Josie
Forty-four
Of course, getting there is the hard part.
I wipe the back of my arm across my forehead and crouch beside an irrigation valve box that has decided to become today’s problem.
Dust clings to my jeans, sweat soaks through the back of my shirt, and my boots are coated with a layer of dry dirt that seems permanently attached at this point.
The vines don’t care how tired I am. They don’t care how many hours I’ve already worked this week.
They just keep growing, demanding water, attention, and more maintenance than seems possible for a living thing that mostly stands still.
The irrigation monitor clipped to my belt chirps again, confirming what I already know.
Water pressure is inconsistent across this section of the vineyard.
I shut off the valve, kneel in the dirt, and start tracing the line back toward the nearest junction.
The issue could be a leak. It could be debris.
It could be one of a hundred things that never show up at convenient times.
My gaze drifts toward the south edge of the property where the damaged well sits beyond the rows of vines.
Even from here, I can feel my irritation rising.
Two seasons later, we’re still dealing with the fallout from my half-brother’s sabotage.
The contamination itself is gone, but the damage lingers in ways nobody predicted when we first discovered what he’d done.
Repairs have helped, yet the system never seems to perform quite the way it did before.
I bend to inspect another connection point and frown when the pressure reading fluctuates again. The problem has to be somewhere close. I straighten slowly, stretching the ache from my lower back, and scan the rows ahead of me while mentally working through the next place to check.
That’s when movement catches my eye.
At first, it’s only a flash of motion between the vines, something small weaving through the rows toward me. I squint against the sunlight, trying to make out who—or what—is heading in my direction.
A small figure breaks through the shimmer of heat between the rows, running hard enough that dust kicks up around her shoes.
For one stunned second, my brain refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Then the sun catches her hair, her arms pump at her sides, and I recognize Eloise racing straight toward me through the vineyard like the world has narrowed to this one row and whatever has sent her flying into it.
“Eloise?”
If she heard me, she doesn’t slow down. She barrels into me with all the force a little girl can manage, and I catch her under the arms before momentum can knock us both backward into the vines. Her arms lock around my neck, hot and tight.
I sink onto one knee in the dust with her pressed against me, my gloves dirty against the back of her shirt, and for a moment all I can do is hold on.
A few rows back, Zara appears at a much more reasonable pace, walking between the vines with one hand lifted against the sun. I keep one arm around Eloise as I look from her dusty shoes to Zara’s calm expression, trying to force my pulse back into a normal rhythm.
“What happened?” I ask, smoothing Eloise’s hair away from her damp forehead as she finally scoots back enough to look at me. “Why are you here? Is everything okay?”
Eloise blinks at me like I’ve asked the most absurd question in the history of adults. “I’m visiting you.”
I glance at Zara again, needing confirmation, because apparently I no longer trust my own ability to read a situation.
Zara gives a small shrug, her mouth curving with the kind of helpless amusement that says she tried to keep this reasonable and lost. I shift Eloise on my knee, checking her face again, even though she’s clearly fine and already looking past me toward the vines with open curiosity.
“You ran all the way over here like something was wrong,” I say, keeping my hand on her back. “You scared me half to death.”
Eloise wrinkles her nose, utterly unimpressed by my concern.
“That’s silly. I just wanted to see you.
” Once she’s satisfied that I’ve survived her surprise arrival, she twists in my arms and points toward the heavy clusters hanging from the nearest vine.
“Look at the grapes,” she says, leaning forward as if she’s discovered buried treasure instead of fruit I’ve been monitoring since bud break.
“They were so tiny last time I saw them.”
“The sun and water makes them grow,” I say, shifting her carefully to her feet before I stand. My knees protest after too much time in the dirt, and my shirt sticks unpleasantly to my back as I follow her gaze along the row.
She steps closer to the vine, peering at a compact cluster tucked beneath the leaves. “Are they ready to eat?”
Zara makes a soft sound behind us, like she already knows where this is going, but I keep my expression serious as I crouch beside Eloise. “Technically, yes. But they won’t be what you expect.”
Eloise turns her head and gives me a look that’s so much like Alex that I nearly laugh before she says anything. “Why not?”
“You tell me.” I reach for a nearby cluster and roll one grape gently between my fingers, checking the skin before I pluck it free. “These are wine grapes. They’re not like the grapes you eat from the grocery store.”
She eyes the grape in my palm with deep suspicion, though her body leans toward it anyway. “It’s still a grape.”
“True,” I say, holding it out. “But wine grapes have thicker skins, more seeds, and a lot more intensity. They’re grown for flavor, sugar, and acid, not for snacking.”
Eloise looks from my face to the grape, clearly deciding whether I’m trying to trick her. Then she takes it with the solemn bravery of someone accepting a dare.
Zara folds her arms and watches from beside the row, sunlight catching in her hair while amusement tugs at the corner of her mouth.
I should probably stop this. Instead, I just wait, because some lessons can’t be explained by adults. They’re better experienced.
Eloise pops the grape into her mouth with complete confidence.
For half a second, nothing happens. Then her eyes widen, her nose wrinkles, and her whole face collapses into betrayal so pure I lose the battle with my composure.
She makes a muffled noise of disgust, turns toward the bare patch of dirt between the rows, and spits the grape out with the kind of dramatic efficiency I wish some adults brought to bad wine.
My laugh breaks loose from somewhere under the heat and exhaustion of the morning. Zara laughs too, one hand covering her mouth as Eloise wipes at her tongue with the back of her hand and glares at the innocent vine. “That is not a grape,” she announces, deeply offended.
“It is absolutely a grape,” I assure her, still smiling as I pull a clean tissue from my pocket and hand it to her.
“It’s just not a table grape. Table grapes are bred to be sweet, crisp, and easy to eat.
Wine grapes are smaller, stronger, and usually not very pleasant unless they’ve been turned into something adults drink with dinner. ”
Eloise accepts the tissue with wounded dignity and scrubs at her mouth as if the grape has personally wronged her. “Why would anyone grow those on purpose?”
“Because they make beautiful wine,” Zara says, her laughter fading into a warm smile.
Eloise considers this while looking down the long row of vines, and I can almost see her reevaluating every romantic idea she brought with her about vineyard life. “Your job is less fun than I thought.”
I glance at the valve box, the dust on my knees, and the endless rows waiting for attention before I brush a leaf from her shoulder. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone has said to me all day.”
Eloise is still studying the vines with open suspicion when I pick up the irrigation tool I dropped in the dirt.
I clip the tool back onto my belt and glance toward Zara. “When are you all leaving for Toronto?” The question leaves my mouth before I’ve really thought about it. But there’s no use pretending this isn’t happening.
“Daddy told me we’re not going to Toronto,” Eloise says. “He promised.”
I blink and look between her and Zara. For a second, I’m not entirely sure I’ve heard her correctly. Zara’s mouth twitches as though she’s trying not to smile, while Eloise stands there completely confident in her answer.
“We’re staying here,” Eloise continues, explaining something obvious to an adult who isn’t keeping up.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought it was already decided,” I hear myself say.
Eloise shakes her head. “My daddy misses you.”
The words arrive so casually that I almost miss them. Almost. I keep moving, stepping over an irrigation line and focusing a little too hard on where I’m putting my feet. “Does he?” I ask, aiming for lightness and hoping it sounds more convincing than it feels.
“Uh-huh.” She nods without looking at me. “He says your name a lot.”
Zara’s cough sounds suspiciously like a laugh from several feet behind us. I refuse to look at her.
The vineyard suddenly feels even warmer than it did five minutes ago, and I have no intention of either of them seeing my reaction. Eloise, meanwhile, seems entirely unaware that she’s ventured into territory most adults would avoid.
“You need to come for dinner tonight.”
I glance down at her. “Do I?”
“Yes.” She says this as though attendance has already been confirmed and we’re simply discussing logistics. “I’m making chicken nuggets.”
I look toward Zara, who has wisely decided not to intervene. She just shrugs.
“You’re making dinner?” I clarify.
“Yep.” Eloise nods. “My speciality. Baked chicken nuggets.”
“Well, if you’re making chicken nuggets, I probably shouldn’t miss it.” I slow my pace as we reach the end of the row, the vineyard opening around us in long stretches of green and gold. “But I think dinner needs dessert too.”
Eloise stops walking so abruptly that I nearly run into her. She tips her head back to look at me, clearly intrigued. “What kind of dessert?”
“I’m not sure, but I could bring something.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment she looks uncannily like Alex when he’s evaluating a decision. Apparently satisfied with whatever process has occurred inside her head, she reaches a conclusion. “Strawberry ice cream.”
“No hesitation at all?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Strawberry.”
I chuckle. This kid. “The Creamery can definitely handle strawberry ice cream.”
Eloise’s entire face brightens, and she bounces once on her toes as though we’ve just negotiated a major international treaty rather than dessert. For someone who recently decided vineyard work wasn’t what she was hoping, she’s recovered remarkably quickly.
“Good,” she says, taking my hand as we start walking. “Then it’s settled.”
I look over toward Zara, who is smiling openly now, and then down at the little girl leading me through the vineyard as if she owns half of Paradise. Somewhere between chicken nuggets and strawberry ice cream, I’ve been drafted into dinner plans.
They show no sign of departing, and I find I’m not anxious for them to go, so I just guide them along with me. In between Eloise’s endless chatter, I’m able to get the water fixed, but I’ll have to check my work to make sure it’s going to hold.
We start down the hill together, moving at the slower pace Eloise sets as she navigates the uneven ground between the rows. Her hand stays tucked in mine, despite the heat, and every few steps she swings our joined arms like she has no doubt I belong exactly where she’s decided to put me.
Zara walks a few steps behind us, close enough to hear but far enough to give Eloise room to examine every leaf, rock, and insect she passes. I look over my shoulder at her, lowering my voice while Eloise bends to inspect something in the dirt. “Is Alex okay with this?”
Zara’s eyebrows lift slightly. “With dinner?”
I nod. “With me coming over.” I return my attention to Eloise as she straightens and tugs me forward again, but the question has been pressing at me since the invitation left her mouth. “I don’t want to create tension if he didn’t know she was going to ask. Things have been complicated enough.”
Zara’s expression shifts into something gentle. “It’ll be fine,” she says, matching my quieter tone. “More than fine, I think.”
I absorb that as we continue down the slope.
More than fine is not a promise, and it isn’t an answer to everything Alex and I haven’t said.
Still, it carries enough meaning that my heart is fluttering with hope.
I can pretend I only agreed because Eloise asked, and because chicken nuggets and strawberry ice cream are hard invitations to refuse, but I know better.
Eloise looks up at me, her face bright. “Daddy likes strawberry too.”
“Good to know,” I say, because anything else might reveal too much.
By the time we reach the lower road and they’ve gotten in Zara’s minivan, I’m feeling nervous about what I’ve committed to. My clothes are dirty, my hair is damp with sweat, and I have several hours of work waiting for me before I can show up anywhere resembling presentable.
But as I wave goodbye, none of that stops the anticipation from building within me.
I picture Alex’s house, Eloise’s menu, and a carton of strawberry ice cream from the Creamery sweating on the counter.
I should be more cautious about walking back into their world so casually, but this time, I think I’ll just do it the way Eloise wants and leave it at that.