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Chapter 1
Chapter One: Dawn on the Rows
Fog stitched itself along the low hills as dawn took a slow breath over Vallentine Vineyards. The rows ran in neat green corrugations toward the horizon, dew bright and cold as pins, the vines tied just so—a patient lattice built by hands who never quite slept. Elodie Vallentine stood at the end of Row Twelve with her notebook and a thermos of coffee gone tepid, listening for the sound of her father’s boots and hearing only the hush.
The sign by the drive still read: Vallentine Vineyards, Established 1948. Fresh paint. Straight lines. Pride that weighed as much as a truckbed full of crates.
She scrolled the day’s picking plan, tried to ignore the ache between her ribs, and glanced at the farmhouse. The kitchen window glowed dim. Inside, a casserole sat untouched on the counter. Funerals filled the table with food; grief emptied the house again.
A dust plume rose near the lane. Elodie stiffened. The pickup door swung wide with its familiar groan, and Ronan hopped down, sunglasses in his shirt, hair damp, grin trying for light. He hugged her with a sudden pull that almost worked. “Morning,” he said. “Or something like it.”
“It’s harvest,” Elodie answered. “It’s always morning.”
He looked toward the house. “I got in late.”
“You always did.”
Ronan’s gaze tracked over the vines. “And still they stand,” he said. “Dad would be pleased.”
Her hand tightened around the notebook. “He’d want us working.”
Ronan leaned against the truck. “He’d want us not to drown.”
They didn’t say the word debts. They didn’t say Isolde.
Elodie took a breath that tasted like wet leaves and metal. “We start with the Syrah block. Before the sun warms it.”
Ronan nodded, but his eyes were doing math she didn’t like, and the fog kept its counsel.
