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Her jaw ticked and she fidgeted with the strap of her bag, then started her half-mile trek. She wondered if she would be recognized from the cars that passed her by, then thought better of it. She barely recognized herself in the mirror these days. Three years was enough time for everything to change. There wasn’t an ounce of the old Alana Marien left in her.

The swinging wooden sign came into view, sunshine gleaming on the curly font of their family name and the small ladybug painted in the corner.

She saw the vines and her shoulders slumped, her bag dropping to her feet. Eight hectares. Plots of bushy grape vines, deep green leaves already showing, small clusters of grapes starting to form. She may have changed, but her knowledge of the land would be forever engrained in her system. Riesling and Cayuga down by the water. Cabernet Franc and Lemberger climbing up the slope. A smaller plot of Chardonnay in between, specifically for their sparkling wine. They sat deeply rooted in glacial till; a mix of limestone, shale, and silty clay. It was the markup of a traditional Finger Lakes vineyard. But the Mariens…they knew it was so much more than that.

Alana didn’t see anyone in her immediate vicinity, so she tucked down a row between the vines and knelt in the dirt. She dug her fingers—mauve nail polish chipping—into the soil, fisting the dense, cold earth and bringing it to the light. She crumbled it in her hands as tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She’d wanted to hate it. Wanted to stay away from this place and these people for the rest of her life. But she couldn’t. It was the only thing left between her and her mother. There was nothing else in her bag or on her body that she could attest to her mother existing, that she mattered to Alana in some way. No, it was always the soil. This place. This dirt.

“What are you doing?”

Alana looked up to the owner of that voice, her eyes landing on a man she’d never seen before. He was lean, with wide-set shoulders and narrow hips, his long legs tucked in a pair of muddied light-blue jeans. His light brown hair was well kept, his shadow-like beard trimmed. His blue eyes were icy and piercing as he stared down at her and the dirt in her hands.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Who are you?”

She picked up a hint of a French accent. It wasn’t surprising to find French or German immigrants here. Wine was the trade, after all, and who better to know cool-climate wine than the countries with a rich history of it. But this was her vineyard. He was the one trespassing.

Alana dropped the dirt and stood, wiping her hands on her faded charcoal cutoffs. She eyed his appearance, realizing what he was wearing. Muck boots. A T-shirt with the Marien insignia in the top left corner.

He worked here.

“You work here,” she said aloud. “What do you do?”

“I’m the winemaker, and I tend the vines.”

Her throat tightened once more.

“LANA!”

She whipped her head around to find Sophie on the patio. Three years had done her youngest sister far more good than herself. Gone was her boxy, fifteen-year-old body; in its place were the curves of an eighteen-year-old woman. Her natural blonde hair hung loose in wispy strands around her shoulders, and she wore a white summer dress that tied in a bow around her waist. She looked ethereal. Everyone said Alana looked like her mother, and Freya her father. Sophie was a devastating beauty entirely of her own.

The screen door swung open as her father stepped outside, his mouth agape.

Alana held her breath. This was the moment she’d feared. Would he hate her forever for what she did? Would he let her come back home?

His mouth split into a delighted grin. Then he jogged down the steps and took off down the vineyard in a wild sprint.

Tears sprang in her eyes and she closed the distance, throwing her arms wide. They met somewhere between the fields of growing grapes of Cabernet Franc and the Lemberger, and he embraced her in a tight, fierce hug.

She rested her head on her father’s shoulder. He was shorter than her, but that didn’t stop her from assuming her favorite position. It had always been a safe place to land.

They stood there in an embrace until Sophie’s thudding footsteps approached. Her sister threw her arms around them both, then kissed Alana three times on the cheek.

Her father stepped back, his hands on Alana’s face, cataloging her as though searching for injuries. When he was satisfied with what he saw, his shoulders relaxed.

If only he knew the scars she bore weren’t visible to the eye.

“What took you so long?” he asked, his voice scraggly and raw.

She scanned him as well, noticing all the ways the years had weathered him. The wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, his honey-blond hair now streaked with gray. His belly was rounder and his shoulders slouched inward, but so much was still the same. The crooked smile and stained teeth from drinking too much coffee and wine over the years. The vine tattoo around his forearm. The thin gold band that still sat on his left hand.

Alana pinched her lips then smothered her rising emotions with a smile. “I needed to figure things out.”

“And did you?” he asked smartly.

Sophie glanced between the two of them, eyes wide.

“No,” she admitted. She squared her shoulders. “But I will.”