Winter gave way to a hesitant, tentative spring.
The first signs were subtle. A faint fuzz of green at the tips of canes. The smell of damp earth losing its chill. The way the light lingered a little longer in the evenings.
Nora walked the rows every morning, as she always had. Checking buds. Watching for signs of early push. Tasting the air.
The vineyard felt…different. Not just because of ownership. Because of what they’d done to it.
New drainage lines cut across certain slopes. The beginnings of the casita foundations on the south side—neat rectangles of poured concrete, rebar poking up like accusing fingers. A new press gleamed on the crush pad, its stainless surface reflecting the sky.
She’d insisted on blessing it herself.
“You don’t bless machinery,” Lila had said, half amused.
“You do when the old one cried every time you turned it on,” Nora had said. “This is…insurance.”
They’d opened a bottle of the 2019 Cab. Poured a splash on the press. A little on the old one, out of respect.
“Pour one out for the homies,” Diego had said.
Now, in early March, with the vines on the cusp of waking, Nora found herself on the hill above the north block at dawn, breath white in the air, hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets.
The oak stretched above her, bare branches just beginning to swell with buds.
She rested her palm against the trunk.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Year eleven. Let’s not fuck it up.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.
*Rhys:* Board signed off on the new fund. No one yelled at me about wine. Small miracles.
She smiled. Thumbs moving.
*Nora:* You mean they weren’t mad you spent months doing “field research” in Napa instead of closing your water deal?
*Rhys:* Sonoma. And I closed the water deal too, thankyouverymuch. I can multitask.
*Nora:* Occupational hazard.
She paused. Typed again.
*Nora:* Buds are thinking about pushing. North block looks like it’s holding its breath.
Three dots. Then:
> *Rhys:* > Send a pic?
She hesitated.
Then lifted the phone. Framed the shot: the row, the oak, the faint fuzz of green against the brown.
Sent.
He replied almost immediately.
> *Rhys:* > Fuck, I miss that.
Her chest tightened.
She typed, then deleted three different responses.
Finally:
> *Nora:* > You can visit, you know. I won’t spray you with a hose. Probably.
> *Rhys:* > Tempting. But if I show up, Lila will make me sit in a branding meeting and I’ll never see the vines.
> *Nora:* > I’ll kidnap you. We still have the truck.
> *Rhys:* > I believe you. I have a board meeting in May. Might…come up after. If you’re not sick of me by then.
She stared at the screen.
Her heart did something weird and stupid.
> *Nora:* > We’ll see if the Merlot wants to see you.
> *Rhys:* > Always defer to the Merlot.
She tucked the phone away. Smiled up at the oak.
“See?” she told it. “Occupational hazard.”
* * *
Aurora’s first “soft launch” guests arrived at the end of May.
They weren’t random tourists. They were “stakeholders”—board members, journalists, social media “partners.” A carefully curated group meant to experience the “new Aurora Figueroa” and tell the world about it in glossy magazine spreads and breathless Instagram captions.
Nora had mixed feelings.
“I don’t want to be in anyone’s influencer reel,” she told Lila. “If I see my face under a filter that adds fake freckles, I’m burning your servers.”
“We won’t…feature you without approval,” Lila said. “Promise.”
“You did put me in the press release,” Nora said, holding up her phone with the article headline glaring: Aurora Pacific Debuts Aurora Figueroa Estate, Tapping Local Winemaker Nora Figueroa as GM and Head Winemaker.
“You are the story,” Lila said. “You know that.”
“I hate that,” Nora said.
“I know,” Lila said. “And I’m…grateful you’re still willing to be in it.”
They’d reached an uneasy…understanding, Nora and Lila.
Lila was not the enemy. She was also not a friend. She was something in between—a colleague. A fellow woman punching up in rooms full of men. A person who’d confessed, one late night over takeout in the office, that she’d grown up in a motel her parents ran off the freeway and that she’d sworn, at fourteen, that she’d never scrub someone else’s toilet again.
“You think I like spreadsheets about towel inventory?” Lila had said, chopsticks waving. “I do them so someone else doesn’t have to.”
Nora had grudgingly respected that.
Still. There were moments.
Like when she walked into the tasting room on soft launch day and saw the new sign on the back wall: *Aurora Figueroa Estate* in gleaming metal letters, lit from above.
“It’s…sleek,” Yolanda said, standing beside her.
“It’s…there,” Nora said.
“Your name,” Yolanda pointed out. “Still there.”
“Half,” Nora said.
“It’s more than most get,” Yolanda said. “They could’ve called it ‘Zen Ridge by Aurora.’”
“Don’t say that,” Nora said. “You’ll give them ideas.”
The first guests arrived in black SUVs. They stepped out in linen and sunglasses, looking around with the mild, entitled curiosity of people who expected to be impressed.
Nora met them.
Poured for them.
Told the frost story. Again. Told the Merlot story. Again. Walked them through the barrel room, the vines, the oak.
They took photos. They nodded. Some asked good questions. Some asked stupid ones. One asked if the Merlot was “sustainably sourced,” making Nora bite her tongue so hard she tasted blood.
“It doesn’t come from the Amazon,” she said. “It comes from…there.” She pointed at the hill. “Very local.”
They laughed.
At dinner—long farm tables under the tent, twinkle lights overhead, the house a warm glow in the background—she sat at the head, between Kenji and a food critic from the city whose last review had made two chefs quit.
“You’ve done something…rare,” the critic said, swirling his glass of 2019 Cab. “Preserved…charisma. Even with money.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” she said. “And it’s not…done.”
He eyed her. “You sound…skeptical,” he said.
“I’m…cautious,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re not like other GMs I’ve met,” he said. “They’re usually…polished. You’re…sharp.”
She snorted. “Lovely,” she said. “Like a knife.”
“Like a blade,” he agreed. “Useful. Dangerous. Necessary.”
Later, as the night wound down and guests drifted back to their casitas, Nora stepped away. Found herself at the edge of the vines, the tent behind her a soft glow, laughter and clinking dishes floating faintly.
She pulled out her phone.
Took a photo. Not of the party. Of the hill. The oak, silhouetted against the indigo sky.
Sent it.
*Nora:* Soft launch tonight. No one spilled red on the white couches. Merlot behaved. Tree says hi.
He replied almost instantly.
> *Rhys:* > I was just about to email you the latest water usage report. This is better. > Proud of you. And of the tree.
She smiled.
> *Nora:* > Don’t be. It was mostly Lila. And the crew. And my mother’s tamales. I just…stood there and tried not to glare.
> *Rhys:* > Glare is your superpower. Use it wisely.
> *Nora:* > Occupational hazard.
> *Rhys:* > Miss you.
She stared at the words.
Her pulse kicked.
She typed. Deleted. Typed again.
> *Nora:* > You too.
Sent.
The admission hung there, small and enormous.
He didn’t push. Didn’t send a heart or a selfie or some grand declaration.
Just:
> *Rhys:* > See you soon.
Her breath caught.
She put the phone away.
Looked at the hill. At the house. At the party.
She thought: Maybe I can live in this in-between. For a while.
Between old and new. Between hate and gratitude. Between loss and possibility.
Between him and…everything else.
The vintage they’d made together slept in barrels under her feet. The next one was already starting on the vines.
Time moved. Grapes ripened and were picked. People came and went.
She stayed. For now.
And that, in its messy, complicated way, felt like enough.
For now.
* * *