Chapter
Dr. Spencer
Josie
I’m already awake. Today is the first day of my grandmother’s trial and sleep thinned around three and never fully returned.
By the time I’m in jeans and boots, the air outside carries that metallic edge that doesn’t belong in late April.
Bud break on our vines started this week. That’s what makes this dangerous.
I head straight for Block Three, the low pocket near the lake where cold settles first. The rows stretch out in dim blue light, shoots faintly luminous against old wood, tender growth pushing into air that doesn’t yet deserve it.
Mark’s truck pulls up behind me before I reach the hollow.
Mark Dunn is the vineyard manager and my right hand.
“You saw it?” he calls, stepping out.
“I saw it.”
He checks his phone. “North block’s holding at 0.8. This pocket’s colder.”
“It always is.” I crouch and press my fingers against a primary shoot. Soft. Elastic. Alive. If it drops to zero and holds, these primaries will blacken. The vine will push secondaries, but they’ll be weaker, fewer clusters, uneven fruit set. We’ll spend July compensating for April.
Mark studies the sky. “Forecast says it’ll turn in fifteen.”
“Forecast said 1.2 overnight.”
He doesn’t argue with that. My phone vibrates in my hand.
Ric: Media is already reporting from outside courthouse.
I slide the phone into my pocket without answering. It’s too early for this and I have other things to worry about right now.
Temperature: 0.5°C.
Mark glances toward the equipment shed. “We can wait five minutes. See if it stabilizes.”
“No.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fuel’s not cheap.”
The temperature refreshes. 0.4°C. That’s enough.
“Start the wind machines in Three and Four,” I say. “Frost pots in the lowest section by the lake. I want air moving before it touches zero.”
He studies me a second longer, measuring whether I’m reacting to the weather or to the hearing, then reaches for his radio.
The first machine roars to life at the far end of the block, blades turning slow and heavy, pulling warmer air down from just above the inversion layer. The sound carries across the vineyard, mechanical and steady.
Temperature: 0.3°C.
A seasonal worker jogs toward us, breath visible. “Machine in Four’s not kicking over,” he says. “It’s trying but—”
“Battery?” Mark asks.
“Could be.”
I don’t wait. I head toward Block Four with them, boots slick with dew. The machine sits silent at the edge of the row, blades still, engine coughing weakly.
“How long’s it been?” I ask.
“Two minutes.”
Two minutes at 0.3°C is long enough to matter in the low ground.
“Jump it,” I demand.
“We tried,” the workers say.
“Then pull the truck closer and try again,” Mark demands.
Cables clamp. The engine sputters, catches, and then dies.
Temperature: 0.2°C.
The hollow feels colder against my calves than it did ten minutes ago. The air presses down, heavy and unmoving.
“We should have serviced this last week,” the worker mutters.
“We did,” Mark snaps.
“It doesn’t matter,” I snip. “Get it running.”
They try again. The engine grinds, hesitates, then finally catches fully, blades beginning their slow rotation. I don’t breathe out until the machine is moving.
Across the boundary line, the Paradise wind machines are still off. Either their ground is warmer or they’re gambling. Temperature: 0.1°C.
Mark looks at me. “If it hits zero, we light the rest?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll double the fuel.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
There’s no drama in it, just arithmetic.
The temperature flickers on my screen. 0.0°C. The number holds for three seconds that feel longer than they should.
“Light the pots.” We’ve placed fuel-burning heaters between our lowest elevation rows of vines to raise the temperature and protect the grapes and buds from freezing.
Crew moves fast now, metal clanging softly as they set and ignite the frost pots along the lowest stretch. Small flames bloom along the row, controlled and contained, adding just enough warmth to break the edge. The wind machines push the warmed air outward. 0.0°C. 0.1°C.
I watch the shoots in the nearest row, searching for the first sign of burn. Ice crystals would show along the tips if we were too late. I kneel and look closely. No crystallization or darkening.
Mark stands beside me. “It’s turning.”
The eastern horizon brightens, sunlight beginning to push over the ridge. 0.2°C. 0.3°C. The cold eases its grip, almost reluctantly. The machines continue turning as the light spreads across the rows, green shoots catching warmth that feels earned.
“We’re clear,” Mark says.
“For now. Leave them running another twenty.”
He studies me. “You going to court today?”
“Eventually.” I can’t look at him. I don’t have time for this, but we’ve all agreed to be there on her first day.
He glances toward the boundary line. “Paradise didn’t start theirs.”
“I noticed.”
“Maybe they didn’t need to.”
“Maybe.”
Or maybe they decided the optics of visible frost defense weren’t worth the fuel cost on a morning when cameras are pointed at the courthouse instead of the vines. My phone vibrates again.
Ric: Judge moved us up to first on docket.
The vineyard around me looks calm now, frost pots burning low and controlled, machines turning steady, shoots remaining green. We held the line, not because we panicked, but because we moved first. The morning could have cost us. Instead, it cost us fuel. I’ll take that trade.
By the time I’m back at the house, it’s just after nine. The frost has lifted, the machines are quiet, and the crew has moved on to tying canes in Block Two. Court will be in session. My phone rings.
Claire Rice. She is one of our largest buyers. She oversees a majority of the liquor restaurant sales here in British Columbia and it makes up a solid twenty percent of our annual sales.
She doesn’t usually call me. Distribution questions go through Sera, always. I answer anyway.
“Hi, Claire.”
“Josie.” Her voice is measured, warmer than the subject probably deserves. “I’m sorry to call you directly. I tried Sera twice.”
“She’s in court,” I say, already sensing the direction of this. “What’s going on?”
There’s a brief pause—not uncertainty, but preparation.
“I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. We’ve had a few restaurant owners reach out this morning. Nothing dramatic. Just concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
“The coverage,” she says carefully. “The news is running older footage. Talking about the feud. Your grandmother. The sabotage.”
“That footage has nothing to do with what’s in their cellars.”
“I know that, and our team knows that. But guests don’t always separate the wine from the headline, and some owners would rather avoid the conversation altogether.”
I lean against the counter and look out at the vineyard, where everything appears orderly and unaffected.
“They’ve already committed to fall placements,” I say. “The wine is bottled, labeled, warehoused.”
“Yes. And this isn’t about the wine itself.”
Of course it isn’t.
“Paradise has been calling too,” she adds, her tone still even.
My ears perk up.
“Saying what?”
“That they understand this is a difficult season. That they’re focused on stability and community. That they’re looking forward.”
The television in the kitchen is mutered and I see Max standing in front of cameras, and the closed captioning running across the bottom with him running on about unity in our community all while my grandmother sits in court today and his day is coming.
“And?”
“And some restaurants feel it may be simpler to shift attention away from the headlines.”
Simpler.
“What are you telling me, Claire?”
Another breath. “My boss has decided to move one of your fall features.”
The words land without volume but with weight.
“Which one?”
“Estate Reserve.”
The Gold. Two weeks ago we stood together in London while they called Black Bear Estate Reserve to the podium. She shook my hand in the lobby afterward and told me it would change everything.
“That’s the bottle your buyers poured at the tasting,” I say. “That’s the one restaurants built menus around.”
“I know.” She sighs. “It has nothing to do with this trial.”
Of course it does. She just said it did.
“But you’re pulling it.”
“We’re shifting it,” she says gently. “To Paradise. For now.”
“For now,” I repeat. “One hundred cases.”
“Your wines are important to us,” she starts and I stop listening.
Black Bear can move distribution elsewhere. Smaller groups would take us. But Coastal gives reach, leverage, visibility we don’t replicate overnight, and we both know that.
“We could move our business,” I say, not as a threat, just a fact laid on the table.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she replies, and she sounds sincere. “We value Black Bear. This isn’t about quality.”
“It’s about discomfort.” My head is beginning to hurt.
“Yes.”
“It’s about a guest asking a server why the name on the bottle is also on the news.”
“Yes.”
Silence settles between us, not hostile but heavy with the reality that neither of us controls the room this decision was made in.
“If things quiet down,” she says, choosing each word, “we can revisit placement.”
Nothing about that wine changed overnight. Nothing about how we farm changed. But the story did.
“I’ll send updated projections,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“I wish you’d called before the decision.”
She pauses, and this time the hesitation is sharper.
“I tried to reach Sera,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hearing it second hand.”
That much, at least, is true.
When I hang up, the vineyard looks exactly as it did an hour ago. The frost didn’t take us. The court hasn’t ruled. But one hundred cases of our Gold wine just disappeared from the front of a restaurant list because someone decided it was easier to avoid a conversation than have one.
Paradise didn’t need better grapes this morning. They just needed the cameras.
My phone buzzes again as I step back into the house.
Not Ric.
Not Claire.