Chapter 5
Sunny
Isabelle finds me in the barrel room Monday morning, halfway down the last row of Tempranillo.
I’m moving from barrel to barrel, clipboard in hand, and for once my head is quiet.
This is the part of the job that settles everything into place.
No noise, no distractions, just the work in front of me.
Which is exactly what I need after spending the last few days trying not to think about problems, namely Charlie Hayden or the winery’s increasingly shaky future.
"There you are." Isabelle leans against the doorframe, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun and expression a little too bright considering the winery is hanging on by a thread. "I've been looking for you."
"I've been here since six." I mark another seal as good and move to the next barrel. "What's going on?"
Isabelle steps farther into the room, her boots tapping against the concrete as she makes her way to the end of the row. She folds her arms, and the smile she’s been holding back finally slips free. “An investment deal was signed this morning.”
My hand stills on the barrel. I turn to face her fully. "What investment deal?"
Isabelle’s smile softens, and she takes a breath like she’s been holding it for days.
“Word spread about Hill Country Distributing dropping us and our situation. An investor came forward with a proposal. I kept it to myself until it was signed. I couldn’t risk getting anyone’s hopes up.
” Her voice dips, threaded with relief. “We signed this morning. So we have the capital we need to not only keep the lights on, but for modernization, restructuring, all of it. The winery’s safe, Sunny. ”
The tension I’ve been carrying finally loosens, and I slump against the barrel behind me.
Ever since that meeting with Isabelle and Diego, when the numbers made it real, I’ve been expecting the worst. The thought of losing this place, losing my wine, has been constant, pressing in every time I walk into the production room.
Now I can breathe. The place I've poured five years of my life into, the wines I've coaxed from stubborn Hill Country soil and unpredictable weather, is secure.
"Isabelle, that's incredible." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Why didn't you tell me you were talking to someone?"
"Because leads fall through, and I didn't want to put you through that." Isabelle’s brow draws in just a touch, her jaw setting.
I nod slowly. She's not wrong. The uncertainty of the past several days has been grinding, and knowing that negotiations were happening behind the scenes would have only made it worse.
"I'm really happy for you," I say. "For all of us."
"Me too," Isabelle agrees. She pauses, her mouth pulling to one side in a brief, almost apologetic grimace. "There’s one more thing. The investor has a request. He wants to spend a few hours a week here, learning the business from the inside out."
"Learning the business… how?"
"He wants to understand every part of the operation. He’s starting with winemaking, so he’ll be working with you." Isabelle lifts a hand before I can respond. "After production, he’ll rotate to the vineyard with Diego, then through the taproom, and marketing and events with Tabitha."
"I'm babysitting an investor." The words come out flat.
"You're educating a stakeholder," Isabelle replies smoothly. "And considering that this guy just saved our ass, I think we can accommodate a few hours a week."
She has a point, and I know it, but the idea of someone hovering over my shoulder while I work makes my skin crawl. The production room is my space. My sanctuary. The tanks and barrels don't ask questions, don't need small talk, and don't expect me to be charming at seven in the morning.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"He's starting tomorrow morning. You’ll see when he arrives." Isabelle's smile returns, and there's something underneath it that I can't quite read. "Just be your usual welcoming self."
"Very funny."
"I’m not joking." Isabelle pushes off from the doorframe and heads for the exit. "He'll be here at eight. Try not to scare him off on the first day."
I stare at the empty doorway for a beat after she’s gone.
An investor who wants to learn winemaking.
Fine. I can spare a few hours explaining fermentation temps and barrel aging to some finance bro in pressed khakis who thinks buying into a winery means he gets to stomp grapes and sip wine on the terrace.
It’s probably some guy out of Austin who decided this looked romantic after a couple of glossy documentaries. He’ll show up with soft hands and a long list of questions, hover for a few hours, and disappear as soon as he realizes it’s hard work.
I heave a huge sigh, all the tension of the past week releasing from my shoulders.
It's a small price to pay for keeping this place alive. I can manage.
The rest of the day passes in the comfortable rhythm of production work, racking the Roussanne, cleaning equipment, reviewing lab results on the latest Viognier samples.
Tabitha pops her head in around noon to ask if I've heard the news about the investment, and the grin on her face tells me she already knows the answer.
"Isn't it wonderful?" Tabitha is practically bouncing. "Isabelle's been so stressed, and now the whole thing is handled."
"Yeah, it is." I rinse a sample glass and set it on the drying rack. "Did she tell you about the investor wanting to shadow every department?"
Tabitha's grin widens. "She may have mentioned something about that."
"Do you know who it is?"
"Maybe." The word stretches out like taffy, and Tabitha's expression is doing that thing where she's dying to tell me something but enjoying my ignorance too much to give it up. "You'll find out tomorrow."
"Tabitha."
"Sunny."
I narrow my eyes at her, but she's already retreating, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon. I watch her go and shake my head. The two of them are up to something, and I don’t have the time or energy to figure out what it is.
That evening, I lock up the production room and drive home to my small house in Stone Creek.
It's nothing fancy, just two bedrooms, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, and a front porch that catches the evening breeze.
But it's mine, and in five years I've made it comfortable in the quiet, practical way I make everything.
I eat dinner standing at the counter, a bowl of leftover pasta and a glass of wine, and my mind keeps circling the same point. An investor with enough money to save the winery and enough time on his hands to show up week after week to learn the operation.
After rinsing my bowl, I step out onto the porch. The air is warm, carrying a trace of honeysuckle from my neighbor’s fence. The street is quiet, the kind of stillness this town settles into at night.
Charlie Hayden slides into my head. To the way he stared at me across Gran's dinner table, like I was the most interesting person in the room, the quiet sincerity in his voice when he said he'd like to see me again.
I shut that train of thought down and head inside to bed. Tomorrow is going to require the patience of a saint, and that demands sleep.
* * *
The next morning, I get to the winery at six and let myself in through the side entrance, flipping on the lights as I go.
The tanks gleam under the fluorescent glare, and I take a slow breath of yeast and steel and the faint sweetness of fermenting grapes, feeling my shoulders finally loosen.
This is where things make sense, where everything follows a process and every variable can be measured and controlled.
I pull on my rubber boots, gather my hair and braid it tight, and start the morning routine.
I check fermentation temperatures, record pH levels, and inspect the transfer hoses for any sign of wear, moving from one task to the next without thinking about it.
The work steadies me, and by seven-thirty I am focused enough that the new investor barely crosses my mind.
Then the production room door opens.
"Morning, Sunshine."
My hand freezes on the temperature gauge. I know that voice. I've been hearing it in my head for the better part of two weeks, no matter how aggressively I've tried to silence it.
I turn slowly, and there he is.
Charlie Hayden, standing in the doorway of my production room in clean work boots, broken-in jeans, and a dark gray henley.
His brown hair is slightly damp, like he showered right before coming here.
That easy grin is already firmly in place, the one that says everything is going to work out just fine, no matter what.
"You." The word comes out more like an accusation than a greeting.
"Me." His grin doesn't falter. "Isabelle said eight o'clock, but I figured I'd get here early. I wanted to make a good impression with my new boss."
My mind trips over itself trying to process it, none of it making sense.
How did I not put this all together? Charlie is the investor.
That explains his mysterious visit last week.
And now he’s going to be in my space, in my production room, several hours a week, watching everything I do and asking questions like he belongs there.
"You’re the investor." My voice is flat, controlled. Of all the people it could have been, it had to be him. The one person I’ve been trying to keep at a safe distance.
"I recognize a good investment when I see one." He steps further into the room, his gaze sweeping across the tanks and equipment. "I’ve already had the grand tour, but I have a feeling I barely scratched the surface."
"Tabitha's tour is the highlight reel. The real work isn't nearly as glamorous." I shake my head, still catching up. "I had no idea you were the investor. Isabelle didn't mention a name."
His expression turns serious so fast it knocks me off balance. "We wanted to keep the details quiet until everything was finalized. Business deals aren’t done until the ink’s dry."