40. Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty
Pitch-Perfect, Palm Wine + the Ultimate Search
Luca
Most people arrive at the Vineyard by ferry, watching the shoreline creep closer while they sip lukewarm coffee. Not my wife.
Aspen is staring out the curved glass of the cockpit, her reflection ghosting over the deep blue of the Atlantic.
Below us, the island looks like a scrap of green velvet dropped into the ocean.
It’s beautiful, expensive, and for her, a fortress of old expectations.
I can see the way her fingers are knotted in her lap, a silent tell that she’s bracing for the “who’s who” and the “what are you doing with your life” interrogation that usually awaits her at the family estate.
But the woman sitting next to me isn't the same one who used to shrink under her mother’s watchful gaze. And I’m damn sure not letting her walk into that house feeling like she’s still playing a part.
I reach over, covering her hands with mine. My thumb brushes the gold band on her finger—a solid, unshakeable anchor.
“You're shaking, love,” I murmur over the headset, the rhythmic thrum of the rotors vibrating through the floorboards.
She looks at me, a small, grateful smile flickering across her face. “It’s just a lot down there,” is all she can say about it all. “But being flown in by my husband is helping calm me. I still can’t believe you have your helicopter pilot's license!”
I grin. “There’s a lot you have to learn about your husband.”
She once told me the only time she ever felt “less than” was when her family made her feel like her choices didn't meet their impossible expectations.
Some families have a way of making you audition for their congratulations, as if a job well done is only the baseline.
I won't have my wife feeling that way about herself or her incredible accomplishments ever again.
Not on my watch. Even if she did burp on national television.
I’d called in a massive favor from Xavier Darcy for this. When I told Xavier about Aspen’s family, he didn't need much convincing. Apparently, he’d navigated similar minefields with his own in-laws.
Since I have my helicopter pilot license, Xavier insisted we do this right. He wanted to make certain we weren't just showing up; he wanted us to make the kind of entrance her family would have no choice but to respect and no way to ignore.
As the landing pad on the sprawling estate comes into view, I can see the rest of the family already gathered on the lawn, their heads tilted toward the sky. We’re fashionably late, exactly as planned.
Aspen sucks her teeth. “Look, Clarissa can’t wait to see who’s making a bougie crash-landing for Thanksgiving.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ve got you.” I say, still feeling the need to prove to Aspen that I won’t let her down again. She will always be my priority.
The estate is a sprawling, gray-shingled house that looks like it’s been anchored to the New England coast for a century.
It isn't flashy, but the steep gables and white-trimmed balconies give off that quiet, “old money” comfort that you read about here in America. From the air, it looks like a peaceful escape. From the ground, it just feels solid. It’s the kind of home built to handle salty Atlantic storms and decades of family secrets.
As the rotors finally slow and I help Aspen onto the grass, her cousin Clarissa is the first to approach. She’s dressed to the nines, her pregnant belly leading the way, though her eyes are busy scanning the helicopter behind us before they even settle on Aspen.
“Aspen, darling. Beautiful arrival,” Clarissa says, though she’s already looking at the security detail I had stationed at the perimeter. “Will there be cameras accompanying you two? A crew for the BSN profile, perhaps?”
The hope for a little reflected limelight is written all over her face. I step forward, sliding a protective arm around Aspen’s waist.
Aspen politely introduces us. “Clarissa, this is my husband, Luca. Luca? My cousin, Clarissa.”
I take her hand, kissing it. “Pleasure, Clarissa.”
She swoons.
“And, unfortunately, Clarissa,” I offer, my voice smooth but final. “I’ve instructed my security team to keep all press and cameras strictly away from the property. Given my... celebrity... I thought it best we keep this a private family affair. Don’t you agree?”
I see her face nearly disfigured, and I can tell it pains her to nod her agreement. I feel Aspen swell with a sudden, petty pride beside me. She stands a little taller, her chin lifting as she looks at her cousin.
“Come on,” she whispers to me, “let me introduce you to the chaos.”
The afternoon is a constant round of handshakes and polite nods until we run into a young man too excited to ignore.
“Yo, yo! Back up, give me some room!” a voice booms. A guy with a wide, infectious grin struts up to us. “The legend is here. Don't worry, Luca, I won't outshine you too much today.”
Aspen laughs, pulling him into a hug. “Luca, this is my cousin, Demarcus Jr.”
“Please,” he interrupts, holding up a finger. “Call me First Down. We’re family now, baby!”
“First Down?” I ask, shaking his hand.
“That’s right! Status might be down, but my game is all the way up!”
“So you play football?” I ask, curious about the nickname.
“No, silly!” He laughs, like the answer should be obvious.
I frown. “Why 'First Down'?”
“Hold that thought,” He says, holding up a hand. “I gotta go check on my lady. She’s been lost without me for at least five minutes!”
“Go get your lady, mate,” I say, smiling as the rambunctious bloke runs off towards his lady.
“He has Down syndrome,” Aspen explains softly, her eyes following him with affection.
“When he was younger, people tried to use it to make him feel small. So he took the diagnosis, made it his own, and turned it into a brand. He’s a stand-up comedian now.
He figured if people were going to stare, he might as well give them a punchline. ”
“I like him,” I say, and I mean it. “He’s got heart.”
“And he’s pretty damn funny, too,” she adds.
We move where the “honey” side of the family wealth is on full display.
The setup is stunning. A long, heavy-timbered harvest table sits right on the grass, draped in a cream runner and overflowing with a cornucopia of autumn’s best. It’s catered, clearly—no one family makes a turkey that looks that much like a centerpiece.
But they’ve dressed the space down with touches that make it feel lived-in.
Chunky, oversized knit blankets are draped over the backs of every chair, ready for when the ocean breeze turns biting. Copper lanterns and white pillar candles are scattered across the grass and tables, their flickering light competing with the golden hour sun dipping toward the horizon.
After dinner, I watch Aspen weave through a crowd of family and old friends, her smile bright, though I catch her several times stopping herself before she can rest a hand on her belly.
We agreed to keep our secret tucked away for a little longer, though she’s already negotiated a loophole and now apparently, “keeping it a secret” doesn't apply to her Stand-Ins.
As the sun begins to dip and the golden hour turns the Atlantic to liquid brass, the “party” side of the reunion kicks into high gear.
This is the moment for my final surprise.
I’ve spent weeks coordinating the logistics with her father and Morris, and to my surprise, even Clarissa stepped up to help pull it off.
I step over to the DJ booth and take the mic. The smooth jazz fades out, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of Tiwa Savage. The familiar beat of Somebody’s Son fills the Vineyard air, startling the guests into silence.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” I say, my eyes locked on Aspen, who looks stunned and more than a little embarrassed.
“I know our journey started in a bit of a rush.
A 'condensed' version of a romance on a show called SightUnseen.
But in my culture, we don't skip the steps that matter.
We don't just take a wife. We find her.”
I descend from the booth as the rhythmic heartbeat thump of the Igbo drums begins to pulse through the salt air. The crowd settles, the ocean breeze catching the flickering candlelight as I look out at the faces of the people who shaped the woman I love.
“In my culture,” I begin, my voice firm but softened by the sight of her, “we believe that a marriage isn't just a contract. It's a journey. Usually, there is a ritual where a bride carries wine through a crowd to find her husband. But since Aspen and I have spent our entire relationship doing things in reverse, I think it’s only right that I’m the one who comes looking for her tonight.”
I let the music swell for a moment, my gaze locking onto hers.
“Tonight, we’re honoring the Igba Nkwu Nwanyi—the Wine Carrying ceremony.
I’m going to navigate every obstacle and every distraction this family can throw at me, because I want everyone here to know one thing: I will always be the man who finds her. ”
I look toward my father-in-law, who stands tall at the edge of the lawn, a regal authority in his posture as he prepares to play his part. This is the beginning of the Igba Nkwu Nwanyi, but we’re doing it with a Vineyard twist.
In the traditional Igbo ceremony, the bride’s father gives her a cup of palm wine, and she has to weave through a crowded room, ignoring the “suitors” who try to distract her, until she finds her husband and offers him a sip to seal the union.
The family has already begun the play-acting, forming a gauntlet of playful obstacles to distract her.
My father-in-law holds a ceremonial cup, his eyes twinkling with a challenge I haven’t seen before.
To get to her, I have to navigate the “negotiations” with her uncles, answer the witty riddles from her cousins, and prove to this entire assembly that I know exactly who she is beneath the expectations of her last name.
It’s a multi-stage journey of patience and intent.
Each stop I make, each distraction I push past, is a nod to the culture I’m bringing into this family, and a promise to hers.
I move through the crowd, my heart hammering a rhythm that matches the highlife beat, scanning the faces of the women pretending to be the one I’m looking for.
But there’s only one. I see her standing near the cliffs, the wind whipping her hair across her face, watching me with a look of pure, startled wonder. I’m going to navigate every hurdle they throw at me until I finally find her. The only woman I ever intend to look for again.