Chapter Thirty-Three
Sue
The highway stretched ahead in an endless ribbon of asphalt, the pale gold of early spring casting soft light over rolling hills and bare-limbed trees.
The further we drove from the city, the more the landscape transformed—glass and steel giving way to winding country roads, pastures stretching wide, dotted with the occasional red barn or white colonial farmhouse.
I inhaled deeply. The air smelled different here. Clean, crisp, tinged with damp earth and the faintest hint of fermenting grapes. It was the scent of my childhood.
It had been years since I’d come home for more than a quick visit. And even now, nestled between my brother and Michelle in the backseat of his SUV, I felt like a passenger in my own past.
My father hummed an old Italian tune under his breath as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze relaxed in a way it never was anywhere but here.
My mother sat in the front passenger seat, her head turned toward the window as she watched the countryside blur past, occasionally glancing back at me with soft, uncertain eyes.
Paul, as usual, was sprawled out in his seat, one hand slung casually over Michelle’s thigh.
I tried not to fidget, reminding myself I was here by choice.
“Not much has changed since you were here last,” Paul commented, nodding toward a familiar roadside farmstand as we passed.
Michelle smiled. “It’s charming.”
Paul shook his head. “I swear old man Jacobs has grown roots that tie him to that chair. He sits here every single day, rain or sunshine, selling his apples—or trying to. Everyone buys from the supermarket these days.”
Dad snorted. “That garbage they sell in the supermarket is not fruit. That’s plastic.”
“Here we go, the endless talk about greedy capitalism,” Paul muttered under his breath, making Michelle elbow him.
I smiled faintly, but my stomach was a tangled mess of knots.
I watched the scenery roll by, all too familiar and yet strangely foreign.
The last time I’d been here, I’d done everything in my power to get away as soon as possible.
I was that desperate to escape the life my mother had planned for me—the future I had almost locked myself into with Neil.
Neil.
Just his name in my head made my jaw tighten. I hadn’t even stepped foot on Warwick soil yet, and already, I could feel his presence lurking on the edges of my mind.
“So.” Paul turned slightly to look at me. “Have you talked to Cam yet?”
My stomach clenched. “No, not yet.”
A heavy silence filled the car.
Michelle gave me a knowing look. “Maybe you should.”
“I will,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.
The truth was that I had no idea what to say to him.
“He’s a good man,” Dad said simply.
I turned, startled. My father rarely weighed in on my love life—or lack thereof. But now he was watching me in the rearview mirror, his dark Morelli eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name.
“I know,” I whispered.
And I did. But knowing it and fixing this situation were two very different things.
The road curved, and suddenly, we were home.
The Morelli vineyard sprawled out before us, rows upon rows of grapevines stretching toward the horizon, still bare from the winter but buzzing with promise.
The old farmhouse stood proud against the backdrop of rolling hills, its white walls glowing in the afternoon sun.
The familiar scent of oak barrels and rich soil filled my lungs as we pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
I stared at the house—the place that had raised me, the place I had run from, the place I was now returning to not as a girl, but as a woman who finally knew what she wanted.
My mother exhaled, her voice soft. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
I gave her a smile that almost reached my eyes and climbed out of the car.
My parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Claven, was watering her plants. She spotted us and waved, putting her entire bulky body behind the broad gesture.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Warwick’s newsletter just saw me. In five minutes, everyone will know I’m here.”
“So what?” My mom closed the car door and ushered me toward the front entrance of the house.
The scent welcomed me first—that distinct, irreplaceable smell of home that was a mix of warmth, a hint of lavender from the linen spray my mother used, the lingering aroma of oakwood from the antique furniture, a faint trace of wine-soaked barrels from my father’s shoes, and the crisp air of Warwick.
The house itself hadn’t changed much, though the walls had been repainted a soft beige.
My father’s collection of framed vineyard photographs still dominated the hallway, and the Morelli family crest was still hanging above the entrance to the kitchen—an old, carved wooden piece he had brought from Tuscany when he first moved to America, three and a half decades ago.
My fingers trailed over the familiar polished banister. The staircase curved upward to the second floor, where childhood memories lay thick in the air, waiting for me to stir them back to life.
“Go upstairs and wash up,” my mother said, brushing nonexistent dust from her pristine cream sweater. “We’ll eat in about two hours.”
I grabbed my overnight bag and climbed the stairs, marveling at how every step groaned just the way I remembered. The familiar creak of my bedroom door was a whisper from my past as I pushed it open, stepping into the space I had once called my own.
Everything was exactly as I had left it. The pale blue walls, slightly faded now, the wooden four-poster bed with its quilted comforter, and the bookshelves overflowing with dog-eared novels, textbooks I hadn’t touched in years, and old notebooks filled with my younger self’s handwriting.
My life was here, frozen in time.
I crossed the room, running my fingers over my desk, the worn wood smooth under my touch.
My old corkboard still held remnants of the girl I had once been—photographs of me with my high school friends, a couple of dried grape leaves from the vineyard, a postcard from Italy I had once pinned there as a dream.
And right in the center, an old Polaroid of me and Neil at prom, smiling as though we had the whole world ahead of us.
My heart twisted as I stared at his handsome face, blinding smile and shiny blond hair. He’d been the dream of every girl in school, and I was so besotted he’d picked me I’d been blind to everything else.
I reached for the photo and ripped it down. That girl was gone.
I stepped toward the antique mirror that stood by the window, its frame carved with delicate vines that curled around its edges. The glass reflected back a woman I barely recognized.
For years, I had been critical of my own reflection.
I had studied my flaws with a microscope, wondering if I would ever be beautiful enough, thin enough, worthy enough.
I had obsessed over my mother’s high cheekbones and elegant grace, and my father’s strong Italian features, trying to piece together where I fit between them.
Now, as I stared at myself, I realized something. I wasn’t just my parents’ daughter. I was me.
I had fought so hard to carve out my own life.
I had pushed against expectations, made mistakes, taken risks.
And here I was, standing in front of this mirror—not as the girl who had left Warwick in a cloud of shame, but as a woman who had built something for herself.
A woman who had survived heartbreak and humiliation.
I touched my reflection lightly, my fingertips grazing the glass.
I liked who I was now.
The realization settled over me with the warmth of a heartfelt embrace. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t meant to be. And that was okay.
I didn’t need to be flawless. I didn’t need to be what anyone else wanted me to be.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to love the woman I was.
I decided to take a walk around the winery while I waited for lunch. I knew from many past experiences that my mother didn’t let anyone enter her kitchen when she prepared a holiday meal, so instead of offering to help, I did the only sensible thing—I stayed the hell away.
The crisp spring air greeted me as I stepped outside, carrying the familiar scent of earth and budding vines. A sea of grapevines stretched before me, their bare branches just beginning to awaken with the promise of new growth. I walked slowly, drinking in the view.
Everywhere I looked, memories waited. Summer afternoons spent picking grapes under the scorching sun.
Autumn evenings sneaking sips of freshly pressed juice when my dad wasn’t looking.
Winter mornings helping my mother dust snow off the old trellis, pretending I wasn’t freezing my fingers off just to spend time with her.
No matter how far I’d run, Warwick was stitched into my bones.
As I rounded the corner toward the main barn, a blur of orange fur streaked past me.
“What the—” I yelped, catching my balance as a fat, disgruntled tabby skidded to a halt in front of me.
“Vinnie.” I sighed, hands on my hips. “Still like to scare the shit out of me, do you?”
Vinnie—short for Vino, of course—had been part of the Morelli household for over a decade.
He was large, lazy, and utterly convinced he owned this place.
He was also the most judgmental feline I had ever encountered.
He sniffed at me, his green eyes narrowing in suspicion, before flicking his tail and turning his back on me.
Then, just to assert his dominance, he flopped onto the dirt path, blocking my way completely.
I crouched down, scratching behind his ears. “I hope you’re still keeping the mice in check, old guy.”
A lazy, throaty purr rumbled from his chest, vibrating under my fingers. He stretched luxuriously, then turned his head to sink his teeth into my sleeve, a gentle but pointed warning that I had exactly three seconds before he was done with me.
“Okay, okay,” I chuckled, pulling back my hand before he could sink his claws in. “Still an ungrateful little bastardo.”
Vinnie rolled onto his back, his belly exposed in what was undoubtedly a trap, then promptly lost interest in me altogether.
I shook my head, standing up and brushing off my jeans. “Some things never change.”
But as I looked out at the vineyard, at the house that had once felt like a prison and now felt like something close to peace, I realized some things do change.
Back at the house, I washed my hands and went down to lunch, lured by the incredible aromas.
Roasted lamb, fresh-baked bread, warm wine, and the sharp tang of rosemary filled the air in a spellbinding mix.
The dining table was covered in a pristine white cloth, the centerpiece an elegant arrangement of spring flowers and candles.
My mother’s touch was in every detail, from the perfectly folded linen napkins to the polished silverware glinting in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows.
“You did all this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I slid into my usual seat.
My mom arched a brow back. “Of course not. What do you think I am, a miracle worker?”
Paul snorted, slicing into a golden brown roll. “History has shown that you are.”
Mom accepted the compliment with a graceful tilt of her head. “I had help, obviously. Maria from the vineyard came early this morning to prep the lamb, and Francesca made the pastries. I handled the rest.” She cast a pointed glance around the table. “Not that any of my children offered to help.”
Paul, Michelle, and I all looked at our plates.
“Mom.” I took a sip of my wine. “You hate when people help in the kitchen.”
“That’s not the point,” she said primly. “I still want the opportunity to say no, thank you.”
Dad chuckled, shaking his head as he passed a plate of pasta to Michelle. “Ah, let the girl be, Elaine. We are all together, no? This is what matters.”
Michelle smiled warmly, rubbing a hand over her huge belly. “Exactly. The food is amazing, Elaine.”
Paul leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand. He fixed me with an amused smirk. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. No dramatic revelations planned? No bombshell announcements?”
I shot him a dry look. “It’s Easter, Paul. I’m taking a break from being a spectacle.”
“Too bad.” He lifted his glass. “It was great entertainment.”
I kicked him under the table. He grunted but kept the smirk on his face.
Ignoring him, I leaned back in my chair. Everything was good. Peaceful. I didn’t feel the weight of last night pressing down on me. I didn’t feel like a fraud, or like a woman whose entire life had just imploded in front of two families. I just felt… home.
We were halfway through our meal when we heard a sharp knock at the front door.
Paul frowned. “Who the hell—?”
My father, who rarely showed strong emotions unless wine was involved, raised his head. Whoever it was, they had committed a grave mistake. Never interrupt an Italian’s meal.
Another knock came, harder this time, and a voice called out, “Hey, anyone at home?”
I froze. Even after all these years, I recognized that smooth, polished voice. Neil.