Page 5 of Cherished Lands
Chapter Two
TESSA
The stems snappedcrisply as I separated each cluster of grapes. My fingers moved with practiced efficiency despite the December chill seeping through the warehouse walls. Twenty years of watching my father's meticulous inspections had taught me exactly how he wanted things done.
"Tessa!" The warehouse door banged open. "What in god's name are you doing?"
I didn't flinch. Dad's volume control had two settings: loud and louder. "Quality control on the late harvest grapes," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Just like you asked."
He stomped over. Even at my full adult height, he still loomed menacingly. "You're being too precious about it. We need these processed today."
"The Noble Rot developed perfectly this year." I held up a cluster. "If we rush this, we'll waste?—"
His face reddened. "Don't tell me how to handle my own grapes. I've been making wine since before you could walk."
Yeah, the same way, with the same varieties, never adapting,never innovating.The words burned on my tongue, but I swallowed them down. The latest issue ofWine Spectatorsat in my bag, dogeared to an article about emerging hybrid varietals.
I'd learned long ago not to share these things with Dad. The last time I'd pitched him on a new idea for the vineyard, he'd berated me in front of half the staff before storming off and ignoring me for a week.
"Speaking of which," he continued, "the Hartley account needs attention. Go give them the VIP tour. And try that new pitch about our traditional methods." His tone dripped with pointed sarcasm—last month, I'd dared to suggest we should experiment with modern fermentation techniques.
"They're interested in our ice wine," I said. "I thought I could show them the new?—"
"The tour script hasn't changed in thirty years." He turned away, discussion over. "Do it right."
And that's why Vintage Point is slowly dying.
Our tasting room looked exactly as it had when I was a child—all heavy oak and crystal decanters, while our competitors across the state drew crowds with sleek modern designs and innovative blends.
I had plans: a sophisticated wine bar featuring local artisanal cheeses. Weekend workshops on wine appreciation. Maybe even a collaboration with a local distillery to create wine-barrel-aged spirits. The business plan sat completed in my laptop, gathering digital dust.
Dad would sooner serve Boone's Farm than consider changing anything.
After delivering the tour—the 'right' way—I grabbed my coat and headed for town to mail some wine club packages. Theshort drive gave me time to think. I passed by the Henderson's neighboring farm, its fields covered in a layer of crisp white snow. The afternoon sunlight lanced off the banks, making the whole town sparkle. The skies were bright blue, not a cloud in sight, and I hoped the reprieve from winter storms would last a little longer.
Sable Point was beautiful in every season. Plenty of my friends had gone to college and never looked back, but I planned to spend the rest of my days here. I began to dream of what Vintage Point could become if I had free rein. Something that honored our heritage while embracing the future. Something mine.
When I reached downtown Sable Point, I made a left onto Main Street, slowing to take in the shops. Not only did Mr. and Mrs. Henderson own the farm that supplied most of the produce in town, they also owned the market. They were one of many longstanding families in Sable Point, and the kindest humans you could hope to find.
On either side of the market was a small floral shop and the hardware store. Across the street was Callaghan's, the local dive bar, along with the coffee shop and a few other brick buildings that housed smaller office practices. The road was lined with lampposts, already adorned with wreaths and big red bows for the holidays. At the opposite end of Main was Rosie's diner, home to the best grilled cheese in Michigan.
Next door to Rosie's, the post office parking lot was nearly empty—typical for a Tuesday morning—but a familiar truck caught my eye. Elliot Everton's ancient Ford, with that distinctive dent in the passenger door. When we were sixteen,Chase had backed it into the fairgrounds fence at the Harvest Festival.
Don't think about Elliot Everton.
Too late. Memories swept in: his calloused hands helping me up after I'd slipped on ice last winter, the embarrassed laugh we'd shared before remembering we weren't supposed to be friendly. The way his shoulders filled out that flannel shirt at the farmers' market last month.
Definitely don't think about his shoulders.
The Everton-Belmonte feud pre-dated indoor plumbing in Sable Point. Something about stolen land and sabotaged crops back in the 1800s. These days, it mostly manifested in competing harvest festival booths and pointed comments at town council meetings about property lines.
I hadn't planned to continue the tradition. But Mom caught me chatting with Elliot at the county fair five years ago and warned me that my father would have a conniption when he heard. I'd asked her why she felt the need to bring it up to Dad, as he wasn't there to see it himself. Apparently, her loyalty to him ran deeper than her loyalty to me—her only child. Dad still brought it up regularly, right between "remember to check the pH levels" and "don't trust those apple loving nut jobs."
Now the Evertons were struggling. Everyone knew it. Their orchard was barely breaking even, though Emma Everton's apple cider donuts still drew crowds every fall. Part of me—the part Dad would disown if he found out about—had spent hours thinking about potential collaborations. Wine-poached apples. Hard cider aged in wine barrels. The possibilities were endless.
I forced myself to focus on my package. The mailing label was suddenly fascinating.
"Morning, Princess."
