Chapter 21
Twenty-one
Ginny
The tension in my shoulders winds tighter with every step toward the door. I’ve avoided Ryker all week, not because I wanted to, but because I don’t know how to handle the way his message fractured the wall I keep trying to cement around my heart.
Gran has called a family dinner tonight at the main house. We all hope she’s going to announce her retirement, but I know we’ll never be that lucky. My fingers tighten around the flowers I brought for her, a peace offering I hope might soften the sting of whatever’s coming.
When I arrive and go inside, the long dining table stretches before me, seating divided by allegiance. Blood may bind us, but tonight there are battle lines, and I worry I’ve got no army to back me.
On the right side are my brother and sisters—Sera sits ramrod straight, flanked by Ric and Josie. Across from them are Aunt Georgia’s kids—Dylan with his ever-calculating eyes, Kaitlyn sipping her wine, and Logan, all quiet observation. They watch the room like they’re casing it.
At the far end, clustered together, are Aunt Eleanor’s boys—Scott, Mike, and Eric. Bigger, bolder, and louder. They don’t bother hiding their ambition. They think the vineyard is theirs to win, and they’re not wrong to think Evelyn might hand it to the one who plays her game best.
No one speaks as I sit. They’re all waiting for Evelyn to speak first.
“Finally,” Sera whispers as she kisses my cheek. “Gran’s been pacing. She’s in one of her moods.”
Josie shoots me a look—hopeful, nervous. She’s wearing her boardroom best, even though this is just dinner, which tells me everything.
At the head of the table, Evelyn Dempsey sits like a queen in judgment. Regal. Ready to strike. She lifts her glass of cabernet with the kind of practiced grace that makes your back straighten just watching her.
Her eyes land on me like a gavel falling. “Genevieve,” she says. “I see you’ve managed to join us after all.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I extend the flowers toward her. “I saw these and knew you loved gerbera daisies.”
She doesn’t reach for them. “You can give those to Lucia.”
The housekeeper is right behind me, and she lights up as she takes them from me. “These are lovely and will look great in the vase on your grandmother’s desk.”
Gran doesn’t look at her, just keeps glaring at me. But they haven’t started eating, so I’m really not that late.
Dinner is a slow-burn form of torture. Each course is more elaborate than the last, each bite harder to swallow than the one before. Conversation moves between business updates and polite commentary on the vintage we’re enjoying, but no one is really listening.
Gran hasn’t said a word about retiring. She’s letting the anticipation sit like a trap, spring-loaded and waiting.
Every time she clears her throat, Sera’s posture stiffens. Each time Gran lifts her wineglass, Josie straightens like she’s preparing to give a speech. And I sit here, chewing through roasted lamb, knowing I’m just a placeholder at this table.
When Gran finally sets down her fork and dabs her mouth with her napkin, the room stills.
“Genevieve,” she says, locking her gaze on me again. “How is the gift shop?”
I want to fling my wine in her face. I want to tell her the shop keeps the lights on in the tasting room she never sets foot in. But instead, I smile like it doesn’t matter, like she hasn’t just reminded everyone I’m nothing more than a souvenir clerk.
The disappointment on Sera’s and Josie’s faces is immediate and unfiltered. This is not going to be her retirement announcement.
I lift my glass. “Busy.”
“Good,” she replies crisply. “Idle hands lead to poor decisions. Some of us understand what it means to carry responsibility.”
A direct hit.
I don’t flinch. I’ve played this game too long to let her see the bruise. But it still hurts.
Whatever tonight is supposed to be, it’s not a passing of the torch. It’s a reminder of who’s still holding the reins. Gran’s gaze cuts away from me like I’ve been dismissed. Whatever I am, whatever I’ve become isn’t worth her energy anymore.
Her interest shifts to more pressing matters. “The well serving block one-hundred-and-one has a problem,” she announces. “The vines don’t seem to be maturing like the rest. How is the hand watering going?”
Josie clears her throat. “We’re seeing some buds, but not what we see in other areas of the vineyard.”
“We share the well with Paradise Hill, and they seem to be having the same issue,” Sera adds.
“The Paradise property,” Evelyn cuts in. “Convenient, isn’t it? Their new pinot vines that aren’t ready for wine making are struggling. And our award-winning vines are dying. And we’re supposed to believe that’s nature?”
My stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself.
Gran presses on, fury crackling beneath the surface. “Our attorney is combing through the original water rights agreements. If they diverted the flow, if they tampered with the source, we’ll bury them in litigation so deep, they’ll be lucky to keep a single bottle on the market.”
Josie quietly sets her glass down. It makes a soft clink against her plate, but it sounds deafening in the silence that’s taken over. “Do we have any proof?” she asks, voice careful and respectful.
“Not yet,” Gran says. “But I’ve already ordered soil and moisture samples from both parcels of land. If I can show a pattern—any correlation between our loss and their sudden surge in the other blocks beyond the well—I’ll draw the line myself in front of a judge.”
She’s ready for war.
Sera swallows hard. “What are you thinking?”
Evelyn sits back, her fingers tapping the stem of her wineglass. Her eyes glint. “If they want to siphon what’s ours, then we ruin the fruit they stole it for. Their grapes beyond the well are thriving. Let’s see how well they survive if those start showing signs of blight.”
She’s talking about sabotaging the Paradise Hill grapes.
My cousins Scott, Mike, and Eric are enthusiastic and obvious in their support.
But my stomach drops like it’s free-falling off a cliff.
She’s not talking about retaliation or legal action.
She has no proof. She’s talking about sabotage.
Criminal charges. Ruining people’s lives, and she’s looking around the table like she expects volunteers.
There are laws that protect vines. She could face fines of up to a hundred thousand dollars each, and in this area, we plant about five hundred vines per acre.
She won’t do the work herself, so if they catch any of us doing it, we could be criminally prosecuted for mischief or trespass.
And the cherry on this ice cream sundae?
The Paradise family could sue us civilly, and we’d lose everything.
Josie chokes on her water. Sera’s eyes go wide.
My hands curl in my lap, nails digging into my skin.
“They’d retaliate,” Josie says, voice tight. “If we’re wrong, if this escalates—”
Evelyn cuts her off with a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Then we remind them why you don’t cross a Dempsey. We’ve survived phylloxera. Drought. Recession. Theft. We’re still here. Still standing. Because we don’t blink when someone tries to steal what’s ours.”
Then, as if pulled by a string, her gaze swings back to me.
Direct. Cold. Unflinching.
“Assuming everyone at this table remembers which side they’re on.”
The words echo inside me long after Evelyn moves on, spearing a piece of lamb with the same calm precision she uses in business.
Sera tries to shift the mood, mentioning the upcoming Black Bear Valley Wine Consortium event in town. “We need to finalize who’s attending,” she says. “There’s a talk on regional marketing trends and another on vineyard tech.”
Josie nods. “I think we should all go. It’s good optics. Shows unity.”
My cousin Dylan swirls his wine in the smug way he has when he’s about to make a point. “I heard the Paradise family is sending Ryker.”
I freeze, wineglass halfway to my lips.
“He’s never come to these things before,” Dylan continues. “Wonder why he’s suddenly interested in vineyard operations.”
I force a little laugh. “He’s…probably just trying to be supportive. He’s got opinions about everything.”
It’s meant to be casual, throwaway. But the moment the words leave my mouth, I feel the temperature in the room drop.
Dylan narrows his eyes. “Do you know him?”
My fingers slip against my wineglass. Shit. “I mean, everyone in town knows of him,” I rush out. “He’s kind of hard to miss.”
“Mmmmm...” Dylan sits back slowly, eyes still pinned on me.
Evelyn’s fork stills on her plate. “That’s interesting,” she says coolly. “You seem to have quite the informed opinion for someone who hasn’t lived here in years.”
My throat tightens. “I just meant he’s got a reputation.” I smile. Too wide. Too rehearsed. “Kind of a big personality.”
Evelyn picks up her glass of wine, takes a sip, and sets it down with care.
“Big personalities are rarely worth the trouble they cause. Especially when they’re not our problem to fix.
” Her eyes meet mine, calm, poised, and lethal.
“It’s best not to speak too freely about people who have no place at this table.
Even in passing. We wouldn’t want anyone mistaking divided loyalty for misplaced affection. ”
Sera looks uncomfortable. Josie studies her plate. Dylan still looks smug. He planted a trap, and I jumped right into it.
I sit here, pulse roaring in my ears, wondering how much I gave away. One more slip, and it likely won’t just be suspicion about me.
If it comes down to them or Ryker, I’m no longer sure which side I’ll choose.
That’s why I keep trying to buy myself time.
But I’ve already exiled myself to no-man’s land.
And for what? I’m denying myself the comfort of Ryker, but clearly, I’ve lost the trust of my grandmother… if I ever really had it.
So what’s the point of all this? I can’t sit here much longer pretending I’m someone I’m not. I don’t know what comes next, but if I don’t make a choice soon, someone else will make it for me.