Chapter 27 Coco #2
I shake my head. “I don’t know how to be in this city and not be my father’s daughter.”
We stop beside a sculpture made of driftwood and sea glass. Light spills through it, breaking across the pavement in ripples that look like water.
“Your father’s silence hurts,” Delphine says. “But it might also be the first time you haven’t been pulled back into orbit by his expectations.”
The idea lands awkwardly, then shifts. Before, every time I tried to step away, something always dragged me back. A call. A favor. A reminder.
“The world is your oyster,” she says. “So what do you want to do, Corinne Marie Boudreaux?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s invasive, but because no one ever asks me that. I truly don’t have an answer for her.
And then I think about the scholarship. My heart races at the thought.
We walk again, passing between two tall sculptures. A child runs past us, laughing at the colors splashed across her hands.
“I got a call yesterday,” I say finally.
Delphine glances at me. “From who?”
“That sommelier program I told you about last summer. In Sonoma.” I make a face. “They offered me a scholarship. Full ride. Tuition, housing. Everything.”
She stops walking. “Wait. You applied?”
“That’s the thing.” I shake my head. “I didn’t. I sent in an inquiry months ago asking for information. I knew the gist, but I was scrolling one night and put in my info.” I huff out a breath. “It was always too far-fetched.”
“Ahh. So you were in their sights,” she says.
“But that was right around when I started doing more for my father. And then Ridge came into the picture,” I add quietly.
I glance up at the lanterns. “I forgot about it, honestly. Completely. So when they called, it was just strange.”
Delphine smiles, and I know immediately she’s putting together a plan.
“That’s called fate, Coco. That’s how doors open when you finally stop standing in front of them.”
“I don’t even know how I’d make it work,” I say. “I’d have to be gone for three months. I have a house. A life here.”
“You have a house,” she corrects gently. “You don’t have a life here, to be honest.”
The words hurt, even though they are the truth.
“Everything’s covered, right?” she asks.
I nod. “Everything.”
Delphine doesn’t hesitate. “Then you go.”
We pause beneath a canopy of suspended mirrors, sunlight breaking across our faces in fractured pieces.
“If you don’t do it now,” Delphine says, “you’ll keep finding reasons not to. Coco. I’m making you go. This is an amazing opportunity, and the timing couldn’t be right. Speaking of timing, when does it start?”
I don’t answer. The tension I’ve been carrying eases, and the idea stops sounding like something I need permission to want.
There’s a term starting in January.”
“Six weeks,” she says, nudging my shoulder. “That’s plenty of time to get your affairs in order. I’ll stop by your house every other day to visit your plants and clear the cobwebs.”
As we circle back toward the square, my mind moves ahead of me. Logistics. The idea of being out of this city for that long.
For the first time since Ridge walked out of my house, the ache isn’t the only thing there. There is a tiny glimmer of hope beyond him.
It isn’t happiness yet. But its direction.
And it’s mine.
The late afternoon sun settles over the vineyard, turning the rows of Pinot Noir vines the color of warm honey.
I stand with the rest of the group, a glass of wine balanced in my hand, listening as Marcel talks about terroir like it’s something alive rather than a concept you memorize.
“Pay attention to where this wine comes from,” he says, gesturing toward the hillside. “The limestone here shows up on the finish. It always does.”
I swirl the glass and watch the wine climb the sides before sliding back down. Eight weeks into the program, and I’m no longer guessing. I’m starting to trust what my senses give me instead of waiting for permission to be right.
“Ms. Boudreaux.” Marcel nods in my direction. “What are you getting?”
I bring the glass up and breathe in slowly. The motion itself steadies me, the familiar rhythm of it.
“Black cherry,” I say. “Forest floor.” I take a measured sip and let it sit. “There’s baking spice, too. Clove.”
“And the acidity?”
“Bright,” I answer. “But balanced. It doesn’t overpower the fruit.”
He gives a brief nod and moves on. No praise. No correction. Just acknowledgment. The satisfaction that follows is quiet and clean, nothing like the rush I used to mistake for excitement. This is different because it lasts.
My days here have a shape to them. Early mornings and strong coffee. Notes smudged with purple ink from tastings that run long. Lectures before noon, vineyards in the afternoon, service practice at night. The structure holds me steady in a way chaos never did.
I crouch and scoop a handful of soil, letting it slip through my fingers. It’s lighter than what I grew up with, pale and dry, shaped by years of careful attention. My hands are learning something new here, something that has nothing to do with my last name or the expectations that came with it.
“Wine is patience made visible,” Marcel calls out. “What you taste today started years ago.”
I straighten slowly. Patience made visible. I love that.
Ridge crosses my mind without warning. The way he could stand perfectly still, all that contained energy held in check. I wonder what he’s doing now, whether the city feels different without me in it.
The image shifts, sharpens into something harder. I let it go before it can settle.
The thought passes. Two months ago, it would have taken me under. Now it moves through and keeps going.
“Think about place,” Marcel says. “The fog. The sun. How time shapes what ends up in the glass.”
I close my eyes and let the warmth of the day rest against my skin. Neither my father nor Ridge has reached out since I left. At first, the silence was all I noticed.
Over time, it loosened. Somewhere along the way, it turned into room.
When I open my eyes, Marcel is demonstrating proper tasting technique. Around me, my classmates take notes, focused and intent. Everyone here is chasing something different, but we’re all moving toward it on purpose.
As the group heads toward the next block, I lag behind for a moment. The vines stretch out in front of me, orderly and patient, the result of thousands of small decisions made over time.
I breathe in, dust and green growth sharp on my tongue, and notice how steady I am standing here. The sadness still shows up in the evenings, but it no longer dictates the shape of my days.
The vines reach down into the soil and up toward the light at the same time. I take in the rows one last time, letting the moment hold, and then follow the others forward.