3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Vicente Godoy
A fter taking a shower, I take my time dressing, thinking how to approach my father about this ridiculous idea of me going to Chile and getting married. I’m thirty-five years old, for Christ’s sake, and he comes into my home, acting like I'm still a teenager living under his roof.
I know I’m a privileged bastard. Without my parents' wealth, I wouldn’t be where I am today. But dammit, this feeling of being at my father’s mercy—when I’ve worked my arse off to multiply my family’s fortune—is suffocating. Somehow my father is the only person in the world who can make me feel powerless.
But I’m not ready to make a decision yet. Letting the vineyard go to a complete stranger doesn’t sit well with me, but neither does the thought of getting married. I haven’t had a girlfriend in years. The older I get, the grumpier and more selective I’ve become about the women I date.
And what is this talk of spending six weeks in Italy? Do Gabo and Isa know about this? Or are they getting ambushed, too?
Without giving it a second thought, I decide to call my brother.
“Gabo, hey. Do you have a moment?”
“Good morning, Vic. How are you? I was having a great morning until you decided to rudely interrupt,” my brother replies in a mocking tone, letting out an exasperated breath.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… Mother and Father are here, and the first thing he says is that I need to go to Chile while they’re visiting you and Isa—and that I have to get bloody married.” I blurt it all out in one breath, a rush of relief washing over me as I finally vent everything that’s been bugging me since breakfast.
“Woah, hold on,” Gabo says, and I hear muffled sounds on his end. I’m sure Isabella is asking what’s going on.
I don’t call my brother often. If I need something, I usually text.
“Okay, so you’re telling me Mom and Dad are in London?” he says.
“Yes, arsehole. Keep up.”
“And you didn’t know they were coming? Mom has been talking with Isa about coming to see us for over a month.”
That’s great. Even my brother’s girlfriend is more in tune with my parents than I am.
“I’ve been busy. Mrs. Evans might have had to remind me they were coming a time or two,” I admit.
A booming laugh echoes through the phone. I roll my eyes at my brother, even though he can’t see me.
“You’re so full of shit, Vicente. Busy with what? You have more money than you know what to do with. All you have to do is not lose it. Why do you need to make more?”
If I don’t continue investing and making more money, as my brother says, what am I going to do with the rest of my life? He’s an architect with his own construction company, and he’s been hired by billionaires around the world to design their dream projects. But me? As my father so pointedly reminded me, I’ve spent my entire life training to become the next manager of Hacienda Carmen.
Move back to Chile, take charge of the vineyard.
My internal voice nags at me, but the truth is, I don’t know if that’s what I want to do. Moving back to bumfuck Alamo Peaks after living in London for over a decade doesn’t seem appealing in the slightest.
“Anyway,” I say into the phone. “I just thought I’d warn you about the parents heading your way, but I guess you already knew.”
“Yeah, thanks, but Isa has been preparing for their visit. Given that she doesn’t have a relationship with her parents, she’s ecstatic to spend some time with ours.”
Huh, I guess this thing between Isa and Gabo is serious then.
“Especially with Mom,” Gabo continues. “And now that Karina had Enzo, Mom wanted one last trip to see us because she refuses to leave her first grandchild’s side. Her words, not mine.”
“Yeah, well. I’m glad everything is fucking great . Talk later.” I hang up and feel all the calm I’d found while showering is gone.
When I get downstairs, it’s easy to find my parents. The sound of classical music drifts from my studio. My mother is having tea and biscuits, while my father reads the newspaper.
“Are you ready to talk, Vicente?” he asks without looking up.
When I don’t reply, he continues. “I’m sorry our visit caught you by surprise, but it’s something we’ve been talking about for a while. Just like the plan for you to take over the vineyard isn’t new. You’ve known about it since you were a teenager.”
Finally, he folds the newspaper and gives me his undivided attention. “Maybe it was my fault for letting you stay in London after you finished your studies. But you were an adult then—I trusted you to know what you were doing.”
He rises from the chair and walks slowly toward me. Seeing him in my house feels…different.
Back home, he seemed larger than life—a man respected and liked by everyone. But here in my space, he looks tired. His salt and pepper hair has replaced the deep chestnut I remember when I was little. His hazel eyes, still vibrant, give away more than he realizes.
He turned sixty last fall, and I can understand him wanting a slower pace of life.
For the first time, I see things through his eyes.
I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently. Looking him in the eye, I say, “You deserve this break, Father. And you too, Mother,” I add, leaning my head to catch her eye. “I’ll take charge of the vineyard while you visit Gabo and Isa. But where the fuck did this idea of me getting married come from?”
“Language,” my mother admonishes me from her chair.
I murmur an apology but don’t take my eyes off my father.
“Son, you said it yourself—you’re thirty-five. When are you going to slow down and make time for what’s really important?” His tone is softer than I expected, catching me off guard.
“I don’t understand what getting married has to do with anything?” I reply, pacing the room as agitation builds.
“Vicente, we’ve seen the changes in both your siblings since they found love,” my mother says. “I don’t want you to grow old alone. I know how dedicated you are to your work, but moving back to Chile and giving your all to the vineyard will turn you into a modern-day Mr. Scrooge.”
The laugh that bursts from me is so unexpected, it startles even me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh, Mother.”
Her face transforms with a bright smile, but my father’s expression remains impassive.
“This is serious, Vicente,” he says. “What your mother is trying to say is that we need to see a change in you to trust you with the vineyard. Being in a committed relationship will be a big step toward that.”
Wait. What? That’s not what he said earlier.
“How did we go from, 'if you don’t want to take the vineyard, we’ll sell it’ to ‘if you don’t get married, we won’t give you the vineyard’?” I ask, dumbfounded at the change of rhetoric.
My father begins pacing, and I track his every movement. He needs to clarify, because right now, he isn’t making any sense.
“We don’t want the Godoy legacy to die with you,” he finally says. He doesn’t finish the thought, but I can fill in the blanks.
“And before you suggest we give the Godoy legacy to Karina or Gabriel,” he adds, “we’ve already thought about it. They have their own legacies to pass down to their children.”
Both my parents step closer, and all the anger I’m feeling starts to slowly dissipate.
“I’m sorry that, as the eldest child, the responsibility falls on you,” my father says. “But we know you can do it.”
They pull me into a hug, and although I’m starting to feel a bit more relaxed, my mind is reeling.
Where the hell am I supposed to find a wife?
“I promise, I’ll have an answer before the next planting season,” I hear myself say.
Fuck, I need a filter. ASAP.
“Thank you, son. An answer—that’s all we ask for. It doesn’t matter what it is,” my father says, his voice finally calm and sincere.
But as much as I want to believe that, I know the vineyard and marriage are now tied together. I need to give the vineyard an honest chance. And if I feel I can take it on, then I need to find a wife while I’m there.
After a fifteen-hour flight, I land in Santiago on Sunday evening. Heat and humidity hit me the moment I step off the jet. My parents must truly love their kids, because I wouldn’t trade six weeks of this weather for cold and cloudy days in Italy.
Fernando, my father’s second-in-command, is waiting for me just outside the jet. When I see him, I approach with an outstretched hand.
“Vicente, what a pleasure. Bienvenido. ”
“Hi, Fernando. Thank you for picking me up—you could have sent someone else,” I say as we make our way to his truck.
“It’s no bother, Vicente. I figured we could talk about what needs to be done at the vineyard.”
What is he talking about? Last time I checked the vineyard’s finances, everything seemed to be in order.
“Is there anything in particular that’s worrying you, Fernando?” I ask, choosing to hear him out instead of jumping to conclusions.
“Oh no, nothing’s wrong,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “I just thought that it’d be good to show you some areas where we can optimize the winemaking process. It’d not only save costs, but also help close the gap between us and some competitors.”
I lift an eyebrow, and Fernando chuckles knowingly.
“No, no. I’m not talking about Karina and Luca. They're in a league of their own.”
Relief washes over me, and I laugh lightly. No amount of money in the world would make me turn into an influencer like my brother-in-law. Luca started a YouTube channel to vlog his travels, and somehow ended up boosting our vineyard’s sales the summer he came to Chile after Karina. Now that he and Karina have their own vineyard, his channel has made their property the go-to location for weddings and tours in the Maipo Valley.
I’m happy for their success, but it’s not what we’re after at Hacienda Carmen. Our vineyard is more traditional—we focus on exporting excellent wine, not creating a vineyard “experience.”
“Well, I trust your judgment and will be happy to discuss it further with you tomorrow morning.”
Fernando nods, and we fall into a comfortable silence.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the window. Despite having the jet all to myself, fifteen hours in the air has left me drained. I need to get a proper night's rest if I’m going to tackle my first day here with a clear head.
Which reminds me—my new assistant.
Fuck. I didn’t bring the folder Mrs. Evans prepared for me with all her information. I hope she made a digital copy and sent it to my email. That’s something else I’ll have to check in the morning.
When we arrive at my parents' hacienda, Mariela, our longtime nanny, is waiting outside the door. Before the truck even stops, she’s rushing toward me.
“I didn’t believe your parents when they said you were coming. I’m so happy you’re here, Vicente,” she exclaims, pulling me into a warm embrace.
A genuine smile spreads across my face. Mariela’s been like a bonus mother to me and my siblings.
I inhale a deep, cleansing breath. The air is different here—cleaner, with a touch of nostalgia. It reminds me of long summer days running around the vines, playing tag with Gabo. When Karina was old enough to join us, we built a tree house where we pretended to be secret agents, swearing to protect the vineyard. I wonder if it still exists? Maybe Karina’s son would enjoy playing in it one day.
Shaking off the memories, I glance up at the hacienda, perched front and center on the hill—the heart of the vineyard. Its imposing white facade and adobe roof are reminders of the timelessness of this place. It has been the same ever since Abuelo Henry bought the land and built the property in the early 1900s. Over the years, the acres of vines have grown to two hundred and fifty.
“Yes, I’m here. Even though it’s against my will,” I say between my teeth.
Mariela smacks me on my chest.
“Ouch, what was that for?” I ask, rubbing the spot. It’s intriguing and infuriating how I transform into a child the moment I set foot in this place.
She gives me the side-eye as we walk toward the house. “You’re an adult, Vicente. I’m sure your parents didn’t force you to come.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, she shifts gears. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “I made the chicken casserole you love.”
I nod goodbye to Fernando and follow Mariela into the kitchen. I’m starving after a long day of travel and surviving on plane snacks.
As I enter the house, a brick wall of memories hits me square in the chest. The walls have been white for as long as I can remember, with nothing but picture upon picture of us kids decorating them.
Cold tile presses against my feet. I can’t wait to take my shoes off and feel the cold surface on my bare skin—just like I did growing up. The den is spacious, and now that there aren’t toys scattered about, I can truly see just how big this house is. I guess it was the perfect size for raising three rambunctious kids.
Past the den, the living room is on the left, the dining room on the right, and beyond that, the kitchen and the main door leading to the patio.
Suddenly, a mix of anxiety and frustration invades me. I make a mental note of the things I need to deal with in the morning. The most pressing of all? Meeting my new assistant.
I swear, if she’s not at the office by eight sharp, I won’t hesitate to end the six-month trial period I promised Mrs. Evans. I’m not a patient man, and I don’t plan on changing any time soon.