on my knees. I haven’t slept much, tossing between dread and hope, replaying every word I sent to Kingston.
When his name lights up my inbox, my stomach flips so hard I almost can’t bring myself to click.
But I do.
Elise,
It’s early here in Vancouver—the sky over the inlet is the same gray as the lake when it’s just waking—and I’m sitting with a mug that’s gone cold because I can’t set this letter down. Thank you for telling me the rest. Thank you for not keeping the hard parts wrapped up the way you always do.
Even before this, you didn’t send me only the pretty pieces, but I’m so glad you felt comfortable telling me all of it.
I’m sorry Sebastian has been that way to you.
I’m sorry anyone would treat you like you’re less than you are.
That you’ve been brave enough to keep showing up anyway is everything.
Claire is a saint—tell her I owe her a bottle and dinner—and you owe yourself every small victory you’ve fought for.
You belong in that cellar. You belong in those rows.
You’ve earned the right to be noticed, not patronized.
I wish I was there with you. I can imagine it anyway—the way your jaw sets, the quiet triumph in your eyes. You asking me to believe in you from across an ocean is about the most dangerous, beautiful thing I’ve been given. It steadies me too.
I am standing beside you while you work through this. If ever you want me to step in—to speak up, to say what needs saying—tell me and I will. If you want me to sit quietly and hand you coffee while you say the hard things, I’ll do that. Whatever you need, I will be there.
I'm flying to London next week for meetings. Let me come see you after my work. Let me put my feet on the same dirt and watch you work and laugh and be undone and be brave. Tell me you’ll let me.
Always,
Kingston
The sun slants gold through the tall dormitory windows, but it doesn’t remotely matter. My body buzzes with the words on the screen. He wants to come. He’s choosing me, not just in late-night emails but in the daylight of his real life.
Excitement rushes through me, sweeping away the heaviness I’ve been carrying for weeks. Now, I have something to look forward to. Something that feels like hope.
I read his message again, three times, until the words blur and my cheeks ache from smiling. I write back quickly to accept his request and ask for details before I press the laptop shut, clutching it to my chest like a teenager with a love note, and I immediately feel ridiculous.
I head down to the toilette de femme to brush my teeth and wash my face, and Claire appears, tugging her braid over her shoulder as she yawns. Her sharp eyes catch everything, and I know if I let mine linger too long she will read me like an open book.
“You’re running late,” she says, reaching for her scarf.
“I got a good email from Kingston this morning, and I’ll tell you about it over lunch or when you have time,” I answer, busying myself with lacing my boots.
My fingers fumble, the knot slipping twice before I manage to tighten it.
My heart is still beating too fast, Kingston’s words echoing. Tell me you’ll let me.
Claire tilts her head, studying me. “I can’t meet you for lunch. Sasha and I are heading into Paris for a few days to meet with the ad agency.”
“Oh.” I stand and make sure I didn’t tie my boots too tight. “Then I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Have some fun for me while I’m gone.”
I force a shrug. “Maybe I’ll finally catch up on rest.”
Her lips twitch like she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. Around us, the other women stir, pulling on jackets, tying aprons. I keep my head down, my cheeks warm, hoping none of them notice how I’m practically vibrating with joy.
I head out, and today, the work doesn’t feel like a burden. The barrels, the hoses, the endless rinsing, everything I do, from topping barrels to snapping suckers in the rows, feels bearable because there’s a message in my inbox that changes everything. He’s coming. He’ll be here.
I bite down on the smile threatening to take over my face, tucking it into the hollow of my chest where it can burn safely. For now, it’s mine alone.
The hours crawl forward, but they don’t drag me under.
Each task, no matter how repetitive, brings the memory of Luc’s quiet “bon travail” and Henri’s subtle nod yesterday.
Even as Sebastian prowls the floor, my shoulders stay straighter.
My arms ache, my back throbs, but beneath the sweat and sting, there’s a thread of pride running through me.
When the shift finally ends, I have dinner and then climb the five flights back to the dormitory with my legs trembling, not from defeat but from sheer exhaustion laced with a strange buoyancy. I survived the day. More than that, I carried something out of it.
In the quiet of my room, I open Kingston’s message again.
The words glow against the dark screen, steadying me.
I’m standing beside you while you work through this.
I close my eyes and imagine his voice instead of the text.
Imagine him here, saying these things to me, warm and certain.
Heat curls through my chest. Sebastian may never see me. But Kingston does.
I tuck the laptop beneath my pillow, push the blanket aside, and pad across the narrow floor to the tall window. Outside, the vineyard stretches black against the silver wash of moonlight, rows disappearing into the dark. Lamps glow faintly near the gates, pinpricks of gold in the distance.
I press my palm to the glass, which is cool against my overheated skin. “I can do this,” I whisper into the night.
I’ll carry every scrap of knowledge back to Paradise Hill. I won’t let Sebastian write my story. And when Kingston steps off that plane from London, I’ll be ready, not just as the woman who survived this place but as the one who’s claiming her future.
The thought sharpens me, professionally and personally. I stand taller, even alone in the quiet dormitory. I‘m not running. I’m not breaking.
I’m resolved.