Friday came faster than either of them wanted.
The week blurred in a flurry of Aurora site visits, last-minute bank calls, and a tree that somehow managed to drop half its needles in three days despite Nora’s careful watering.
“It’s protesting,” she told Rosa, sweeping up yet another drift of green. “It knows it’s the last one.”
“Trees are dramatic,” Rosa said. “They get it from you.”
On Thursday night, after Lila and Kenji had gone back to their hotel and the crew had finally, blessedly, clocked out, Nora and Rhys sat at the kitchen table going over one last spreadsheet.
Not for the deal. For the crew.
“These are the bonuses,” she said, tapping the list. “Based on hours, years, how many times they’ve saved my ass in the middle of the night.”
“You’re not taking anything,” he said, noticing the blank line next to her name.
“I get a salary,” she said. “Starting next month. For the first time in my life, I’ll have a paycheck that doesn’t depend on whether tourists like my Syrah. They need this more.”
He frowned. “Still,” he said. “You did…everything.”
“And they did…a lot,” she said. “We’re not arguing about this. The only question is whether Aurora’s going to freak out when they see the line item.”
“They won’t,” he said. “We framed it as part of the ‘cultural transition plan.’”
She snorted. “You people and your phrases,” she said. “Just say, ‘We’re not assholes. We pay people.’”
“That wouldn’t fit in the deck,” he said.
She rolled her eyes but smiled.
He watched her check and recheck numbers, add little notes beside names.
“Diego gets extra,” she said. “For the truck fiasco and for not dropping a single bin this year.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Yolanda gets time off and some money earmarked for that massage she keeps talking about,” she added. “We’ll make her take it. She’ll pretend to be mad.”
“She’ll be grateful,” he said.
She wrote it down.
“Martinez,” she said. “I know he’s not technically ‘crew,’ but…”
“Put him on,” Rhys said. “He saved our asses.”
She looked at him. “You’re very generous with other people’s money,” she said.
“I’m efficient with goodwill,” he corrected. “Occupational hazard.”
She huffed a laugh.
They worked in comfortable quiet for a while. Pens scratching. The fridge humming. The faint sound of Rosa singing to herself in her room down the hall.
Finally, she set the pen down. “That’s it,” she said. “No more numbers.”
He glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight.
“My car comes at six,” he said. “To take me to the airstrip.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said.
The words hung there. Heavy.
“You have your board call at eight,” she added. “Tell them I say…whatever the opposite of ‘hi’ is.”
He smiled. “I’ll convey your…sentiments,” he said.
She drummed her fingers on the table for a second.
“Do you need…help packing?” she asked. “Or are you one of those weirdos who travels with a go-bag.”
“I live out of a go-bag,” he said. “But…thanks.”
Silence again.
He cleared his throat. “We should probably…talk,” he said.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “What have we been doing for three months,” she asked. “Charades?”
“I mean…about tomorrow,” he said. “And…after.”
Her shoulders tensed. “We already did,” she said. “On the porch. In the barrel room. In my stupid childhood bedroom. We said…no promises. No…names. We agreed.”
“Agreed intellectually,” he said. “Hearts are…dumber.”
She snorted. “Speak for yours,” she said. “Mine’s very…disciplined.”
He arched a brow. “That’s a lie,” he said.
She sighed. “Fine,” she said. “What do you want to…say.”
He looked down at his hands. At the faint stains that still clung around his nails—grape purple that no amount of city soap would scrub out.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “For real this time. Not just for a meeting. Not just for a night. You’ll…be here. Without me. With them. With…everything.”
“Thanks for the recap,” she said. “Very helpful.”
He gave a half-smile. “I’m not…good at this,” he said. “Still.”
“We’ve covered that,” she said. “Get to the part where you…make a selfless offer or a selfish admission. Those are your two modes.”
He laughed, startled. “You know me too well,” he said.
He sobered. “I’m not going to ask you to…wait,” he said. “For me. For anything. That would be…unfair. To both of us.”
“Good,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her chest ached anyway.
“I’m also not going to say some bullshit like, ‘Maybe in another life,’” he continued. “This is our life. This is it. Messy. Complicated. It doesn’t…magically get better because we imagine alternate universes.”
“Progress,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “I am going to say…” He hesitated. “If you ever need…anything. Advice. A contact. Someone to yell at over email. Dumplings. A couch in the city. Whatever. You can call me. Text. Send a carrier pigeon. I’ll…answer.”
She rolled her eyes to cover the way her heart stuttered. “I’m not going to drunk-text you at two in the morning,” she said. “I’m not…twenty-two.”
“You might,” he said. “You surprise me.”
She snorted. “I’m going to be too busy yelling at Lila about spa menus,” she said.
“Still,” he said. “Offer stands.”
She regarded him. “And you,” she asked. “What do you want. From me. After.”
He exhaled. “Updates,” he said. “Sometimes. Pictures. Of barrels. Trees. Dogs. Whatever. Not…for the deck. For me.”
“You want to…watch,” she said. “From afar.”
“I want to know,” he said. “That I didn’t…ruin it.”
She softened, just a fraction. “You didn’t,” she said.
“I might,” he said.
“You won’t,” she said. “You tried too hard not to.”
He swallowed. “I care about you,” he said quietly. “You know that, right.”
Her throat burned. “Yes,” she said. “I…know.”
“I’m…not good at…love,” he said. The word sounded foreign on his tongue. “Whatever that means. I’m good at…deals. Risk. Levers. I don’t know what to do with…this.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, voice rough. “We had a season. That’s…more than most people get.”
He laughed weakly. “Spoken like a winemaker,” he said.
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
They looked at each other.
“If we ever…see each other,” she said slowly, “in a bar. Or a tasting. Or a…whatever. In five years. Or ten.” Her heart pounded. “Do we…pretend this didn’t happen. Or do we…?”
“We don’t pretend,” he said instantly. “We say…hi. We…remember. We maybe get a drink. We…compare scars.”
She swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
He studied her. “What are you…most afraid of,” he asked.
She exhaled. “That I’ll…turn into someone who values comps more than cover crops,” she said. “That I’ll wake up one day and realize I haven’t tasted the fruit in a month because I’ve been in meetings about towel thread counts.”
“That won’t happen,” he said.
“You don’t know that,” she said.
“I know you,” he said.
She almost cried at that. Instead, she made a face. “What about you,” she asked. “What’s your…big fear.”
He considered. “That one day I’ll…hear about some farm we foreclosed on,” he said slowly. “And feel…nothing.”
She winced. “Occupational hazard,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said.
They sat there, the weight of their fears balanced between them like another document they needed to initial.
“Come on,” she said finally, pushing back her chair. “If we keep talking like this, I’m going to start monologuing about terroir and you’re going to propose a joint venture.”
He laughed. “God forbid,” he said.
She hesitated. “Walk?” she asked. “One last…row patrol.”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
They stepped out into the cold night.
The vineyard slept, quiet under a sky bruised with stars. Their breath puffed white as they walked up the familiar path.
“You remember when you got stuck in that gopher hole,” she said suddenly.
He groaned. “I knew you’d bring that up,” he said. “I was trying to be graceful.”
“You nearly face-planted into a Merlot vine,” she said, grinning. “It was glorious.”
“You could have warned me,” he said.
“I did,” she said. “With my face.”
He laughed, the sound warming the air between them. “I’m going to miss this,” he admitted. “You. These hills. The way the light hits that block at five p.m.”
“You can visit,” she said. “As long as you don’t bring a deck.”
“I’ll leave the decks in the car,” he said.
They reached the top of the north block. The oak loomed, bare branches clawing at the sky.
They stood under it. Side by side.
“When I was a kid,” she said, “I thought this tree was…magic. Like if I put my hand on the trunk and made a wish, it would…happen.”
“Did it?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes not. But it felt…like something was listening.”
He placed his palm against the rough bark. “What would you…wish for now,” he asked quietly.
“Nothing,” she said. “Feels greedy. I already got…more than I should have.”
He looked at her. “You got…what you fought for,” he said. “And then some.”
She snorted. “You going to…make a wish,” she asked.
He considered. Closed his eyes briefly. Whispered something she couldn’t hear.
“Cheating,” she said. “You have to say it out loud.”
“Bad luck,” he said.
“You don’t believe in luck,” she said.
“I do now,” he said.
Her heart lurched.
“Rhys,” she said.
He turned. “Yeah?” he asked.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just…thanks. For not being Henry.”
He smiled. “Low bar,” he said.
“Higher than you think,” she said.
They walked back down in silence.
At the porch, he paused.
“This is it,” he said. “Last night here. For me.”
“Don’t make it sound like a movie,” she said. “We’re not going to have a montage.”
“No music,” he said. “Promise.”
She hugged her arms around herself. “You’re…really going to be gone tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Barring flight delays.”
“I hope your plane sits on the tarmac for three hours,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “You going to…come say bye,” he asked. “In the morning.”
She swallowed. “If I do,” she said, “I might…fall apart. And I have a nine a.m. with Lila and a forklift inspection.”
“I know,” he said.
“So…maybe not,” she said. “Maybe…this is it.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. Smell faint traces of soap and wine and something that was just…him.
“Can I…” He hesitated. “Hug you goodbye,” he asked. “Or is that…across the line.”
She huffed out a shaky breath. “Everything’s across the line,” she said. “We erased it weeks ago.”
He smiled, a little crooked. “True,” he said.
She opened her arms.
He stepped into them.
The hug was…worse than the kiss. Softer. More dangerous.
His arms came around her like they’d been meant to be there. One hand at her waist. The other between her shoulder blades. He fit his chin over her head, breathing her in.
She pressed her face into his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. Let herself, for one reckless moment, imagine other versions of this. Sunday mornings. Grocery store parking lots. Boring nights on couches.
“You’re going to be…okay,” he murmured into her hair.
“Don’t say that,” she said, voice muffled. “You don’t know.”
“I do,” he said. “You’re…you.”
“You say that like it’s…enough,” she said.
“It is,” he said.
Her throat burned. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
He stiffened slightly. Then softened.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “If I tried.”
He pulled back then, slowly. Hands lingering at her arms. Eyes searching her face.
He bent his head.
For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her.
He didn’t.
He pressed his lips to her forehead instead. Light. Reverent.
Something in her cracked.
“Goodnight, Nora,” he said softly. “Goodbye.”
Her eyes stung. “Goodnight, Rhys,” she said. “Get out of my vineyard.”
He laughed, the sound rough. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
He turned. Walked into the house.
She watched him go until the door closed.
Then she sat on the porch steps and cried.
She didn’t go down to the driveway in the morning.
She heard the car when it came—tires crunching, doors, muffled voices. She heard Rosa’s low murmur, Marco’s attempt at a joke, Rhys’s deeper reply.
She heard the engine start again. Fade.
She stayed in her room, fists knotted in the blanket, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling.
When her phone buzzed, she ignored it for a full minute before rolling over to glance at the screen.
One new message. From an unknown number she knew by heart.
Thank you. For the harvest. For the hill. For everything. See you down the line.
There was a photo attached. The view from his seat on the plane—the vineyard below, shrinking as the plane climbed. The patchwork of vines and roads and the faint white speck of the house.
She stared at it until the image blurred.
Then put the phone face-down on the pillow and got up.
Lila was waiting in the yard with a clipboard and a hard hat.
“Morning,” she said. “Ready to talk spa water usage and guest wayfinding?”
“No,” Nora said. “Let’s do it.”
* * *