Josie
Forty-two
Summer is supposed to be quieter than harvest.
It rarely is.
Most of my morning disappears between crew questions, irrigation concerns, and a dozen small vineyard problems that are determined to become larger if ignored.
In the early afternoon, I’m halfway down a block, checking vine growth, when the sound of an engine drifts across the vineyard.
At first I ignore it. Vehicles come and go all day.
But for some reason, a minute later, curiosity gets the better of me.
I look toward the access road and immediately frown.
A black Escalade is making its way through a cloud of dust. The vehicle looks completely out of place among tractors, vineyard trucks, and utility vehicles.
Nobody drives a luxury SUV into the middle of a vineyard unless they’re lost, confused, or very wealthy.
As it gets closer, though, I realize exactly who it belongs to.
I pull off my gloves and start walking. The driver’s door opens before I reach the vehicle, and Malcolm Westcott steps out. For a moment, I simply stare at him. He looks exactly like all the photos I saw on the internet.
“What brings you here?” I ask in greeting.
He closes the door and takes a slow look around the vineyard. “You haven’t returned any of my calls.”
I wince. “Things have been busy.”
“Busy enough to ignore every attempt I’ve made?”
I open my mouth to argue, and then close it again. The truth is, I haven’t looked at my phone in over a week.
At first, I just needed a break. Evie died. The will blew my family apart. Malcolm wanted me to move to Napa. Alex’s mother told me he was getting back together with Anastasia. Every direction I turned seemed to bring another problem I didn’t know how to solve.
And then with every day that passed, turning it back on felt harder.
Because I knew there would be messages waiting. Questions. Decisions. Expectations. Maybe bad news. Maybe worse.
I fold my arms across my chest and glance toward the vines stretching behind me. “You picked a complicated time.”
“I gathered that.” The smile that follows softens the observation.
For a moment neither of us speaks. The summer sun hangs high overhead while a light breeze moves through the vineyard. Malcolm looks exactly as comfortable standing in the middle of Black Bear as he would in a boardroom, which somehow feels unfair.
“I got tired of waiting.”
I stare at him for a moment before shaking my head. “So you flew to British Columbia?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without the slightest hesitation, as though crossing an international border on a whim is the most reasonable thing in the world.
“That’s ridiculous.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I usually get what I want.”
The statement should sound arrogant. Instead, it sounds like a man acknowledging a fact that’s been true for so long he no longer sees any point in pretending otherwise. Despite myself, I feel a smile tugging at my lips.
Malcolm notices immediately. “See?” he says. “Progress.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You flew all this way for a conversation?”
“No.” His gaze holds mine. “I flew all this way because you’re worth the conversation.”
The words carry surprising force. Lately every discussion in my life has revolved around problems that need solving—Evie’s estate, probate, the future of Black Bear, Alex, responsibilities I never asked for but can’t avoid.
Malcolm is the only person looking at me and talking about possibilities instead of obligations.
I mean, I guess he is. I’ve been avoiding contact with everyone else.
He turns again, studying the vineyard around us. “It’s beautiful.”
Pride rises automatically. “Thank you. I think so too.”
When his attention returns to me, his expression has softened. “Do you have time to show me around?”
The question knots something in my stomach. I told him nothing was happening with me until after the holidays. Does entertaining his request send a different message?
“I haven’t made any decisions,” I remind him. “My timeline is still the same.”
“I know.”
“About any of it.”
His smile returns. “I’m not asking for a commitment today.”
I smile, giving in. For all his persistence, Malcolm has never tried to force an answer from me. He clearly wants one, but he’s mostly doing this my way.
I look across Black Bear at vines planted by generations of my family. “I suppose a tour wouldn’t hurt.”
His grin appears immediately. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I roll my eyes, though there’s no real irritation behind it. “Come on.”
Malcolm walks beside me between the rows while I point out blocks, varietals, and sections that have been replanted over the years.
The afternoon sun hangs warm overhead, and every so often he stops to study something more closely.
Most people see rows of grapevines. Malcolm seems genuinely interested in understanding what he’s looking at.
When we reach the crest of a gentle slope, I stop and gesture toward the block surrounding us. “My great-great grandfather planted this section.”
Malcolm looks around. “This block?”
I nod. “Not these exact vines. They’ve been replaced over the years. But this was one of the original vineyard sites.”
The answer seems to fascinate him. He slowly turns, taking in the rows stretching toward the lake. “That’s incredible.”
I smile. “When your family has been doing something for over a century, everything has a story.” Every road, every building, every block of vines carries someone’s fingerprints.
For most of my life I never thought much about it because Black Bear was simply home.
Lately I’ve started seeing it differently.
Malcolm brushes a hand along a leaf before looking farther down the slope. “They don’t look like Napa.”
I laugh softly. “No. They don’t.”
The observation opens the door to a conversation I understand far better than inheritance battles and family drama.
“The climate is different here,” I explain. “The soils are different. We get colder winters and shorter growing seasons. The lake moderates some of the extremes, but we’re still dealing with completely different conditions than California.”
Malcolm listens carefully while we continue walking. “So you’re working harder for ripeness?”
“Sometimes.” I point toward another block farther down the hill. “It depends on the variety and the year. We make different decisions because the environment forces us to.”
The discussion continues as we move through the vineyard. Malcolm asks intelligent questions and actually waits for the answers. The more we talk, the easier the conversation becomes. Eventually I’m no longer thinking about Napa or job offers. I’m simply talking about wine.
We reach the winery, and the temperature drops as we step inside. Stainless steel tanks line one wall while barrels occupy another section of the building. Malcolm slows, taking everything in. “This is where the magic happens?”
I smile. “Something like that.”
As we walk through production, I explain how different wines move through the facility. Malcolm follows along surprisingly well for someone whose expertise lies elsewhere.
“For our table wines, we’ll often use pump-overs during fermentation.”
He studies one of the tanks. “Why?”
“Efficiency. Consistency. It works well for that style of wine.”
I continue leading him through the building while explaining how different wines require different approaches.
“The wines we’re trying to win awards with get treated differently.”
His attention sharpens. “How differently?”
I explain the additional handling, the extra attention, and the reason certain lots receive far more individualized care. The details would be tedious to most people, but Malcolm appears completely engaged.
By the time we finish the tour, I’ve stopped paying attention to what Malcolm is looking at and started paying attention to how he’s looking at it.
The equipment interests him, but not nearly as much as the decisions behind it.
He asks questions about irrigation schedules, harvest timing, production targets, and distribution challenges.
Every answer seems to generate three more questions.
When we finally step back outside, his expression has shifted. He seems to better understand what it takes to keep our winery running, and perhaps his as well. The realization hits a moment later. He isn’t looking at Black Bear differently. He’s looking at me differently.
The awareness lands beneath my ribs and leaves me unsettled. I’m used to people seeing the vineyard. The land. The business. I’m far less comfortable with someone recognizing the work behind it.
When we stop near the barrel room, Malcolm slips his hands into his pockets. “I have a question.”
My stomach tightens. We’ve spent the last hour talking about vineyards, winemaking, and family history, but I can’t forget why he came. The tour may have given him a better understanding of Black Bear, but it hasn’t changed the reason he flew to British Columbia.
“What is it going to take?” he asks. “To get you to Napa.”
I fold my arms across my chest and lean against one of the barrels.
“Is it money?” he asks when I don’t answer immediately. “Because we can solve that. If it’s a bigger role, more responsibility, more authority, we can solve those things too.”
I laugh softly and shake my head. “It’s not money.”
Malcolm doesn’t look discouraged. If anything, he looks more determined. “Then tell me what it is. If you need a larger footprint, a bigger team, or greater control over the operation, I’ll make it happen. I want you in Napa, Josie.”
The sincerity in his voice makes the conversation more difficult.
“I used to think about leaving here, and the decision felt easy,” I admit. “At the time, I thought I knew exactly what my future looked like. My grandmother controlled everything, and it seemed obvious that Black Bear was never going to belong to me and my sister. Leaving felt practical.”