Chapter Two
As I travel up the long, windy driveway to our family property, a rush of fear strikes me that I will be moving back here for the first time in almost ten years. I head up the hill with the windows down, breathing in the scent of the fresh vineyards. I pass the tasting room and parking lot toward the base of the hill, then the wine cellars, barrel rooms, and the sorting and crushing stations. Further, I reach a second gate that leads onto our private property and directly to my parents’ house.
I slow the car to a roll outside the double-swing security gate, punch in the code, and wait for what feels like an eternity to open. The pointed roof of the large rustic country house I grew up in peaks over the incline.
I pull around the circular driveway, park in front of the entrance, and then wave to the gardener, who’s half into the branches of a tree he’s trimming. I stroll around the car, removing the bags from the trunk. It’s not that I don’t want to be home, but I’d rather not be under these circumstances. The finality of everything has weighed on me for almost three months.
“Hello, is anyone home?” I call out, walking into the foyer. There’s no answer. My mother is probably down in the tasting room. I glance at my watch and notice that it’s almost closing time. She should be heading back to the main house any minute.
I make my way down the hallway, assuming that one of the staff members will be around somewhere, before I finally reach the downstairs guest bedroom. I look at the cream-colored wallpaper, extra-large bed, and Wine Country-themed wall decor and decide against it. I can’t stay here. No fucking way.
I’m startled by the distant clunking sound of dishes in the kitchen. I guess someone is home.
I head back through the hallway toward the noise that ricochets off the vaulted ceilings. Rounding the corner, I see Gemma. She has her back to me as she’s hanging pots and pans over one of the two islands.
“Hello, Gemma.”
“Jack!” she yelps. “You scared me, honey!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” I laugh, extending my arm for a friendly hug.
Her eyes light up as she smiles at me. “It’s so good to see you! When did you get in?”
Gemma manages the tasting room kitchen, creating a special menu of snacks and small plates for the guests who visit the winery. She is also my family’s chef and has been with us since I was young.
“Just now.” I scan the backyard and pool from the kitchen’s panoramic windows. “Where’s my mother?”
Gemma grabs a towel from one of the drawers and wipes a puddle of water on the counter. “She’s down in the tasting room helping them clean up for the night.”
“Okay, thanks.” I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it.
“How are you holding up? I feel like we haven’t seen you since your dad’s funeral.”
“I’m just existing.” I dismiss, not wanting to talk about my dad. I tuck my hand under my arm and lean against the marble countertops. “How are you doing?”
“Well, it’s been hard on all of us, especially your mom.”
My gaze lowers to the floor. “I know.”
“But she is so strong and has an incredible support system here on the property. The entire staff has stepped up to help more,” she adds. She’s not trying to call me out for my absence after losing my father three months ago, but that’s how it feels. I could have been here more often, I know that. I haven’t been around much since I moved to Arizona for college.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t been here more,” I say.
“I know, but you’ve had a lot to take care of in Phoenix. You’re wrapping up everything with the marketing firm and getting your condo on the market.” She pats my shoulder with reassurance, but her eyes show disappointment.
My father unexpectedly passed away this summer. His loss was hard on my mom and me but also on the staff and community as well. It was easier to stay in Phoenix—far away from the stress and expectations—and away from the memories.
“Yeah, and I know she’s grateful for that. As I am.”
We’re both silent for a beat before Gemma tenderly squeezes my hand. “It’s about time for dusk. You should head to the west patio. I’ll bring you a glass of red wine and a snack plate,” she says before waving me off.
“Thank you.”
As I roll my luggage to the couch and walk to the glass doors, I hear my mom’s voice behind me when I reach out to clutch the handle.
“Jack!” she shouts before pulling me into a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you so much!”
I wrap my arms around my mother’s petite frame. “I’ve missed you too.”
Smiling, she draws her head back, holding my arms at a distance. “I’ll grab something for us to eat, then meet you out there,” she says before scurrying into the kitchen with Gemma.
I laugh to myself and these two women I’ve missed terribly, then settle into one of the chairs on the wooden patio. When my parents built this house, they added a balcony on all three stories to capture perfect views of the Wine Country sunset. The sky transforms from shades of coral to rose. Off to the side, the familiar rolling hills I’ve spent summer evenings running around as a child are lined with mature grape vines ready to be harvested.
A few minutes later, my mother joins me outside taking the seat to my left. She sets a snack plate and two glasses of red wine on the small table between our two chairs.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, grabbing a cracker.
I sigh. “The last couple of months have been a lot to process.”
“I know. Things have been difficult without your father,” she admits, patting the top of my hand. “But we’re going to pull through.”
“I still have a lot of reservations about stepping into this role,” I admit.
“I understand, honey, but you were born to do this. You were always meant to run the winery,” she lovingly reminds me.
“But I’m nowhere near ready to do this.” I focus my eyes away from her. “I’m not dad.”
“No one is expecting you to be exactly like your father. The whole operation is a lot for one person, I know that,” she replies, lowering her sunglasses to cover her eyes. “Bradley Wines will only continue to be successful if someone can take on the things I can’t. You know how this side of the business works.”
“Yeah.”
“I know this is hard for you because it was never your dream, but you would be amazing.” She sighs.
“I guess I just figured I’d have more time to work on my career first.”
“You’ve had six years in marketing. You’ve helped build so many successful restaurants. You have a degree in business. You have more knowledge and experience than your dad and I ever did.”
Slumping against the back of the chair, I breathe a heavy sigh.
“Were you able to put an offer down for the house on Honeysuckle?”
I nod. That house is something that I’m looking forward to. The second I pulled into the driveway, I knew there was something different about it. It’s a large, white, ranch-style home only about ten minutes from the winery.
I am excited about the house, but I still find myself clutching the rim of the wine glass with frustration. The winery was my father’s dream, not mine. I’ll never be able to live up to how this community saw him. He was an intricate part of this town and the close regions. I’ll spend my whole life being scrutinized and compared to my father.
My entire life was planned out for me before I was even born. It’s suffocating.
“You know your father always wanted you to take over the winery, Jack, and if this is something you’re going to do, you’ll have to establish yourself within the community again.” My mom continues our previous conversation.
“I realize that,” I say.
Living in a small community has its advantages and, unfortunately, disadvantages. One is that if I ever want to start a family, the assumption will be that I’ll marry someone within the growers’ community. We’re tight-knit to a fault, work with our own, and pass down generational wealth like free candy on Halloween. Not to mention with an added side of pressure and privilege. I can’t fucking stand it.
She lifts a glass of last year’s red from the table, delicately pinching the stem and taking a sip. “I know you had a very tumultuous relationship with your father, but all he ever wanted was to give all of this to you,” she says, gesturing toward the vineyard.
Dragging my eyes across the hand-planted crops that make up a hundred acres of my father’s legacy, unease settles in my stomach. Can I do this? Do I even want to do this?
“I am aware of that too,” I quip, sensing the weight of her words. The burden I’ve carried my entire life. The expectation has always been for me to run my family’s business, and that’s exactly why I needed to get away from here as soon as I had the chance.
Who was I without the Bradley name?
My father had no problem making it known how disappointed he was with my lack of interest in the winery—a place he lovingly called his life’s purpose.
“You were born into something great, and not everyone is as lucky as you are,” she adds, resting her hands on the armrest of her garden chair. I ignore her attempt at a guilt trip.
I’m not some billionaire trust fund guy, but my family has made millions from wine. It began with my dad in the 1980s. He and my mom moved north from Los Angeles, searching for a quiet farm life to fulfill my dad’s dream of owning a working winery and vineyard.
“You’re not helping this situation by listing everything I already know.” I square my shoulders. My hands clasped on top of my knees.
“The only other option is to let Steve’s son Preston take over, and you can go back to Phoenix and continue to do what you’ve been doing.”
I scoff at her apparent lack of providing a legitimate choice. “I can’t do that to dad—or you.”
“Preston is already a part of the community. He’s been running Mountain Coast Winery for the last couple years, and I know his new fiancée is also interested in taking on a leadership role,” she tells me.
Preston Rivers. My friend slash friendly rival since we were kids and the son of my dad’s best friend. We grew up together and, at one point, were close. Then high school happened, and friendly competition became not so friendly. We both excelled on the swim team, fought over girls, and tried to one-up each other every chance we got.
But things took a turn when I caught him kissing my girlfriend after a swim meet. I wasn’t that into her, but it was a huge blow to my ego. When I confronted them about it, she said I wasn’t “paying her enough attention” and that she wanted to “make me jealous.” That plan backfired. It gave me an excuse to break up with her before graduation.
I’ve been disconnected for the last ten years, and I hadn’t realized that Preston ended up taking the same path my father always wanted me to follow.
“That can’t happen.” My eyebrows snap together. “I didn’t know Preston was getting married.”
She grimaces. “Yes, I thought you knew. He’s marrying Sophia Dennings.”
My high school girlfriend. The same girlfriend who hooked up with one of my other friends our senior year. The one who wanted to marry me as soon as we graduated. The same girl who told me that college would be a waste since I’d already had a career and wealth. How we differed on so many fundamental beliefs and goals could not have been more apparent.
The last thing I wanted was to get married at eighteen and never experience anything for myself. An itch of unrest brewed inside my young mind as I knew I had to create my own path. When I left, I vowed never to return to my hometown, and in the years I’ve been gone, I’ve quietly returned only a handful of times.
When it was time to move back to Dupara after my college graduation, I stayed where I was and accepted a job at a marketing firm in Phoenix.
“Why am I not surprised that she went on to date another one of my friends,” I condescendingly spit as if she didn’t already know.
“Since Sophia comes from an old family of growers, it would have been a good match for you. I’m sure Steve was thinking the same thing about his son,” she points out.
I try to hold back the obvious disgust with respect for my mom but fail miserably.
She shakes her head, grabs her glass from the table between us, and heads toward the maple wood French doors. “You have always been one to do things your own way—and with a slight chip on your shoulder, I might add. But one day, someone will come along and knock that chip right off.”
“You never know,” I kindly dismiss her.
“Alright. I love you, son,” she says, stepping into the house.
Looking back toward the endless hills, I take the first drink of my red, which is now finally the temperature I prefer. “I love you too,” I mutter into the empty air. I pull out my phone and scroll through my work emails.
When I handed in my official resignation letter to the marketing firm, they were heartbroken by my departure but asked that I stay on for sixty days to finish up with my clients who still have open projects. The rest are being dispersed among my colleagues.
I knew this day would come, but I never expected it so soon.
I stayed outside until the sun set and the automatic patio light turned on. I fly out to Vegas this weekend to finish up with my last client. Shortly after, I officially move out of my condo in Phoenix to relocate back up here to Dupara, giving up the last bit of freedom I’ll ever know.