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I mostly stay away from her. Or I did, anyway, when she decided she didn’t want to work at the family winery. It was perfect when I only had to see her once a week on Sunday evenings for our weekly family dinner.
The winery is a business that has been in the Newman family for three generations. My great-grandfather bought the farm as a wedding gift for my great-grandmother, and since they were just married combined with the fact that their last name is Newman, they named it Newlywed Vineyard and Winery.
My great-grandmother willed it to my grandmother, and she’s willing it to either my father or my uncle, though with the name Newlywed, I’m not entirely sure.
Neither man has been a newlywed for a long time. Uncle Jimmy never got married. My parents have been divorced since I was ten. My mom and dad are still on good terms, but she’s remarried. She comes around on weekends to help out since she fell in love with the winery when they were married.
Dad is quiet and reserved, and he has put his all into the winery. But he’s not getting any younger, and I’m not sure how much longer he wants to run this place.
Enter Gracie.
I have the know-how and the drive to take over Newlywed Vineyard and Winery, and it has been my lifelong dream to run this place. I think back my childhood, of hours sitting in the tire swing out behind the original estate dreaming of anything I could dare to dream about, and that’s when it started. I’d watch Nana sit on the back porch overlooking the fields after a long day, and I’d see Pop Pop press a glass of wine into her palm.
I couldn’t help but think that was what I wanted out of life, too. To relax on the back porch overlooking our family vineyard with pride as the man who loves me more than anything in the world brings me a glass of wine after a long day.
But my current prospects are sort of limited to the people who work here at the vineyard. I’m the hospitality manager of Newlywed Vineyard, which means my job includes tasting room and venue operations. It keeps me busy, and I’m nothing if not dedicated. When it’s a family business and you literally live on the land, it sort of becomes a lifestyle, and maybe one of my family members is hurting right now and could use a sympathetic ear.
That thought is what pushes my feet into motion. I knock on the door to Amelia’s office.
“You okay?” I ask quietly when I see her pacing in front of the door.
“Get out!” she yells at me, and she slams the door in my face.
Apparently, she’s not okay. I’m not sure why I bother.
I head down the stairs, through the tasting room, and out the front door, and I spot Spencer as he rounds the estate toward the backyard. The firepits aren’t going yet, but they’ll be on once it gets dark. People will stand around in the freezing cold with glasses of wine by the fire. It’s romantic even if it’s cold, and then they’ll warm up at the restaurant and maybe at whatever hotel they go to afterward.
I swing by the tasting room to grab a bottle of malbec along with two glasses. I pop the cork and head out back, and right now, it’s deserted. I set my supplies on the table beside me and rub my hands together as I wish I would’ve grabbed my coat.
“You okay?” I ask.
He glances up at the sound of my voice, and when his blue eyes meet my brown ones, suddenly I don’t feel the cold any longer.
Even though he looks angry and upset, and even though his eyes are stormy, I still see a warmth in the way he looks at me. It’s comforting. It’s kind. It’s nothing my sister is, and for the millionth time, I wonder why the hell he’s with her.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks. His voice is sullen.
“Checking on you,” I admit. “I tried Amelia first, but she yelled at me and slammed the door in my face.”
He exhales sharply as he drops into one of the Adirondack chairs by the firepit. “Yeah. We’re kind of…fighting.”
“Is it okay to admit the walls are thin and I overheard everything?” I ask, clicking a button so the fire roars to life and sliding into the chair beside him.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
I hold my hands up toward the fire to grab some heat, and I shiver.
He’s not wearing a coat, either, but he’s the kind of guy who would offer it if he were. And just as I have the thought, he says, “Do you want my sweater?”
I can’t help a small chuckle. “No. I’m okay.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry she did what she did.” I pour us each a glass and hand one to him.
He offers a tight smile without looking at me as he accepts the glass. “Thanks.”
“Would you like to be alone?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s nice having you out here.” He clinks his glass to mine, and we each take a sip.
Why are you with her?
