The day of the call dawned clear and sharp.
The storm had scrubbed the air. The hills glowed green-gold under a high, hard blue sky. The grapes, finally, had reached that elusive point where sweetness, acidity, and flavor lined up and shook hands.
“We pick tomorrow,” Nora said to Rhys as they stood at the edge of block nine at sunrise, coffee mugs cooling in their hands. “No more waiting.”
He nodded. “You sure?” he asked.
She rolled a berry between her fingers. The skin gave just enough. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said.
“Then we’ll pick,” he said simply.
“This is it,” she murmured. “Last Merlot I’ll ever pick as an owner.”
He didn’t say, Maybe not. He didn’t say, If the call goes well… He just stood beside her, solid and quiet.
“You ready for your close-up?” he asked lightly.
“Don’t start,” she said.
He smiled. “At least let me make one film reference,” he said. “I’ve been holding that in since Aanya compared this to a roadshow.”
“She must be thrilled you’re getting out of the office,” she said.
“She’s…managing,” he said. “She sends me photos of my empty chair with captions like, ‘Corporate governance misses you.’”
Nora snorted. “You have weird friends,” she said.
“You should meet hers,” he said. “They’re all consultants with slide decks about optimizing your morning routine.”
“God,” she said. “If anyone ever tried to optimize my morning—”
“They’d get a hose in the face,” he said.
“Damn right,” she said.
He glanced at her. “We don’t have to do the house,” he said, apropos of nothing. “On the call.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The buyer,” he said. “They asked if they could see the interiors. Get a sense of the ‘lifestyle component.’”
She made a face. “Gross,” she said.
“I agree,” he said. “We can keep it vineyard and winery only. You’re not…required to let them into your bedrooms.”
“You realize how creepy that sounds when you say it like that,” she said.
He winced. “Poor phrasing,” he said.
She sighed. “We’ll do the porch,” she said. “Maybe the kitchen. They can see the stove. The table. That’s…enough.”
“Deal,” he said.
She hesitated. “You really think this will make a difference,” she said quietly. “Me talking.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“You’re very confident,” she said.
“I fake it well,” he said.
She studied him. “Do you ever…regret?” she asked.
“Regret what?” he asked.
“This,” she said. “Your…line of work. The deals. The stress. The people like me.”
He looked out over the rows. The morning light carved shadows in his face.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly. “At three in the morning. When the numbers blur and all I can think about is the look on someone’s face when I told them we were enforcing a covenant they didn’t even remember signing.”
She shivered. “Sounds fun,” she said.
“It’s…what I’m good at,” he said. “Or what I learned to be good at. But yeah. Sometimes I look at my life and think, ‘This can’t be it.’”
“And yet,” she said.
“And yet,” he echoed.
“You could walk away,” she said. “You have money. Skills. You could open that bar on the beach.”
He smiled faintly. “I’d be bored in a week,” he said. “I like…problems.”
“You have issues,” she said.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Stop saying that,” she said. “Find a new excuse.”
“I’ll add it to my to-do list,” he said.
* * *
By six p.m., the house was as presentable as Nora could make it without losing her mind.
She’d wiped down the kitchen counters, shoved a pile of unpaid bills into a drawer, and convinced her mother to relocate to Yolanda’s for the evening with the promise of takeout and telenovelas.
“You sure you don’t want me here?” Rosa had asked, hovering by the door with her purse.
“You’ll make me cry,” Nora had said. “They don’t need to see that.”
“They should,” Rosa had said. “It’s real.”
“I’ll be real enough for both of us,” Nora had said. “Go. Please.”
Her mother had cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and gone.
Now, the laptop sat on the kitchen table, propped up on a stack of wine magazines for better angle. The camera showed a slice of the room: the table, the window behind, a glimpse of the sink. Homey, but not messy. Authentic, but not pathetic. She hoped.
Rhys fussed with the ring light he’d insisted on borrowing from the bank’s dusty marketing closet.
“Too bright,” Nora said, squinting.
“We don’t want you in shadow,” he said. “You’re not going into witness protection. Tilt your chin a bit.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she said.
“I hate this,” he said. “I hate video calls. I hate selling.” He adjusted the light anyway. “But I hate leaving money on the table more.”
“You realize you make everything sound like a balance sheet,” she said.
“It’s how my brain works,” he said. “You make everything sound like a vineyard.”
“I live in one,” she said. “What’s your excuse?”
He smiled. “Occupational haz—”
“Don’t,” she warned.
He chuckled.
He checked his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said. “We’ll start outside. I’ll have Miles pilot the drone, show them the vineyard from above. Then we’ll walk them through the crush pad, barrel room, maybe the tasting area. End here.”
“Like a date,” she said.
“Worst date ever,” he said. “With six people in Hong Kong watching.”
“Sexy,” she said dryly.
His eyes flicked to her mouth. “You have no idea,” he murmured.
Her pulse skipped. “Focus, Crestlake,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “You ready?”
“No,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
The call started with a burst of polite chaos.
Faces popped up on the screen as the meeting link connected: a man in a suit in a high-rise office with floor-to-ceiling windows, a woman with perfectly sleek hair in what looked like a corridor of glass and steel, another man in a polo shirt sitting outdoors under a palm tree.
“Good morning,” the man in the suit said in crisp British-accented English. “Can you hear us?”
“Loud and clear,” Rhys said, his professional voice sliding into place like a glove. “Good evening from California. Thanks for joining.”
“Always happy to look at potential additions to the portfolio,” the palm tree guy said, smiling broadly. “We’ve heard very good things about this…what do you call it…jewel.”
Nora felt her jaw tighten. Jewel. Asset. Story. All the words they’d used in the deck.
“We appreciate your time,” Rhys said smoothly. He gestured to Nora. “This is Nora Figueroa, current owner and winemaker. She’s kindly agreed to show you around.”
“Ms. Figueroa,” Suit Guy said, inclining his head slightly. “We appreciate you allowing us into your home.”
“It’s a vineyard,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not a museum. You’re just…getting a sneak peek before harvest is over.”
Polo Guy laughed. “I like her,” he said. “She’s…spicy.”
Nora’s hand clenched under the table.
Rhys shot Polo Guy a polite, warning smile. “Nora’s been running operations here for ten years,” he said. “She knows every inch of this property. I thought it was important you hear from the person who’s actually been living the numbers you’ve seen.”
“Living the numbers,” the woman repeated, intrigued. “I like that.”
“Shall we start outside?” Rhys suggested. “Miles, you ready with the drone?”
The screen split, one half showing them, the other half flickering to an aerial view as the drone’s feed kicked in. The vineyard spread out below like a green quilt, rows marching in perfect lines.
“Oh,” the woman breathed. “It’s…beautiful.”
Nora had watched that view a hundred times—from hilltops, from tractor seats. Seeing it from above, the patterns more pronounced, made her chest ache.
“Southern exposure,” Rhys narrated. “Gentle slope. Well-drained soils. Mixed varietals—Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc. Old vines in the north block; newer plantings by the creek.”
“And this is all included in the parcel?” Suit Guy asked.
“All twenty-five acres,” Rhys said. “Plus water rights to the creek and a well.”
“Water,” Polo Guy said. “Very important.”
“Especially here,” Nora said. “We’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Can you talk us through your irrigation?” the woman asked. “How you manage in drought years?”
Nora walked to the edge of the yard, laptop in hand, Rhys at her side. The drone feed followed.
“Drip irrigation on all blocks,” she said. “We have moisture sensors in the older vines, but a lot of it is observation. Leaf curl. Shoot growth. Berry size. We’re stingy with water. It keeps the roots deep. Makes the vines work.”
“Stress the plant, improve the fruit,” Polo Guy said. “We hear that a lot.”
“We also stress the winemaker,” Nora said. “Less fun.”
Laughter crackled through the speakers.
They moved to the crush pad. The camera caught the stained concrete, the tired press, the gleaming tanks. Workers moved in the background, peripherals to the show.
“This is where the magic happens,” Rhys said.
“This is where the work happens,” Nora corrected. “The magic is out there.” She jerked her chin toward the vines.
“Walk us through your harvest process,” Suit Guy requested.
She did. She talked about early mornings and headlamps, about hand-sorting and triage, about fermentation temperatures and punch-down schedules. She resisted the urge to slip into jargon that would either lose them or, worse, impress them for the wrong reasons.
“You still use a lot of manual labor,” the woman observed. “Have you explored more mechanization?”
“We’ve priced it,” Nora said. “Mechanized harvesters, automated punch-downs. The ROI…isn’t there for us at our scale. And we’d lose nuance. Pickers can judge fruit in a way machines can’t. They make decisions in real time with their hands. A machine just…shakes.”
“You could scale,” Polo Guy said. “Plant more. Expand.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you can’t just stick vines anywhere and call it quality. The land decides.”
“The land,” Suit Guy said thoughtfully.
They went into the barrel room. The buyers oohed and aahed over the rows of oak.
“French?” the woman asked.
“Mostly,” Nora said. “Some American. We’ve moved toward more neutral barrels in the last few years. Let the fruit speak. But a little new oak, judiciously used…” She gestured. “It’s like eyeliner. Accentuates what’s already there."
Polo Guy laughed. “I definitely like her,” he said.
“You focusing on estate bottlings?” the woman asked. “Or bulk?”
“Both,” Nora said. “Estate for the higher-end stuff—single vineyard Cab, reserve Merlot. Bulk for cash flow. House labels for restaurants, supermarket blends. It’s not sexy, but it pays the PG&E bill.”
“You’d be open to expanding the hospitality component?” Suit Guy asked. “Events, weddings, corporate retreats?”
“In theory,” she said. “We’ve done weddings. A few corporate things. But our infrastructure is…limited. Parking. Bathrooms. Kitchens. It would require investment.”
“And would you…” The woman hesitated. “Be open to…stepping into a larger role? Under new ownership.”
There it was.
Nora felt her pulse triple. She glanced at Rhys. He gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Yes,” Nora said slowly. “If the terms were right.”
“What does ‘right’ mean to you?” Suit Guy asked.
“Control over winemaking decisions,” she said. “Within reason. A say in how the land is developed, or not. Input on any major changes that would affect the character of the vineyard.”
“Compensation?” the woman asked.
Nora took a breath. “I’d expect to be paid fairly,” she said. “For my labor. My expertise. And for the ten years I’ve spent keeping this place alive on a shoestring so someone else could have the opportunity to buy it.”
There was a brief silence. Then Polo Guy clapped.
“Bravo,” he said. “Spoken like a CFO.”
“She’s more than that,” Rhys cut in. “She’s the operating system. You remove her without a transition, you lose institutional knowledge you can’t download from a server.”
“We’ve been burned on that before,” the woman said thoughtfully. “We bought a place in Tuscany without the original team. Took us three years to find our footing. The locals hated us.”
“You don’t want that here,” Rhys said. “This valley is…small, in its way. People talk.”
“And you’d stay?” Suit Guy asked Nora. “If we came in, made changes, as we inevitably would?”
“I’d stay if I felt those changes respected the land,” she said. “And the people.”
“The people?” the woman echoed.
She panned the camera briefly to the crew, who were pretending not to watch. Diego waved. Yolanda flipped him off affectionately.
“These aren’t just workers we plug in for harvest and discard,” Nora said. “They’ve been coming back for years. Their kids learned to walk on this crush pad. They know every row better than any spreadsheet. You lose them, you lose more than labor. You lose…memory.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “We’ve had that conversation, haven’t we,” she murmured to Suit Guy. “In Bali. When we fired the original staff.”
“And then begged them to come back,” Suit Guy said dryly. “Yes.”
Polo Guy leaned forward. “Tell us a story,” he said. “Ms. Figueroa. Something that…captures this place.”
Nora blinked. “A story,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Why you stayed. Why we should…join you.”
She looked at the barrels. The tanks. The window where you could just see the tips of the vines.
She thought of her father, of the first harvest after he died, of the way the valley had smelled that autumn—smoke and fear and stubbornness.
“There was a frost,” she said slowly. “The year after my father died. Late October. Forecast said it would miss us. It didn’t. Temperature dropped to twenty-nine at three in the morning. I woke up to the alarm on the thermometer. Went outside in my pajamas. The vines were…white. Glittering. Beautiful. Dead.”
She swallowed. The buyers listened, rapt.
“I called everyone I knew,” she said. “Neighbors. Our crew. People who’d worked for my dad fifteen years earlier. We lit fires in oil drums at the end of rows. We filled trash cans with water and stuck hair dryers in them to blow warm air. We drove tractors up and down with heaters strapped to the backs. It was…ridiculous. And it worked. Mostly. We lost some fruit. Not all.”
She looked into the camera, into their distant eyes.
“That’s what this place is,” she said. “It’s not just vines and dirt. It’s a hundred people at three in the morning in the freezing cold, doing whatever stupid, desperate thing they can think of to keep it alive. Not because it’s profitable. Not because it’s sexy. Because it’s…home.”
There was a long silence.
The drone hummed softly in the background.
“Thank you,” the woman said finally. Her voice sounded…thick. “That was…powerful.”
“We’d like to see the house,” Suit Guy said. “If that’s okay.”
She almost said no. Almost said, You’ve seen enough. But she’d come this far.
“We’ll show you the porch,” she said. “And the kitchen.”
They moved the laptop. The camera caught the worn floorboards, the porch swing, the view out over the yard. The kitchen, with its old stove and the fridge covered in magnets and photos.
“Charming,” Polo Guy said. “Very…real.”
Real. That was the word he used when he saw her mother’s note still stuck to the fridge—Call bank. Again. It was the word he used when he caught a glimpse of a baseball cap on the hook by the door, dusty from disuse.
They asked more questions. About zoning. About permits. About potential for additional structures. Rhys answered most of those, slipping into his element, talking in terms of entitlements and variances and set-backs.
Nora watched him work. Watched how he artfully steered them away from “tennis courts” and “guest compound” and toward “small-scale, high-touch hospitality.” Watched how he talked up the value of preserving the existing vineyard footprint.
“Ripping out vines to build a spa might feel luxurious in the short term,” he said at one point, “but it devalues the wine. And that’s your anchor brand.”
He was using their language. ROI. Brand equity. But he was using it for her side. For the land’s.
It did something to her.
Eventually, the questions dwindled. Suit Guy glanced at his watch.
“I think we have what we need for now,” he said. “This has been very helpful.”
“We’ll, of course, need to…dig deeper into the numbers,” the woman added. “But from a…fit perspective, this feels promising.”
Polo Guy beamed. “I want to come drink wine on that porch,” he said. “Soon.”
“You might get your wish,” Suit Guy said. “We’ll speak with our principals. Thank you again, Ms. Figueroa. Mr. Carrick.”
“Thank you,” Nora managed.
The call ended. The screen went dark, reflecting their faces back at them.
Nora sagged into a chair. Her legs felt like they’d been holding up barrels.
“Well,” Rhys said after a beat. “That seemed…positive.”
She laughed, short and shaky. “You think?” she asked.
“They liked you,” he said. “A lot.”
“They liked my…story,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
He shook his head. “They liked you,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve sat in enough of these calls to know when someone’s just being polite. That wasn’t it.”
“I don’t care if they like me,” she said. “I care if they put things in writing.”
“They will,” he said. “If we can get them to offer at the number we want with the terms we want…”
“Do you want this?” she asked suddenly.
He blinked. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You. Not Crestlake. Not your LPs. You. Do you want them to buy this place?”
He looked away, out the window at the vines.
“I want a buyer who will close quickly at a good price,” he said automatically. Then, softer: “And if that buyer happens to be someone who’ll keep some of what makes this place…this place…intact, that’s…a bonus.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
He sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They’re…not the worst option. They’re also not…you.”
“Me?” she echoed.
“Owner-operator,” he said. “Independent. Under-capitalized. Stubborn as hell. People like you are…bad for my portfolio. And very good for the world.”
She stared at him. “Was that a compliment?” she asked.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said.
She laughed, surprised and a little breathless. “Too late,” she said.
He smiled. Then sobered.
“You were…incredible,” he said quietly. “On that call.”
She looked away. “I didn’t cry,” she said. “That’s…something.”
“You showed them the right things,” he said. “The barrels. The frost story. The crew. You made them feel this place.”
“Is that what you wanted?” she asked. “For them to fall in love with it?”
He hesitated. “I wanted them to see its value,” he said. “In a way numbers can’t show. You did that.”
She inhaled. The kitchen smelled like lemon oil and nerves.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“I call them tomorrow,” he said. “See where their heads are. If they’re serious, we move to LOI. Letter of intent.”
“And then?” she pressed.
“Diligence,” he said. “Negotiation. Maybe an in-person visit. We’ll know more in a week.”
“A week,” she repeated. “That’s…fast.”
“Deals move at the speed of interest,” he said. “And theirs is high.”
She sat back. The worn wood of the chair creaked under her.
“I feel like I just…took my clothes off in front of strangers,” she admitted.
He exhaled. “I know the feeling,” he said.
She shot him a look. “I’m not talking about your weird corporate parties,” she said.
“I’m talking about roadshows,” he said. “It’s the same thing. You stand in a room full of people with more money than God and tell them how you’re going to make them richer. You leave pieces of yourself on every table.”
“That sounds exhausting,” she said.
“It is,” he said. “But…worth it. Sometimes.”
She studied his face. He looked…drained. Not just physically. Something in his eyes had thinned.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly.
He blinked. “For what?” he asked.
“For not…letting them talk over me,” she said. “For backing me up. For…fighting. A little. For this place.”
He swallowed. “You’re welcome,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth,” she said. “More than you think.”
He looked at her. Really looked. The air between them thickened.
“Nora,” he said.
She knew what was coming. Or thought she did.
“Don’t,” she warned.
He ignored that. Took a step closer. “Earlier,” he said. “You asked me if I ever regret this. The work. The deals. People like you.”
“You said sometimes,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “I didn’t say when.”
“And when is that,” she asked, heart thudding.
He took another step, so close now she could see the faint stubble at his jaw, the flecks of green in his eyes.
“Right now,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“Rhys,” she whispered.
He reached up, very slowly, as if giving her every chance to flinch. Brushed a damp curl away from her temple with the back of his fingers.
Her skin sparked where he touched her.
“This is a bad idea,” she said, voice shaking.
“Terrible,” he agreed.
“We shouldn’t—”
“We won’t,” he said, even as his thumb traced the edge of her jaw. “Not now.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Then what are you doing,” she asked.
“Memorizing,” he said.
Her heart twisted. “For what?” she asked.
“For when I have to sit in some boardroom in six months and explain why I pushed for certain terms,” he said. “For when someone asks me why I gave a shit about a line on a map, and all I’ll be able to say is, ‘Because there was a woman there who walked her vineyard in the rain.’”
Her throat went tight. “Don’t make me into your…redemption arc,” she said.
He smiled sadly. “You’re not,” he said. “You’re just…a variable I didn’t plan for.”
“Story of my life,” she murmured.
They stood there, so close they were breathing the same air, teetering on the edge of something that felt both inevitable and impossible.
Then the front door banged open.
“Hey, jefa!” Diego’s voice floated in. “We found a dead gopher the size of a chihuahua in block five!”
They jerked apart like guilty teenagers. Nora’s pulse slammed against her ribs. Rhys’s jaw flexed.
“In here, Diego,” she called, her voice only slightly strangled.
Diego bounded into the kitchen, then skidded to a halt, taking in their flushed faces, their proximity.
“Am I—uh—interrupting?” he asked, eyes gleaming.
“No,” Nora said too fast. “We were just…debriefing the call.”
“Debriefing,” Diego repeated. “Right.”
Rhys coughed. “You said something about a gopher?” he asked, voice too normal.
Diego grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Come see. It’s like a furry submarine.”
Nora shot Rhys a look that said later and followed Diego out.
Later didn’t come.
Not that night.
But the line between them had moved again. Not erased.
Just…blurred.
And tomorrow, at dawn, they’d pick the Merlot.
Together.
* * *