Chapter 16
Sunny
Beaumont Crest looks exactly the way I remember it, and the familiarity settles in my chest like an ache.
The morning fog hangs low over the Sonoma hills, turning the vineyard rows into soft gray lines that fade into the mist. I stand at the edge of the courtyard with a cup of coffee and let the cool air settle against my skin, breathing in the scent of damp earth and eucalyptus and the faint mineral tang that I used to think was the most intoxicating smell in the world.
It is beautiful here, with the stone winery building built into the hillside with the old-world elegance that drew me in at twenty-one.
I drove up that gravel drive with the trembling certainty that I was about to learn from one of the best winemakers in California.
The courtyard is paved in pale stone, bordered by lavender beds that have grown wild since my time here.
When Evan met me at the airport last night, the relief I felt at not seeing Derek's face was so immediate that my knees nearly buckled.
Evan had laughed at the expression on my face and told me Derek rarely comes to the winery.
It sounded exactly like the Derek I knew—all flash and no substance, with no interest in getting his hands dirty.
The door creaks open, and Evan steps out with his coffee, silver hair catching the faint rays of sunlight beginning to break through the fog. His brown eyes find me and crinkle at the corners.
"There she is." He crosses the courtyard with an easy stride. "I was going to offer to pick you up this morning. Thanks for making the drive out so early." He glances at the sky, still pale at the edges where the fog is beginning to thin. "How was the hotel? Comfortable enough?"
"The Bordeaux House is lovely," I say. "No complaints."
"Good." He stands beside me and wraps both hands around his mug. "The fog this morning is something else."
"I used to love mornings like this. The fog makes everything feel hidden, like the whole valley is keeping a secret."
Evan chuckles. "I remember." He nods toward a stone bench beneath an old oak. "You used to show up before sunrise and sit over there, writing in your notebook. I thought you were studying. Turned out you were writing tasting notes for wines you hadn't made yet."
The memory surfaces with a pang of affection so sharp it catches me off guard. "I was planning my first vintage. I had the whole thing mapped out before I even knew where I'd end up."
"And look where you are now." Evan's voice carries the pride that used to make me stand taller. "The head winemaker at one of the best small operations in Texas, producing wines that have people talking from here to New York."
I take a long sip of coffee and let his words land without deflecting them the way I normally would. Evan earned the right to compliment me. He is one of the few people in the world whose opinion I trust without question.
He tips his head toward the winery door. "Come on. Let me show you what we've done since you left. You're going to want to see the new barrel room."
We spend the rest of the day walking through Beaumont Crest, and Evan explains every change meticulously.
The fermentation hall has been expanded, with six new temperature-controlled tanks arranged in a row that gleam under the overhead lights.
The barrel room has doubled in size, carved deeper into the hillside, and the air inside is cool and fragrant with oak and aging wine.
A new lab occupies what used to be a storage closet, outfitted with equipment I recognize from the catalogs I studied during my first year at Willow Sage, dreaming of upgrades the winery could not afford.
"The new crush pad was finished last fall," Evan says as we step onto a concrete platform overlooking the receiving area. "We can process twice what we used to, and the sorting line runs cleaner than anything I've worked with previously."
I run my hand along the railing and take in the view of the vineyard below, the fog finally retreated to reveal a sky so blue it looks painted. It’s gorgeous. The facilities are extraordinary. Any winemaker in the country would sell a kidney for the chance to work here.
And all I can do is compare it to Willow Sage, where the tanks hum and the barrels do their slow, patient work. This place doesn't stand a chance in that contest.
What really surprises me is how much I miss Charlie.
Not in a way I can rationalize or quite put into words, but in the quiet, persistent way of someone who has become a necessary thread in the fabric of my life.
I left Texas yesterday, and already the distance feels like a physical thing, a thread pulled taut between here and there that vibrates every time I think of him.
"Let me show you the new section of our cave," Evan says. "We blasted through the hillside last spring and added another hundred feet of aging space."
We walk the space in companionable silence, our footsteps echoing off the rock walls. The barrels are stacked in long rows, each one marked with vintage and varietal, and the cool air carries that particular scent all great caves share, like patience made tangible.
When we emerge into the sunlight, Evan leads me to the bench beneath the old oak and slowly lowers himself onto the stone. I sit beside him, and for a long moment we watch the vineyard in silence.
"I owe you an apology in person," Evan says, his voice rougher.
"What happened at your tasting event was wrong.
Showing up unannounced like that…" He shakes his head.
"The way Derek handled it, ambushing you in front of your colleagues and your guests, was unacceptable.
I should have called you first, arranged a proper meeting, given you the respect you deserve.
Instead, I let Derek run the show, and I am sorry for that. "
"It was his idea," I say. It is not a question.
"From start to finish." Evan sighs. "He told me you'd been unreachable, that the only way to get your attention was to show up in person. I should have known better. But I wanted to see you, Sunny, and I let that cloud my judgment."
The honesty hits me because it is so thoroughly Evan. He does not make excuses. He doesn’t shift blame or soften the truth with qualifiers. He tells you exactly what happened and exactly what he did wrong, and lets you decide what to do with it.
"I appreciate that. I really do." I stretch my legs out and cross my ankles on the flagstone. "Now tell me something. Why are you selling? More particularly, why are you selling to him?"
Evan is quiet for a long moment. A breeze moves through the oak above us, scattering dappled light across the bench.
"I'm tired, Sunny." The words come out heavy, stripped of the energy that usually powers everything he says.
"I've been making wine for nearly forty years.
I've loved every minute of it, but my body doesn't cooperate the way it used to.
A hip replacement last year set me back more than I expected, and there's another surgery coming soon.
My mind wanders to places it never used to go.
I think about fishing, about sitting on a porch and reading a book without worrying about fermentation temperatures. "
He exhales sharply. "And the truth is, the margins have been razor-thin for years.
I've been shaving equipment costs just to keep the doors open.
" He gives me a rueful half-smile. "I've been ready to retire for a couple years, and when Derek approached me with an offer, I was finally open to it.
" He looks at his hands. "I'm not proud of how we got here.
But his offer would clear my medical bills and let me walk away clean. "
"But why Derek, Evan?" I turn to face him, and I do not bother hiding the urgency in my voice.
"Everything he touches falls apart. He acquires businesses and properties to impress people, neglects them, and moves on.
I watched him do it over and over while we were together.
This winery is your life's work. It deserves better than becoming another casualty of Derek Parker's ego. "
Evan holds my gaze, and the resignation in his brown eyes makes my stomach turn.
"I know who he is. I've done my research.
But here's the thing, Sunny." He pauses, and it stretches long enough that the breeze shifts and the dappled light rearranges itself across the courtyard.
"The sale was only ever contingent on one condition. "
I wait, watching his face.
"You." Evan's voice drops. "The deal only goes through if you agree to take over as head winemaker. I told Derek from the beginning that I would not sell Beaumont Crest to anyone who couldn't guarantee the future of the wine program, and the only person I trust with that future is you."
The revelation hits me like a slap. I sit back, and my fingers clench around the stone until my knuckles ache.
The pieces rearrange themselves in my mind, the tasting ambush, the offer letter, Derek's smug voice on the phone, all of it clicking into a picture that is both clearer and uglier than I imagined.
"He needs me to close the deal," I say. "That's why he showed up at Willow Sage. That's why he called me. He doesn't care about the wine or the winery or your legacy. He needs me to say yes so he can play winery owner without doing any of the actual work."
Evan does not argue. The fact that he stays silent tells me he has seen the same pattern and drawn the same conclusion.
Evan leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
"I wanted you to hear it from me because you deserved to know the truth.
The offer was genuine on my end. I meant every word I said at your tasting.
You are the best winemaker I've ever trained, and Beaumont Crest would be in extraordinary hands if you took over. "
"But?" I prompt, because I can hear it coming.
"But I watched your face when you turned it down at the tasting, and I saw something I recognized.
" His brown eyes hold mine, and the expression in them is so knowing that I feel exposed.
"You looked the way I looked thirty years ago when someone tried to lure me away from this place.
You looked like a woman who already found her home. "
My throat tightens, and I press my lips together to hold the emotion in check. He’s right. He’s always been right about me, from the first day I walked into his cellar and he told me I had instincts that couldn't be taught, only sharpened.
"I can't take it, Evan." My voice comes out steady, which is a small miracle. "Willow Sage is part of me now. The people there are my family. I built my wine program from scratch on that land, and I am not done building."
Evan nods, and the sadness in his face is tinged with something that looks like pride. "I figured as much."
"And there's someone." The words slip out before I can weigh them, and the vulnerability of the admission sends heat up the back of my neck. "Someone in Texas who matters to me in a way that maybe nobody ever has before."
"I could tell. It's that tall fellow who stood behind you, right?" Evan's mouth curves into a soft smile. "You've been checking your phone every thirty minutes since you got here."
I laugh, and the sound is watery around the edges. "He breeds rodeo horses. He's also inexplicably devoted to six ducks, and he sends me photos of them at six in the morning because he knows it'll make me laugh."
"He sounds like a good man."
"He is the best man I have ever known, and I need to go home to him."
Evan reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Then go. I'm ending the deal with Derek. He's on his own. I'll find another buyer. I won't be a part of a scheme that takes you away from where you belong."
"You'll be okay?" I ask, searching his face.
"I've been okay for sixty-four years, kid.
I'll manage." He squeezes my hand once more.
"Go home. Make your wine. Be happy." He pauses, and the twinkle that enters his eyes reminds me so much of the man who taught me to trust my palate that my vision blurs.
"Maybe I’ll come out and visit sometime.
A real visit and you can give me a tour. "
I pull Evan into a hug that lasts longer than I intend, and the sandalwood scent of him fills my nose. When I step back, my eyes are damp and I don’t bother hiding it.
"Thank you," I tell him, my voice thick. "For everything. For this place and what you taught me, for believing in me before I believed in myself."
"You made it easy, Sunny." He clears his throat. "Now come on. Let me give you a ride back to the hotel before I change my mind and lock you in the barrel room."
I laugh, and give the courtyard one last look, the lavender beds and the flagstone and the old oak bench where I used to sit.
The ride back to The Bordeaux House winds through vineyards and rolling hills that look like a postcard from someone else's life.
The scenery is stunning, but I barely see it.
My mind is already in the production room at Willow Sage, on the porch at Twin Oaks, in the arms of a man who told me he wasn't going anywhere and meant it.
Evan pulls up to the hotel and I give him one more hug.
The anger at Derek has settled into something colder and more resolute. He manipulated Evan, and tried to corner me, just to close a deal on a winery he doesn’t care about. Derek treating Evan's legacy with such disregard makes my jaw clench until my teeth ache.
But anger is not what drives me toward the lobby entrance. I told Evan the truth on that bench beneath the oak, and it set something loose inside me. I need to go home. I need Charlie. And if I have to book a red-eye to get there, that is exactly what I plan to do.