Page 1 of The Vineyard Crush

One

Emma

Istood in the middle of my empty apartment, taking in the bare walls and bare floors one last time. This had been my home for the past four years of college, the place where I had nested and carved out a space for myself in the bustling city. But as I gazed around, I felt no sense of disappointment or sadness about leaving it behind.

In fact, I had a big smile plastered on my face. Unlike my two former roommates, who had both shed tears about moving on, I was bursting with excitement. I guess I had never really been a city girl at heart. The constant noise, the crowded streets, the overwhelming stimuli - it all drained me. I much preferred the quiet tranquility of nature, the earthy scents, the wide-open spaces.

And that was exactly what awaited me on the other side of this drive. I was headed back home, to the state of Maine, to help my family run their vineyard bed and breakfast. It was a venture my brother had embarked on after I left for college, and I had yet to see it in person. But from the photos and video calls, it looked like a little slice of heaven.

I am officially a collage Graduate. A week ago, I walked across the stage with a cheering section loud enough to rivals the roars of Millions of indian fans when Mahi enters the ground. All of my extended family had showed up and now I can’t wait to join Ethan and help him grow his Wine business.

With one last glance around, I grabbed my bags and headed out the door, ready to begin this new chapter of my life. As I slid behind the wheel of my car and started the engine, a thrill of anticipation coursed through me. The open road stretched out before me, leading me back to my roots.

The drive will take around five hours, and about halfway through, my phone rang. I immediately recognized the familiar voice that came through the speakers.

“Emmy, have you eaten at all today?” my best friend Daisy asked, her tone laced with concern.

I winced guiltily. “Nope,” I admitted. It was all too common for me to forget basic self-care tasks like eating or cleaning when I was absorbed in something. My ADHD brain just had a habit of hyper-focusing and tuning out the rest of the world.

“Well, I packed some granola bars in your purse,” Daisy said sternly. “Eat one, and if you see a diner, pull over and have a proper meal. We can’t have you fainting while driving!”

I chuckled, “What would I do without you?” I asked.

“Crash and burn,” she replied dryly, and we both laughed.

I opened my purse and found the stash of granola bars Daisy had left for me. As I unwrapped one and took a bite, I said, “Come to Maine with me, Daz. We can run the vineyard together! It’ll be fun.”

Daisy sighed. “I wish I could, sweetie, but you know I have to finish this internship. And your brother might end up murdering me if I came to work with you two.”

I pouted, knowing she had a point. My brother, Ethan, and Daisy had never exactly seen eye to eye. “Suit yourself,” I grumbled. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Sure enough, as I continued down the road, I spotted a charming little diner called Moonlight Diner. The bell dinged as I pushed open the door, and an older gentleman greeted me with a warm smile.

“What can I get for you, darlin’?” he asked.

I ordered a sandwich and a coke, settling into one of the booths to refuel. As I was taking my first bite, the bell dinged again, and a little girl came bounding in, followed by a tall, handsome man who looked about Ethan’s age.

“I wanna have a chocolate milkshake, Uncle J!” the girl exclaimed excitedly.

“Just don’t tell Daddy, and you can have whatever you want, Lil’,” the man replied with a grin, scooping her up to order at the counter.

I couldn’t help but smile at their playful interaction. The little girl’s boundless energy and joy were endearing, and the affection between her and her uncle was so cute. It made me feel nostalgic of time in Melody Creek with my Uncles, Aunts and Cousins.

Once I’d finished my meal at the charming Moonlight Diner, I bid the kind owner farewell and got back on the road, embarking on the final stretch of my journey. As I drove through the winding country roads, I watched in awe as the landscape gradually shifted before my eyes. The suburban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and lush greenery, and I could practically feel the tension draining from my body, replaced by a deep sense of calm.

The winding country road curved around a bend, and a sprawling ranch emerged into view—an architectural marvel that seemed plucked straight from the glossy pages of a home decor magazine. Rustic timbers framed the multi-story facade, the rich patina of aged wood complemented by the soft, rolling greens of a meticulously manicured lawn.

I barely had a chance to drink in the breathtaking details—the stone chimney stacks reaching heavenward, the wrap-around porch beckoning with its inviting rattan furniture—before my gaze snagged on the next landmark up ahead. Glossy maroon letters arched over an ornate wrought-iron entryway, proudly announcing my brother’s beloved establishment: “Aimer les vins.”

A nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I eased my car through the grand entrance and headed down the shaded lane. Ethan would have insisted on the fanciful French phrasing; despite being as American as apple pie, my older brother had always embraced our paternal roots with gusto, especially when it came to his passion for wine.

I could easily envision him now, shirtsleeves rolled up and forearm muscles straining as he hefted cases of fresh Merlot into the climate-controlled cellars, that roguish half-grin of his firmly in place. For as long as I could remember, winemaking had been his singular obsession, his life’s purpose. One he inherited from our beloved late father, along with those chiseled cheekbones and that glint of mischief that always danced in his silvery eyes.

While Mom claimed her side of the family contributed his appreciation for the finer things—her ancestors operated Indian diamond market in India for generations—Ethan preferred to wax poetic about Dad’s romantic tales. The dashing young French vintner, visiting a winery in Napa Valley. The feisty, sharp-tongued business manager who instantly set his heart aflame with a scathing lecture about overindulging before the crush.

Dad swore he fell in love with Mom in that exact moment, her raven curls tumbling over one irate shoulder and those whiskey-brown eyes flashing with all the fiery passion of her heritage. The story never failed to set my parents chuckling and exchanging those conspiratorial looks that made us kids groan with embarrassment, but which I’d come to recognize as the signs of an epic love for the ages.

As the gravel drive opened up to the main winery—row upon row of leafy green vines heavy with deep purple bounty. The sweet, familiar aroma of fermenting fruit washed over me as I rolled to a stop in a convenient gravel alcove and killed the engine.

---