Josie
Seventeen
The sky is just beginning to pale when I reach the end of the row.
Night hasn’t fully released the vineyard yet. The cold still sits low between the vines, clinging to the soil and trunks. My boots press into the damp ground, the earth softer than it was a few hours ago when everything was locked in frost.
I crouch beside the vine in front of me and touch the new shoot.
It bends too easily.
The bud at the tip has gone dark, the green dulled to a bruised brown. When I roll it gently between my fingers, the skin splits and the damage inside shows itself plainly. Frost burn. Not everywhere, but enough that the pattern is clear if you know where to look.
The crew moves quietly along the rows behind me. A few voices carry across the vines.
“Check the north slope again,” I call, looking around and hoping someone is paying attention. “Those look worse than on the first pass.”
Someone farther down snaps a damaged shoot free.
I stand and walk farther down the row, scanning the fragile new growth. Then I straighten and step over the irrigation line, moving toward the next block. A familiar figure appears between the rows ahead of me.
Alex is halfway down the adjacent line, his jacket pulled tight. He has been here long enough now that he doesn’t stand out among the workers moving through the vines. He did what I asked, and he stayed.
Now he steps over the line and crosses the row toward me. “How bad?”
“Too early to know,” I say. “Some blocks look better than others.”
He nods and crouches beside the vine nearest him, examining the new growth with the same methodical care I’d imagine he uses with patients in the clinic. He doesn’t touch anything until he’s looked at it first, as if the vines deserve the same patience he gives people.
“What am I looking for?” he asks.
“Split the bud gently,” I tell him. “If it’s green inside, it survived.”
He does exactly that, turning the shoot carefully between his fingers before opening the bud with the edge of his nail.
“Green,” he says after a moment.
“Good.”
We move down the row together without discussing it further. He checks the vines on one side while I take the other, a quiet rhythm settling around us.
We reach the end of the row, where the frost is hardest at the low ground. Several shoots hang limp against their wires, their tips darkened and soft.
Alex studies one of them, and then looks up across the slope.
“My grandparents lost half an apple crop to frost once,” he says. “Same stage. Buds had just opened.”
I look over at him.
“They tried everything,” he continues. “Heaters. Fans. Running water through the orchard all night. Some of it survived. Some didn’t.”
“That’s usually how it goes.”
He nods, accepting the simple truth of it. “It’s strange,” he says after a moment, “how much work goes into something this vulnerable.”
“That’s farming.”
He smiles faintly and checks the time on his watch. “I should get home before Eloise wakes up.”
I nod. “Of course. Thanks for coming.”
He shrugs, the gesture easy and unselfconscious. “Text me later and tell me how it looks once the sun’s fully up.”
“I will.”
He gives me a quick hug, and then steps out of the row and heads toward the gravel lane where his car is parked near the equipment shed. I watch him as the engine starts and the tires roll over the drive.
Then the sound fades down the hill.
The day’s work isn’t finished yet. So I keep moving.
A little while later, some of the shoots that looked merely tired at dawn have begun to collapse against the wire, their tips darkening as the morning progresses.
I move down another row, checking the ribbons the crew tied earlier. The block closest to the low ground is the worst. Higher up the slope, the vines look stronger. Not untouched, but not ruined either.
Motion catches my attention from the corner of my eye, and I straighten and glance toward the end of the row. Evie has come down from the house.
Evie hasn’t managed a day in the vineyard since the trial began.
She spends most of her time at the house, meeting with her lawyers, reading reports, and fielding calls, leaving the winery and vineyards to Sera and me.
At first, I expected her to second-guess every decision we made.
Instead, she asks a few pointed questions each evening, reminds us that she’s only a phone call away, and lets us run the business.
I don’t know whether that’s trust or necessity, but neither Sera nor I has been in a hurry to question it.
This arrangement is what we’ve wanted for years.
Evie doesn’t call out or announce herself as she approaches.
She rarely does. She steps between the vines the same way she has for most of her life, moving through the rows with the quiet familiarity of someone who knows exactly where the ground dips and where the irrigation lines cross beneath the soil.
Evie walks past the first few vines without touching them. Her eyes travel slowly along the wires, taking in the pattern of ribbons tied to the damaged shoots. When she reaches the third vine, she pauses.
She studies the new growth for a moment before slipping a small knife from the pocket of her jacket. The blade flicks open with a quiet metallic sound.
She selects one of the darker shoots and cuts the bud cleanly with the edge of the knife, and then presses the split open with her thumb. Her expression doesn’t change as she looks at the inside.
When she reaches the ribbon marking the worst cluster of damage, she crouches slightly, examining the shoots more closely before closing the knife and sliding it back into her pocket.
Only then does she look toward me. “How low did it drop?” she asks.
“Minus two just before three in the morning,” I say. “We started the wind machines as soon as the temperature crossed zero.”
She nods, her gaze already returning to the vines. “And the irrigation?”
“Opened the lines in the lower blocks after two. The slope above the pump station held a little better.”
Evie walks another few steps down the row, brushing one of the ribbons lightly with the back of her fingers. “The machines ran all night?”
“Yes.”
No comment follows. She moves to the next vine and examines the new growth there. I wait.
After a moment she gestures toward the lower section of the block. “Have them check the east edge again once the sun reaches it,” she says. “Cold lingers there longer.”
“I will.”
She continues down the row another few paces before stopping again. This time when she turns back toward me her expression is different. “Who was the man here this morning?”
The question arrives calmly, without accusation. And Evie already knows the answer. There’s no doubt about that. The vineyard is too small, the crew too close-knit for a stranger to pass through unnoticed.
“Alex Spencer,” I say. “He’s a friend.”
Her face remains neutral. “He’s a doctor.”
“Yes.”
Evie turns back toward the vines. “Have the team finish marking the lower rows before noon,” she says. “We’ll know more about the loss once the sun’s been on them for a few hours.”
“I’ve already asked them to circle back through after the next pass.”
She inclines her head in acknowledgment. For a moment she remains where she is, looking across the slope where the rows rise toward the ridge above the winery. Then she steps out of the row and begins walking back toward the lane in the same quiet way she arrived.
The crew continues their work as she passes. I turn back to the vine in front of me and sacrifice another bud as I split it between my fingers. The green inside is still intact despite the damage around it. The morning is only beginning.
I notice Evie pause at the end of the row where I’m working.
She stands near the break in the trellis where the ground lifts toward the higher slope, looking back across the vineyard as if measuring the light again.
For a moment I think she’s simply studying the damage from a different angle.
Then she turns slightly toward me and waits.
It is the smallest signal, but it is unmistakable. So I step out of the row to join her.
Up here the vineyard opens wider. The sun has climbed high enough to burn most of the remaining cold from the air, and the valley below is beginning to move into its usual activities. There are trucks on the distant road, the faint hum of machinery somewhere near the winery.
When I come to stand next to her, Evie studies the rows for another moment before speaking.
“They think it is seasonal,” she begins.
“Harvest in the fall. Bottling in the winter. A few busy months and then the rest of the year settles down.” She lifts a shoot between her fingers, examining the damage the frost left behind.
“It never slows,” she continues. “Not if you are the one responsible for it.”
The shoot slips from her hand and falls back against the wire.
“The vines do not care about the rest of your life,” she says. “They respond to weather, soil, and time. Nothing else.”
I wait.
Evie does not look at me yet. She moves a few steps farther along the row, her attention on the vines.
“When your grandfather ran this place, he used to say that a vineyard rewards attention and punishes distraction. At the time I thought he was exaggerating.” She pauses beside another vine and studies the new growth before continuing. “He wasn’t.”
Evie brushes her fingers lightly along the trellis wire.
“The views. The wine. The dinners people like to imagine happening on terraces at sunset. All that is lovely, but what they rarely understand is that the work never stops. Spring frost. Summer heat. Fall rain at the wrong moment. Something always demands attention.”
She turns then, finally meeting my eyes. “And the people responsible for it do not get balance.” The words are offered the way someone might describe the weather. “If you are leading the work,” she continues, “the vineyard comes first. Not occasionally. Always.”
I raise my chin, just listening. I’m here aren’t I?
Evie watches me. “For most people that is difficult,” she says. “They build lives that pull them in different directions. Family. Relationships. Other obligations. Those things require attention as well.”
A breeze moves lightly across the rows, lifting the leaves just enough to show where the frost caught them during the night.
Evie turns and moves back down the slope toward where the crew continues marking damaged vines. I follow a few steps behind her.
“I have seen very capable people lose their footing that way,” she says. “Eventually something gives.” Her gaze lifts toward the ridge beyond the vines. “In this business it is usually the vineyard.”
The sun has climbed high enough now that the frost damage shows clearly along the wires.
A few of the shoots have begun to curl inward, their tips collapsing against the trellis.
Farther down the slope the crew continues moving through the blocks, ribbons appearing one by one as their assessment progresses.
“We did everything we could overnight,” I assure her. “The machines ran the entire time. Irrigation stayed open until the temperature came back above zero.”
Evie listens without interrupting.
“The lower block took the worst of it,” I continue. “But the slope above the pump station looks stronger. If the buds there hold, the overall loss may not be as bad as it appears.”
She glances across the vineyard as I speak, following the lines of the rows the way someone might follow the outline of a map. “And the crew?”
“They’ll finish marking the damaged sections before noon.”
Evie nods again.
The conversation could end there. On most mornings it would. Frost inspections are practical things. You gather information, adjust the work, move forward. But that’s not actually her goal this time.
“The man who was here this morning…” she says. “You know the work required to run this place.”
“I do.”
“And you understand the responsibility attached to it.”
“Yes.”
She looks over at me, as if doubting the certainty of my answer. “What I give you here can be taken away just as easily.”
This sentiment is no surprise. She says it often. And in case I might forget, my cousins are always eager to remind me.
Evie believes control creates loyalty, and that the people who remain close to her do so because she holds the authority to remove them. She has no capacity to understand other types of leadership or commitment.
But standing here in the sunlight with the frost damage stretching across the rows, I feel like I’m capable of seeing things another way.
“I’m not making decisions around him,” I tell her. “In fact, he came to help because he wanted to. He knew it was important.”
Evie’s face remains impassive. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to accomplish.
“I stand by the choices I make here. The machines ran when they needed to run. The irrigation opened when the temperature dropped. The vineyard came first last night, as it does every night for me.” I meet her gaze steadily. “I believe my work speaks for itself.”
Evie is quiet for a long moment. I cannot tell what she is measuring. I’m not sure whether she hears defiance in the sentence or something else entirely.
“Finish the assessment before the afternoon heat,” she finally says. “Give me an update at the end of the day.”
“Of course. I will.”
She walks back toward the service lane, moving steadily through the sunlight between the vines.
The crew parts around her without stopping, the work of the vineyard continuing as if nothing significant has happened at all.
And that makes me wonder—did something significant just happen here? I suppose time will tell.
When Evie reaches the gravel drive, she does not look back.
I turn toward the vine beside me and split another bud carefully between my fingers. The inside remains green.