Epilogue #3
Still, moving out isn’t something I can tackle immediately.
The fire that burned down the house Tarryn and I shared flipped everything upside down.
We both lost our home, our routines, and the sense of safety we’d built.
But Tarryn got something unexpected from the experience.
Declan Conner, her ex, was one of the first EMTs on scene after we got out.
He took care of us while his team fought the fire, and now they’re engaged.
She has him to lean on. The Paradises are rebuilding the cottage, but let’s be honest—it won’t be for me.
That place will be Tarryn’s home with Declan, and eventually their family.
I knew that the minute the flames died down when I saw her and Declan together.
I’m thrilled for her, but that means I need to figure out my next move. After the work exchange is done, I’ll deal with it.
Ah, the exchange. Three months in Bordeaux.
The words fizz under my skin like Champagne.
I want it so badly I’m afraid to hold it too tight.
But chasing something bright doesn’t erase the thing I’m walking toward here at home.
When Trace Paradise steps aside at the end of the year, my dad will hang up his tools as the vintner for Paradise Hill Family Estate Winery, and I’ll step into his shoes.
He’s never said it like a decree, more with a quiet faith.
He’s been saving the seat and warming it for me without ever asking if I wanted to sit.
And it’s not that I don’t. Tarryn and I have been planning this for years. But now that it’s nearly here, I’m not sure I’m ready.
My chest tightens. What if I’m not as good as he is? What if everyone is watching and waiting for me to fail? What if I ruin the thing Dad loves most? Being the master vintner has a lot of people depending on you to get it right, and I’m nervous.
Dad hums as he goes about his morning, off-key and happy. My throat loosens. He’s not a man who worries about the what-ifs. He checks the weather, and goes out to the vineyard to meet whatever the day brings. Maybe that’s the job.
Dad hits a particularly loud note, and I give up on sleep.
Throwing back the covers, I tug on jeans, a thick wool sweater, and fleece-lined boots—practical armor against the February cold in Paradise, British Columbia.
A storm’s rolling in later today, and before it hits, I need to check the drip lines at the Black Bear blocks.
They’re on the far side of the lake, which means at least an hour’s drive on dry roads—and they won’t stay dry for long.
But first, Tarryn.
Out in the kitchen, I find my thermos of coffee as expected, and as I sip from it, I wander down the road toward the Paradise Hill offices, breath puffing in the cold morning air. The sky has that heavy, leaden look, and the valley smells like wet cedar and snow waiting its turn.
Inside the office building, the lights are already on, and sure enough, Tarryn is bent over the conference table with rolls of paper spread everywhere—blueprints, elevations, paint swatches.
Her brow is furrowed, one hand pushing her hair out of her face as she studies the plans for the new house.
There’s a cinnamon bun half-eaten beside a ruler and three sticky notes that say ask Declan, fire permit, and don’t forget outlets.
“Morning,” I say, dropping my gloves on the table.
She looks up, her whole face lighting when she sees me. “Morning. Come look at this—you’re going to love where your room ended up.”
My room. The words settle in my chest like a stone and a hug at the same time.
I want to believe I’ll always have a place with her, but part of me worries it’s only temporary, that once she and Declan start their family, I’ll be the extra piece that doesn’t fit.
I lean over the plans, tracing the outline of walls and windows.
Corner room, mountain view, a little alcove that would be a perfect reading nook if I lived there long enough to read in it.
“It’s beautiful, Tar. But…what does Declan think about me moving in with you two? ”
She makes a face like I’ve just insulted her. “Please. Declan adores you. He thinks of you as family. And you’re not going to be homeless on my watch.”
Homeless lands with a sting, even though I know she means the opposite. “I’ll find my own place,” I say softly. “Eventually. I refuse to be the weird permanent third wheel.”
“You could never be a third wheel.” She unrolls another sheet with a satisfying crackle. “Besides, the weird aunt is a badge of honor. All the kids love the weird aunt.”
“I’ll bring sticky hands and drum sets to every birthday,” I threaten.
“Perfect.” She moves toward the coffeemaker in the corner. “Cream?”
“Just a splash.” I take the mug, letting the heat burn my palms in that good way as I slide onto the chair beside her.
She takes a long sip before speaking again, eyes on the plans but voice pointed. “Promise me you won’t take a permanent role at Chateau after your exchange. You’re too important here.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s gentle. “Oh please. You know me. Three months on the Left Bank is going to be incredible. Gravel and clay and wind off the Gironde? I’ll learn more as they do all the pre-season work than I could in a year at a desk.
But Black Bear Valley is in my blood. I’m not going anywhere. ”
She narrows her eyes like she can see my daydream anyway. And, fine, it’s there—a flash of limestone cellars, midday light on rows older than my grandparents, a master vintner’s hands showing me a technique my dad never needed because our climate is different. The tug of it scares me a little.
“Say the words,” she insists.
“I promise,” I say, grinning when she keeps staring. “I promise I’m coming home. This is home.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction. “Good. Because you’re not only my maid of honor, you’re my right hand. I need you for all the planning.”
That makes me laugh, the kind that bubbles up from relief.
“You’ve helped plan your brothers’ weddings.
You could do this blindfolded. By now you know the cake vendors who won’t fight us on buttercream in winter and the florist who can source ranunculus without pretending peonies are in season.
But I’ll be here holding your hand the whole way. ”
“Bless you,” she says. “Declan’s schedule is chaos, and the firefighters’ rotation means we have to dodge half the weekends—”
“Already built a spreadsheet,” I admit, pulling out my phone. “Color coded. With a tab for childcare for your future tiny humans, because I’m manifesting—for your mother, of course.”
“You’re a menace, and I love you.” She sets her mug down and turns to me, serious now. “You know how much you mean to me, right? Not just as my best friend, but to Paradise Hill. You’re part of the backbone here. And you know I can’t do this without you.”
Her words bring a surge of emotion I didn’t expect. “You’re just as important to me,” I say, hugging her, blueprint paper rustling under our elbows. “And I do love it here. Even when it feels like the valley is trying to push us out.”
The sabotage at Paradise Hill began in earnest after her dad hinted at retiring and announced that Tarryn would take over for him. Since then, we’ve taken turns blaming ourselves for the fallout we can’t seem to move past.
We stay in our embrace a moment, warmth between us, until I finally pull back and glance out the window. The sky’s gone darker, the clouds gathering thicker and faster than forecasted, making the mountains seem closer than they are.
“I need to get on the road,” I tell her. “Jerome says there’s a drip around block ten at Black Bear. They blew out the lines months ago, but I want to check it before the storm hits.”
Tarryn follows my gaze. “It looks like the storm’s coming earlier than expected.”
“I can make it there and back,” I insist, standing and tugging on my gloves. It’s not far as the crow flies—five kilometers south, maybe. Too bad I’m not a crow. “If I leave now, I’ll beat the worst of it.”
She doesn’t look happy, but she nods. “Text me when you get there.”
“Always,” I promise. “And if the weird aunt comes home covered in mud, pretend to be surprised.”
“Deal.”
I wave goodbye and head out to the truck, the cold biting at my cheeks as I climb into the driver’s seat. I drop Dad’s thermos into the cup holder, and the engine rumbles to life. As I steer out of the lot, I look up once more at the clouds rolling over the peaks.
I can make it there and back. No problem.
But the drive is worse than I expect. Much worse.
I’m moving at the kind of crawl that leaves my shoulders knotted and my fingers white on the steering wheel.
The micro-climates around the lake make every mile different—the first stretch glazed in black ice that has me feathering the brakes and counting to four at every curve, then a section of sleet that slicks the pavement into a mirror, then bare asphalt for twenty blessed minutes before the temperature drops a degree and the world skates again.
I’d turn around, but I’m nearly three hours in at this point, and I still have an urgent problem to address.
A leak in the irrigation at this time of year means the drip system wasn’t blown out correctly, and we’re expecting another freeze tonight.
We’ll lose the sprinkler system if the water left in it turns to ice.
The radio fades in and out, the weather announcer switching from cheerful to stern mid-sentence. “Bands of precipitation…lake effect…gusts to forty along the ridge.” On the far shore, the vineyards look like stitched corduroy, neat and sleeping and doomed to wake up cranky if this storm hits wrong.
I slow for the switchbacks where the rock wall leans too close, remembering Dad’s voice, “Don’t be a hero, be a professional. Professionals get home.” I text Tarryn from a pull-out.
Me: Roads are a mess. Still moving. Will check in at Black Bear.