Chapter 5 Isabel #2
“Because I care about you, Izzy. I always have.”
Yes, I should’ve responded, told him I cared about him too, but if I had, it might’ve given him the wrong impression. Instead, I simply thanked him.
After we were done for the day, I begged off his dinner invitation and made myself scrambled eggs and toast. I took a pass on the wine from the bottle Bas had left on the counter, though. I finished eating, then lit a fire in the stone fireplace and curled up on the sofa.
The quiet pressed against my ears. No staff moving through hallways. No expectations weighing on my shoulders. No father demanding to know what I was doing—or ignoring my existence completely. There was no middle ground with him.
Peace. Space to breathe.
Guilt churned in my stomach anyway. I’d lied to my father, and I’d lied to Kick. Instead of facing whatever consequences were coming, I ran away. I shoved the feeling down. Survival first. Guilt later.
Before dawn the next morning, headlights swept across my window, jolting me from a restless sleep.
I opened the door when I heard footsteps on the porch. “You made me coffee?” I asked Bas when he held out the cup.
“Don’t get used to it.” But his grin said otherwise. “Ready to meet the crew?”
He drove us to the vineyard office, where workers gathered near a truck—eight men and two women, all dressed in layers against the cold. He introduced me to the vineyard manager first, Carlos, a man in his fifties with sun-weathered skin.
“This is Izzy,” Bas said. “She’s our new marketing director, but she wants to learn the operation from the ground up.”
Carlos held out his hand, and we shook. “Welcome. Have you worked in vineyards before?”
“Some,” I responded. “But I have a lot to learn.”
One of the women, Maria, smiled. She looked to be in her forties, with dark hair styled in a braid. “Good. We’ll teach you.”
The crew loaded into trucks, and I climbed in beside Maria. She handed me a pair of pruning shears and thick gloves.
We drove to our first rows and started working.
Maria showed me how to identify the canes to keep, which ones to remove, and how to make clean cuts that wouldn’t damage the vine.
The work was cold and repetitive. My shoulders burned, my palms ached despite the gloves, and my back screamed from bending over vine after vine.
But I didn’t stop, and I sure as hell didn’t complain. I kept my head down and focused on the work, even as I felt the crew watching me and assessing.
By lunch, blisters had formed under my gloves. Maria noticed when I flexed my fingers.
“Let me see.”
I shook my head, but she grabbed my hand. “Let me see.”
When I removed the gloves and showed her my palms, she retrieved a first aid kit from the truck.
“You should have said something.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.” But she smiled as she wrapped my fingers in bandages. “Good. You’ll need that here.”
The second day was easier. My body adjusted to the physical demands.
I learned to read the vines better, to see which canes would produce the best fruit, and to make decisions faster.
I split my time between working alongside the crew and following Bas through management decisions—discussing irrigation timing, reviewing the soil test results, planning the schedules for different sections.
He was patient as a teacher, enthusiastic about every detail.
The crew warmed to me, including me in their conversations during lunch, asking my opinion on things, and listening when I answered.
Maria commented on the third day: “You’re not like other marketing directors.”
I laughed. “I’m trying not to be.”
“And Bas?” She nodded toward where he stood talking to Carlos. “He’s good to you?”
“We’re friends. Have been since we were kids.”
She gave me a knowing look but didn’t push.
Over the next few days, I settled into a routine. Mornings in the field, afternoons in my office in the winery building. I dove into sales data, customer demographics, and budget reports—building the foundation for the campaigns I wanted to launch.
For the first time in months, I felt useful. Purposeful.
By the end of the week, calluses had formed on my palms and my muscles had grown stronger. I could keep pace with the crew and make decisions without second-guessing myself.
At the end of every workday, I thanked Bas for his invitation to join him and his father in the main house for dinner, insisting I was too tired. Thankfully, he didn’t push even though his disappointment was apparent.
Once alone in the cottage, my thoughts would drift to Kick. I missed his laugh, his easy confidence, and how things were between us. We were friends. Before I ruined it. Before it became something it never should have been.
The crew had a half day on New Year’s Eve. I stayed late anyway, working through rows of Chardonnay until Bas found me.
“Come on, Izzy. Even I’m taking the afternoon off.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Yes, you do.” He plucked the shears from my grasp. “Dinner at the main house. Thomas insists. And before you argue—it’s not negotiable. Dad’s orders. Six o’clock. Don’t make me carry you there.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I went because arguing with Bas when he used that tone was pointless.
Thomas’ house was filled with family that evening.
Three of Bas’ four siblings had driven in from their various colleges.
Everest, the second oldest, was studying medicine at Stanford.
Arlow, the oldest daughter, was in her second year of graduate studies in UC Davis’ Viticulture and Enology.
The second youngest was Huxley, and he was still an undergrad in the same program as his sister.
Brylee, the only other girl, was attending NYU’s film school and had been here for Christmas but returned to spend New Year’s Eve in the city.
The meal was loud and full of laughter as they all told embarrassing stories about each other as kids.
I sat at the table, watching them interact.
At first, I felt like an outsider despite knowing them most of my life, but their warmth embraced me.
They treated me like family. Not someone to be managed or controlled.
Just Isabel.
As nine o’clock—midnight East Coast time—approached, we gathered in the living room. Champagne glasses were filled, and we watched the ball descend in Times Square.
Last New Year’s Eve, I’d been at a Van Orr gala, champagne in hand, smile plastered on my face, while I counted the minutes until I could leave.
Thomas cleared his throat and looked at me as he spoke. “To fresh starts and new beginnings.”
“To family—the one you’re born into and the one you choose,” Bas added.
My eyes stung, and silently, I said, “To second chances.”
I raised my glass with the others, letting it touch my lips without drinking.
A half hour later, Bas drove me to the cottage. The night was cold, clear, and stars filled the sky above us.
“You okay?” he asked as we got out of his truck.
“Yeah. Your family is wonderful. I’ve missed them.”
“And we missed you.”
I unlocked the cottage door and was about to thank Bas for a lovely night, but he spoke first.
“You think about him?” he asked. “Whoever he is?”
“Pardon?”
“Come on, Izzy. I’ve known you since we were kids. There’s someone. You get this look.”
I didn’t answer.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But whoever he is, he’s an idiot for letting you go.”
“I’m the one who left, Bas.”
“Then, maybe you’re both idiots.”
I laughed despite myself.
“Thanks for everything, Bas.” I kissed his cheek.
“Izzy—”
“Good night,” I said, ducking inside before he could say more.
I went into the bedroom, dug my phone out of the drawer, plugged it in, and turned it on for the first time since December twenty-sixth.
The screen lit up with notifications.
Baron’s messages grew increasingly angry. Where are you? Call me. You’re making a mistake. This is unacceptable.
Kick left messages, and in each one, he said the same thing. “Call me, Isabel. Please.”
I deleted my father’s texts without responding, turned the phone off, removed the battery, and set it on the table.
Baron obviously knew I’d never gone to Italy. Which meant he’d be looking for me. But he’d never think to look here, at Thomas Whitmore’s estate. Never in a thousand years. Kick probably knew it too.
I went to bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d made the right choice, but knowing it was the only one I could make.
I woke to frost coating the windows. It was New Year’s Day—a fresh start.
I made coffee and sat at the small table, watching the sun rise over the hills. The view was breathtaking—golden light spilling across dormant vines, and mist rising from the valley floor.
I left my phone off so Baron’s anger couldn’t reach me here.
But the guilt could. It sat heavy in my chest, a constant companion.
I pushed it away as best I could and got dressed.
The estate was quiet on the holiday. No crews were working, no trucks carrying wine for distribution moving in and out. Just me, the vines, and the cold morning air.
I grabbed shears from the equipment shed and started working, hoping the physical labor would help quiet my mind. Select. Cut. Remove. The rhythm calmed me.
Hours passed, the sun climbed higher, and the day grew warm.
I worked until my hands ached and my back screamed. Until sweat dampened my shirt despite the cold. Until I was too tired to think about Kick or Baron or the mess I’d left behind.
When I finally stopped, the sun was setting. I’d cleared three full rows.
I walked back to my cottage, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Once inside, I collapsed on the sofa.
My phone sat on the table where I’d left it, battery removed. Silent. Safe.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I got up, made dinner, and tried not to think about what I’d given up.
The days blurred together after that. Work became my anchor. Mornings in the field, afternoons developing marketing strategies. I threw myself into both with equal intensity.
Thomas called me into his office on January third to review my preliminary marketing plan. I presented my ideas—social media strategy, experiential events, influencer partnerships. Campaigns targeted at millennials who wanted authenticity, not just legacy.
He asked hard questions, and I answered with confidence, backed by research and data.
“This is excellent work, Isabel. I’m pleased.”
It was simple praise, but it meant everything to me. The first time in my life someone had valued my work for what it was, not who I was.
Walking back to my office, I passed the crew working in the east section. Miguel waved and called something out in Spanish that made the others laugh. Maria shook her head at him, grinning and motioning for me to join them.
I’d been accepted. As Isabel. As one of them. It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt hollow.
That evening, I sat at my window with a cup of chamomile tea. The sun set behind the western hills, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and my thoughts drifted to Kick. Always to Kick.
What was he doing tonight? Was he at that same bar where we first conversed in something more than small talk? Where our friendship began? Did he wonder why I’d disappeared?
The questions had no answers. And I had no right to ask them.
I’d made my choice. Now, I had to live with it.
On Sunday, January fourth, I woke early despite having the day off.
The cottage felt too small. Too quiet. The walls were pressing in.
I changed into work clothes and walked to the Pinot Noir section. Dawn was just breaking, and the air was cold and sharp in my lungs.
Once I got started, I lost myself in the repetition, letting my mind go blank. No thoughts of Kick. No guilt about Baron. No questions about whether I’d made the right choice.
The sun climbed higher, the frost melted, and my breath no longer formed clouds in the air.
I kept pressing on, vine to vine. This was what I needed—purpose, something to build toward.
Even if I had no idea where I was going.