13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Hunter
Vesper Hill looked worse up close. Cracked roof tiles had slid into the weeds below the old inn, boards covered three windows, though one had pulled away from the stucco far enough to show a dark guest room beyond it.
The porch dipped near the west corner, water had left brown stains under the eaves, and rust coated the iron latch on the cellar door.
Still, Hunter understood what Wendy had seen.
The inn sat above rows of tangled vines, with the hills rising behind them in soft green folds.
Detached cottages followed a narrow path through the weeds.
The stone barn stood square and solid despite its damaged doors, and at the far end of the building, morning light poured through the dusty tasting-room windows and spread across the old tile floor.
“You could keep the original front and replace the rest,” the seller’s representative said.
Dana Aldric wore clean boots that had probably never met mud before that morning. She held a glossy folder against her navy coat.
“A private estate would be simpler. Or a Trace vineyard. Your name on a limited bourbon finish could make the whole purchase pay for itself.”
Hunter looked from her folder to the cracked arch over the inn’s entrance.
“There won’t be a Trace vineyard,” he said.
Dana blinked. “Of course. I only meant there are options.”
“That’s the problem.”
Rafael Soto, the preservation specialist, lowered his clipboard. He was gray at the temples and built like a man who did more work than he supervised.
“You said you had restrictions,” he said.
Hunter pulled a folded page from his jacket. He’d written it after reviewing the inventory on his laptop again. The list wasn’t a design; it was a set of lines he couldn’t cross.
“No naming rights,” he said. “No publicity, no branding, no demolition unless something is unsafe and can’t be saved, and no permanent changes to the rooms, cottages, barn, vineyard, or grounds.”
Dana studied him. “Then what exactly are you planning to do?”
“Stop the sale long enough to keep this place standing,” Hunter said.
She opened the glossy folder. The developer’s rendering showed white villas, a blue pool, and broad new roads cutting across land where old vines grew now. The tasting room was gone. So were the cottages. Hunter had seen the images online. They still hit him like a fresh accusation.
Wendy had described those cottages in an episode he could’ve listened to years ago.
She’d talked about privacy, long-term care, and a place couples could return to when one weekend wasn’t enough.
Her friend Lily had joked about linen pants and everyone being healed by Thursday.
Wendy’s laugh had filled the bungalow kitchen.
He hadn’t known any of it.
That wasn’t true. He’d known she wanted a retreat. He’d known the name Vesper Hill. He’d known there was a green binder she sometimes carried from room to room at home.
He simply hadn’t listened long enough for her dream to become real to him.
He could remember the green binder open on their kitchen island while Wendy showed him a hand-drawn plan.
He’d been answering messages between her sentences.
She’d tapped one of the cottages and said the bedrooms needed private exits so a couple could take space without making the other person feel abandoned.
Hunter had kissed her temple, said it was smart, and promised they’d look at the whole plan after the tour.
He’d believed postponing her answer was harmless because Wendy would still be there when he was ready.
“The developer’s deadline is Friday,” Dana said. “If the seller gives you an option instead, they’ll want a meaningful fee and proof you can close.”
“They can have both.”
“If you can close, why not buy it today?”
Because buying it would be easy. Hunter could sign one set of papers and tell himself he’d saved Wendy’s future.
He could give her keys, expect tears, and pretend the size of the gesture measured the size of his change.
He’d spent years turning love into things he could arrange before Wendy had the chance to ask for something different.
“It isn’t mine to buy,” he said.
Dana’s careful expression gave away nothing, but Rafael’s gaze sharpened.
“Show me the urgent problems,” Hunter told him.
Rafael led them around the inn. He pointed to loose tiles, failed flashing, a porch support softened by rot, and two places where rain had entered the outer walls.
One cottage had a broken window. Another had a section of ceiling hanging below a leak.
The barn doors needed bracing, and the tasting room had water damage near the rear wall.
Several vines near the planned access route had been crushed by survey equipment.
Inside the inn, their shoes left clear marks in the dust. The front desk still had brass hooks behind it, though the room keys were gone.
Faded numbers remained on the guest-room doors.
In one room, water had peeled paint above a narrow fireplace.
In another, the old floorboards were sound under layers of dirt.
Rafael tested each damp wall with a meter and marked the results without promising more than he knew.
The tasting room affected Hunter the most. Its long windows faced the vineyard, and a plain brick fireplace filled one end. Old bottle racks covered the opposite wall. The developer’s plan called for all of it to be removed for a spa entrance.
Hunter stood where Wendy might once have pictured her desk. He wanted to call her. Not through an attorney or her parents. He wanted to hear her say whether the light was as good as she’d remembered, whether the bottle racks should stay, whether the view still made her want this.
Wanting the answer didn’t give him the right to ask.
He followed Rafael back outside.
“Another hard storm could turn repairable damage into replacement work,” Rafael said. “But I can’t promise every structure can be kept. We need an engineer in the west cottage and the barn loft.”
“Then get one.”
“I also need to know who decides what happens if they find a choice instead of an emergency.”
Hunter looked through the open tasting-room doors. For one dangerous second, he saw the room finished. Wendy behind a microphone, her listener letters framed along one wall, warm wood, soft chairs, the life she should’ve had while he was asking her to wait through one more album.
He let the picture go.
“Nobody decides,” he said. “Not yet. If it isn’t required to keep the place safe and dry, leave it alone.”
By the time they returned to the front drive, Hunter’s attorney had sent the revised option documents to his tablet.
Hunter stood at the hood of his truck and read every page.
The agreement gave him a limited right to purchase and the right to assign that option before it expired.
It allowed urgent stabilization during the option period.
He would pay the fee, the inspections, the work, and every loss if no purchase followed.
Wendy would owe nothing. If she ever reopened contact with Hunter, the option could go to an entity she controlled. She could direct it somewhere else. She could refuse it and never set foot on the property.
His attorney called him, and Hunter put him on speaker so Dana and Rafael could intervene if needed.
“The seller accepted the assignment language. They won’t require the final buyer to reimburse your option fee or stabilization costs.”
“And no one contacts my wife,” Hunter said.
“That’s in our instructions.”
“Read them back.”
There was a brief pause. “Counsel, escrow, the realtor, contractors, inspectors, and preservation staff aren’t to contact Wendy Trace, Grace or Noah Loom, Dr. Lily Calder, or anyone believed to be acting for them.
They aren’t to copy them on notices, seek signatures, request approval, or use an intermediary to provide information. ”
“Add that they aren’t to invite a response.”
“I can add it.”
Dana pointed to a standard clause near the end. “The seller usually keeps the right to announce a celebrity buyer. It could help them if the option expires.”
With his pencil, Hunter drew a line through the paragraph on his tablet. “I’m not a buyer yet, and my name isn’t part of their price.”
“They may push back.”
“Then they can push.”
He found a second clause allowing photography of stabilization work for marketing purposes and crossed that out too. He initialed both changes, waited while the seller approved them, and read the clean copy from the beginning.
His signature looked ordinary at the bottom of the page. He’d once signed a campaign that sold Wendy’s pain because a room full of people told him how much money it would make. This signature didn’t make him better. It bought time. That was all.
Time for a choice that wouldn’t belong to him.
He signed.
Dana took the tablet but didn’t leave. “For the record, the seller will want to know the likely final buyer before agreeing to an extension.”
“Then tell them there may not be one.”
“That isn’t a comfortable answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
If Wendy refused, Hunter would lose every dollar he spent here.
The seller might return to the developer when the option ended.
He might pay for months of protection and still watch machines tear the inn apart.
He couldn’t turn that risk into Wendy’s burden.
The option had meaning only if “no” remained a real answer.
Rafael spread the first work orders across the truck hood.
Hunter read those too. Tarp and secure damaged roof sections.
Board open windows without altering the frames.
Shore the porch. Stop active water entry.
Clear dangerous debris. Protect the old vines from vehicles and equipment.
Bring in engineers for the uncertain structures.
Hunter added a sentence under the scope in his own hand: “No permanent layout, finish, decorative, residential, therapeutic, vineyard, or branding decisions are authorized.”