Chapter 16 Gillian
GILLIAN
Grace pressed her face against the car window as we pulled into Delphine's driveway, already bouncing with excitement. “Annie and I are going to the beach every single day. And we're having a sleepover marathon. And—”
“Breathe,” I said, laughing as I turned in my seat. Alex caught my eye from the driver's seat, his smile warm and indulgent.
The moment we stopped, Grace launched herself out of the car, then doubled back to stick her head through my open window. “Have fun, Mom. You deserve this.” She kissed my cheek, then leaned past me toward Alex. “Take care of her, okay?”
“That's the plan,” Alex said, his hand finding mine on the console.
Grace grinned and darted toward the house where Annie waited on the porch. Delphine appeared behind her daughter, elegant in a crisp sheath dress despite the early hour. She walked to the car, leaning down to my window.
“I'm looking forward to hearing about this secret adventure when you return,” she said, her eyes flicking between us with barely concealed amusement.
“Thanks again for taking Grace for me,” I said.
“No thanks needed.” She looked over at Alex. “Esme’s picking them up later to take them to the beach. I’m off to work.”
I hugged her and then got back into Alex’s car, waving as we rolled down the driveway. Knowing that Grace was safe with Delphine—and Bella and Peter with Sonya—we drove out of town and onto the coastal highway toward San Francisco.
The road unspooled like ribbon—azure ocean to gold hills, gold hills to more gold.
Alex put on a playlist of love songs, and his hand found mine on the console between us, fingers threading through mine with the easy familiarity of someone who’d done it a thousand times before.
His thumb traced lazy circles on my palm, and I found it hard to focus on anything but that simple touch.
“Do you remember that concert we saw in Central Park?” Alex asked, glancing over at me. “Who played? I can’t remember a thing about the music. Only you in that sundress.”
“Eli Winters,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “So romantic. Except for the mosquito bites.”
“Yes, that’s right.” He laughed, squeezing my hand. “But I don’t remember mosquitoes.”
“That’s because they never bit you.”
His eyes stayed on me a beat longer than necessary before returning to the road, and the intensity in that look made warmth bloom in my chest.
We crested a hill, and the world became vines—row after row catching sunlight, the geometry of it soothing. I pressed my free hand to the glass. “Wine country.”
“Is it okay?” Alex asked.
“I can’t think of anything better. In fact, I had a feeling this might be where we were headed.”
We left the main road for a narrow valley lane, shouldered by old oaks and bay laurel.
The asphalt turned to packed gravel. A cattle guard clanged under the tires and the smell shifted to dust, warm grass, and wild fennel crushed somewhere along the fence line.
Up ahead, two low, dry-stacked stone pillars framed a wrought-iron gate.
Beyond it, the drive climbed toward a stone-and-stucco ranch house with a terracotta roof, tucked into the hill.
“Oh, how pretty,” I said.
“This is a winery owned by some friends of mine. They’ve promised us lunch.” Alex leaned forward slightly, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. “They were friends of Mattie’s, then became part of a small business grant we did five years ago. They transformed this place.”
“I’m excited,” I said, even though my stomach fluttered with nerves at the thought of meeting Mattie’s friends. What would they think about Alex moving on with another woman?
He must have sensed my tension because he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “They’re going to love you.”
The driveway curved past olive trees and a kitchen garden with tomato vines tangled on twine, and marigolds dotting the green. Then a courtyard opened to sun-bleached flagstone, a bocce court under live oaks, and a waterfall that spilled into a shallow stone trough.
When we got out of the car, a yellow dog trotted over, tail wagging lazy friendliness.
A middle-aged couple waited on the terrace, sun-browned and dressed in casual linen shirts.
The woman strode toward us, grabbing Alex into a hug.
“Alex, it’s so good to see you.” She held him at arm’s length, assessing him.
“You look good.” Her silver bob framed a round face, etched with lines around her mouth.
She turned to me. “You must be Gillian. Welcome. We’re glad to meet you.
” Her hand was cool and dry in mine. “I’m Marisol. This is my husband, Leo.”
Leo had a mop of thick black hair—greying at the temples—and skin weathered from what I assumed was outside work in his vines. His light blue eyes seemed to take me in as he held out a hand for me to shake. “You interested in looking at our vines?”
“For sure,” I said.
We followed Leo and Marisol out to the vines, laden with clusters of grapes.
Alex’s hand settled at the small of my back as we walked, and I found myself leaning into the touch.
The end posts were stenciled with block names.
Olive-green netting hung rolled and ready for harvest. Stepping into the rows, the temperature seemed cooler near the soil.
Leo encouraged us to pinch a grape from a cluster and let it pop between our teeth—tiny, hard and tart. More herbal than sweet.
Alex plucked one and held it out to me. When I leaned in to take it with my teeth, his thumb brushed my lower lip, sending a shiver through me despite the warm sun.
“They’re months away from harvest,” Leo said. “We’re hoping for a good summer.”
“What’s a good summer typically?” I asked, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the way Alex was looking at me. “For the grapes, I mean.”
Squinting into the sunlight, Leo pulled a cap from his back pocket and brought it down low over his forehead.
“Warm days, cool nights. That’s the short version.
Eighties in the day, fifties at night, keeps the acid bright while the sugars climb.
We hope for morning fog that burns off by coffee time.
A couple of short heat spikes are fine, but weeks over a hundred cook the acid out and raisin the fruit.
We like steady, even ripening—veraison late July into August, then slow and patient hanging time so flavor and tannin catch up. ”
Marisol added, “And dry at the end. No rain on the fruit in September, please God. A breeze to keep mildew down, not too much humidity, and no smoke in the air.”
Leo smiled. “Grapes like to struggle a little but not panic.”
They led us over to another section of the vineyard, and I reached for Alex’s hand as we walked. He threaded his fingers through mine immediately, squeezing gently.
“This back valley is harder to farm.” Marisol brushed her palm over a leaf. “Rocky, stingy soil. The vines have to work, which is good for flavor. I tell that to my teenagers too.” She laughed, and the hawk circling above seemed to underline the joke with a single, clean cry.
We continued our tour, walking into a courtyard where fieldstone buildings shouldered together—a tall, gabled house with arched cedar doors, iron strap hinges, a small bell tower, and, opposite it, an ivy-climbed stone facade with a round window and a massive plank door dark as tea.
Boxwood clipped low edged the beds; citrus trees in terracotta pots pinched the air with a clean, green smell.
Marisol led us through a pergola hung with grape leaves, the shade dappled and cool on my arms. Alex’s fingertips traced a light path down my bare arm, raising goosebumps.
Bare Edison bulbs were strung along the beams, not yet lit, waiting for evening.
Beyond, a patch of soft lawn gave way to the first terrace of vines and the low buzz of bees working clover.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Marisol said. “Our oldest daughter’s a gifted chef and works here now.”
“Sophia?” Alex asked. “How can she be old enough?”
“Time flies along, doesn’t it?” Marisol asked.
A long farmhouse table sat under the pergola, a linen runner down the center.
Mismatched wooden chairs. Two wine barrels stood in for side tables piled with cheese, including a creamy cow’s milk, a nutty aged wedge, a chalky goat, and fig halves, Marcona almonds, and a bowl of herbed salt.
On the main table, fresh bread sat beside a shallow dish of olive oil freckled with pepper and orange zest.
Alex pulled out a chair for me, his hand lingering on my shoulder as I sat. The simple gesture made my heart flutter.
Leo poured a pale rosé that tasted like strawberries and clean stone.
“We’ve just started offering lunch for our guests,” Marisol said, settling in and nudging the bowl of olives our way. “It’s proven to be very popular.”
We ate chunks of bread and cheese with our hands, washing it down with the rosé and cold water. Under the table, Alex’s knee pressed against mine, a constant, warm presence.
“Nothing’s ever tasted this good,” I said.
“It’s the air here,” Leo said. “We think, anyway.”
“How are the kids?” Marisol asked, her expression serious. “We worry about them.”
“They’re okay,” Alex said, his hand finding mine on my lap. “Good days and bad.”
“And how are they adjusting to you dating?” Marisol asked.
“Bella’s been tricky,” Alex said. “But I think she’s coming around.”
“Bless her little heart,” Marisol said before turning to me. “Tell me about your daughter.”
For the next few minutes, I told them about Grace and her interests, our life in Willet Cove. Marisol and Leo listened and nodded, asking questions for more detail. Alex’s thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand the entire time, a quiet reassurance that steadied me.
“Do you want to see the caves?” Marisol asked when the plates were mostly crumbs.
“The caves?” I arched a brow at Alex.
“Barrel room,” he said.
“Oh, yes, please.”