Chapter Thirteen
The road from Swartz Bay curled south and then west, leaving the water behind in long, gentle bends.
Evening light filtered through the trees, turning the world gold and green in equal measure.
Tristan drove with the window cracked, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely against the console, probably because he’d made this drive so often it lived in his muscle memory.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavy with things that had almost happened and one thing that very nearly had.
I watched the way the muscles in his forearm shifted as he steered, and the faint dusting of hair catching the light. I shouldn’t have been noticing details like that. I shouldn’t have been cataloguing the way he looked at ease here, like the land itself recognized him.
But I was.
We passed a hand-painted sign advertising honey and roadside berries, then another for fresh eggs. The air smelled different now, the salt still lingered, softened by earth and cedar and something faintly sweet.
“Almost there,” he said, breaking the quiet.
“Yeah?” I tried for casual and came up a little breathless.
“Five minutes.”
Five minutes felt like both nothing and too much.
A sign for Second Sun Winery appeared suddenly, and Tristan pulled onto the road, twisting between thick evergreens on either side.
As the slight hill crested, the trees thinned, opening on the left like a held breath finally released.
Rows of vines stretched toward the hills, their leaves catching the low sun, glowing at the edges.
A large building nestled at the end of the field, and a smaller one off to the right of it.
He descended the tilt of the hill, slowing as he pulled onto the drive leading to the smaller of the two buildings. It had only looked small from the road, but up close, it rivalled a mansion-sized bungalow.
Warm westerly light spilled across the wrap-around veranda, where strings of fairy lights stretched under the white wooden bannisters.
“Oh my. Wow,” I murmured with barely an audible sound.
He smiled, just slightly enough to show pride. “Thanks.”
We parked near the garage door, the engine ticking softly as it cooled. We sat as the air hummed with crickets and distant birds, and the world settled into evening. It was the most peaceful escape, a place a person could easily get used to.
“This is... beautiful,” I said, not sure where to focus my gaze. Whatever I’d expected, this far exceeded it.
He shrugged, but there was pride there. Not flashy. Earned. “She cleans up okay.”
She. Not it.
That told me more than anything else.
He grabbed our bags from the trunk and led the way inside, setting them on a chair before turning to me. “Before I show you your room for the night, would you care for a personalized tour?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask.”
He offered the crook of his elbow and I slipped my arm inside, following him outside, and around the veranda to a set of stairs facing another building.
“This is the production centre and wine-tasting area.”
The tasting room smelled like wood and citrus and wine, all deep and layered. Bottles lined the walls, labels understated but elegant. Two long wooden tables sat near the center, scarred in places, with at least two dozen wine bottles stacked on their sides underneath.
“How often do you have people in here?”
“It depends. It picks up in the summer with tourists and all tastings are typically sold out for all of July and August. I have special tastings, catered to my clients both local and across western Canada, and those happen in the fall. Seeing the winery in all its autumn glory just can’t be beat.”
“I can only imagine.” My voice was breathy and hardly above a whisper.
“Would you like to sample anything in particular before we start the tour?”
There were so many, I didn’t even know what to ask for.
“You seem overwhelmed.”
“Completely out of my element. I usually buy whatever’s on sale at the liquor store.”
A mock shocked expression crossed his face as his hand covered his heart. “I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear that.”
“Or,” I said with a wink, “you can take it as an opportunity to teach me the better way and educate me on how to choose a wine with meaning.”
“With meaning, eh?” He stepped away and walked behind the bar. Within a minute, he popped the cork and poured two glasses of red.
“This is my signature blend; the one that started me on this path.” He handed me a glass.
I lifted it to my lips, but his hand wrapped around mine, stopping me.
“First, give it a slight swirl. Inhale the scents. Let the savoury smell fill your soul. Don’t rush it.”
Nodding slowly, I did as instructed before letting the first sip touch my lips and bathe my tongue.
“And?”
“Definitely worth savouring.”
He cocked his brow and slowly nodded in agreement as the words hung between us. “Mmhmm.”
––––––––
The tour started light. Jokes about stubborn doors and the way the floors creaked in certain spots. He showed me the production area, the barrels stacked neatly, the hum of quiet industry even after hours.
But somewhere between the barrel room and the small office tucked in the back, his tone shifted.
“This is where I spend most of my time.” he said, gesturing around the typical office space.
A long window beside the desk faced out toward the fields, a picturesque view. Lining the wall opposite the desk were several pictures and shelves with labelled bottles.
“Ah, my pride and joy wall.” He beamed and walked over to a picture on the wall. “This is an overhead of what the fields looked like when I started here.”
There wasn’t much to look at. Lots of trees. A house. Something like a barn maybe?
“And this was taken in the fall, ten years after I started.” He touched another framed photo hanging beside it.
The change was remarkable. Clearly defined rows in the field. The house. The work building. Everything was crystal clear.
“And the bottles?” My gaze ran over to the dozens of empties.
“Trial runs.”
I scanned the labels, my heart stopping as I stared at one long necked amber coloured bottle. “Ladybug and Nightlight?”
“Yeah,” he said without skipping a beat. “It was a limited release, full of passion and good spirits.”
Reading more into his words than maybe he intended, I swallowed a lump of grief.
Lizzie had always loved ladybugs, and that had been his nickname for her, and because of my need for a light to lead the way, I earned nightlight.
Seeing us like that, preserved and labelled, made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
“No, no, no. No tears. This is a tear-free space.” He eclipsed my view and gently guided me out of the small room. “That space is for crying.” He pointed out a long window toward the house where a swing swayed on the veranda.
I looked at him, surprised he had a spot.
“What?” He tossed his arms out to the side. “It has the best view.”
Gently smacking him, I inhaled and walked the length of the hall. “You’ve done well, Tristan. Really well. I’m very proud of you.”
He exhaled. “Thanks. Some days it doesn’t feel like it though. Some days it feels like I’m just... keeping the plates spinning.”
“Still,” I said. “They’re spinning.”
He looked at me, really looked, like he was measuring something he hadn’t expected. “I’m barely keeping afloat and most people tell me to hire someone else. Or sell.”
“And?”
“And they don’t know what it means to keep something alive because it mattered to someone you loved.”
The words landed heavy and true.
“I do,” I said quietly.
His shoulders eased a fraction.
We finished the tour, settling on the porch swing as the vines stretched away under the fading sky. He disappeared inside and came back with a blanket, and another bottle, topping up our glasses.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, so I tossed in pizza for us.”
“What? How?”
“Don’t get too excited. One of my staff is a fantastic cook and left me supper. All I need to do is toss it in the oven and enjoy.”
I wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. It sounded nice to have someone else prep your meals. Deciding and making dinner for the rest of your life was something no one ever prepared you for.
He lifted the bottle with a wave. “This isn’t the fancy stuff,” he said. “But it’s honest. A successful harvest.”
I took a sip. It was good. Warm and grounding and unexpectedly comforting.
We swayed under the blanket, shoulders angled toward each other, the space between us charged but calm.
“This feels like home,” I said, the words slipping out without filtering.
The gift of a grin spread to his eyes with a pride I loved seeing.
I took a couple of pictures to show the kids later when I confessed what had actually transpired. I wanted photographic proof I wasn’t up to no good. Laughing as I thought about them, I tapped into the tracker.
Two of the most loved faces in my whole world were both at home.
Relief washed through me, soft and steady. Not guilt. Not longing. But a motherly sense of reassurance.
A notification popped up. Had they been notified? I doubted it.
Allie: Made monkey buns. They didn’t last though. Josh loved them.
Warmth bloomed in my chest and I tipped my chin down as I tried to hide the growing smile.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“My daughter,” I said. “She baked.”
“Successful outcome?”
“Every time.” I showed off the picture, almost smelling the cinnamon and melted butter, and imagining the steam as the buns were twisted apart. My stomach growled at the thought.
He tipped his head. “I’m impressed.”
I set the phone aside, feeling lighter than I had all day.
He topped up our glasses and disappeared again, returning with pizza on plates.
“Sausage, pepperoni, bacon, and green pepper.” He got comfortable on the swing and I covered his lap with the blanket. “Family recipe. Or so I’m told.”
We ate with our hands, laughing when the cheese stretched too far, when the crust crunched louder than expected. It felt... normal. In the best way.
“So,” he said after a while. “What does home look like for you these days?”
I swallowed. “Busy. Loud. Sometimes exhausting.”
“And?”
“And good,” I added. “Stable. Reliable.”
He nodded. “That matters.”
“It does,” I said as I softened my voice. “But sometimes I wonder if that’s all it’s allowed to be.”
He didn’t answer right away, rather, he watched the last of the light fade over the vines.
“What would you want, if you didn’t have to be careful?” he asked.
I laughed, dreaming of what I’d like. “More sleep. Fewer emergency calls. Breakfast in bed.” But inside, something stirred. Something I hadn’t let myself name because it seemed like an unattainable dream. True love.
He shifted closer, close enough that our knees brushed.
The air changed.
His hand moved, slow, hovering near mine. Once again, not touching, but asking.
I felt the full weight of the moment. The choice. The risk.
I thought of my kids, safe and home. I thought of the life I’d built, brick by careful brick.
And I thought of how tired I was of pretending I didn’t want anything more or anyone.
I turned my hand palm up.
He froze for half a heartbeat, and as a slow, sweet smile appeared, he laced his fingers through mine.
The contact was quiet and steady, as if it had always belonged there.
“Anna,” he said softly.
I looked at him. Really looked. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The warmth in his eyes. The way he was holding himself still, like he was afraid to spook something fragile.
“I know this is wildly complicated,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to blow up your life. I just—”
“I know,” I said, breathing hard.
We leaned toward each other at the same time.
His lips brushed mine, tentative at first, like a question.
I answered.
The faint scrape of his stubble against my cheek sent a shiver straight through me, unfair really, that something so small could undo me so completely.
The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, his hand warm at my waist, mine sliding up to rest against his chest. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.
It was right.
When we finally pulled back, our foreheads touched, breaths mingling.
“Okay,” he murmured.
“Okay,” I echoed.
We didn’t say more. We didn’t need to.
The night settled around us, the vineyard quiet and alive, holding the moment like it mattered.
Because it did.