By late afternoon the vineyard smelled of rain and ripe fruit, the air washed clean after the storm. Workers moved between the rows checking for damage, their laughter and low conversation drifting through the open windows of the main house. The sense of renewal should have comforted Ethan, but it only made him restless.
He stood at the dining-room window, a glass of unfinished wine in hand, watching the crew set up white canopies on the lawn. Aria had told him the event tonight was a charity tasting that Richard hosted every autumn— a way to remind the town that Cole Vineyards was more than old history and scandal. This year, Ethan's return had given everyone something new to gossip about.
He turned as Aria entered, balancing a clipboard and a tray of fresh-polished glasses. She had changed into a black dress that caught the light like wet ink, simple and graceful. The sight of her jolted something in him— admiration tangled with caution.
"You don't have to be here tonight," she said. "Most heirs leave the hand-shaking to the staff."
"I'm not most heirs," Ethan replied. "And I want to see how he runs things."
Her expression softened. "You really mean to confront him in front of half the town?"
"Not confront," Ethan said, though the word tasted like a lie. "Observe."
She nodded, but the small crease between her brows didn't ease. "Then at least try to look less like you're preparing for battle."
The corners of his mouth lifted. "I'll drink to that."
By sunset, the lawn glowed with lantern light. Guests arrived in tailored coats and silk scarves, laughter floating above the clink of glasses. Music from a local quartet wove through the chatter. Ethan recognized faces— old neighbors, family friends— all of them smiling as if nothing tragic had ever touched this place.
Aria moved easily among them, calm and poised. She seemed to belong in this world of toasts and charm. Every time she turned, her eyes sought Ethan across the crowd, checking that he hadn't vanished. He caught her glance once and felt an unreasonable surge of warmth.
Then a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Ethan Cole, as I live and breathe."
Richard Cole emerged from the crowd like a man stepping onto a stage. The same tailored smile, the same immaculate gray suit. Age had silvered his hair and sharpened his eyes, but the charm was intact— the charm that had fooled everyone, including Ethan once.
"Uncle," Ethan said evenly. The word scraped his throat.
Richard clasped his shoulder, his grip just a shade too firm. "You're a sight for sore eyes. I was beginning to think New York had swallowed you whole."
"Turns out it spits people back out when they stop being useful."
The smile didn't falter. "Still the sharp tongue. Come, have a drink with me." He gestured to a nearby table laden with bottles. "Your father's last blend— we've kept a few cases. Seems only right to open one tonight."
Ethan followed, heart thudding. The label bore his father's initials: M.C. Reserve 2015. Richard poured two glasses, the wine dark and luminous in the lantern light.
"To family," Richard said.
Ethan raised his glass, but his eyes didn't leave his uncle's. "To truth," he murmured.
They drank. The wine was good— rich, balanced, haunting. The taste carried memory: his father laughing in the cellar, the smell of oak barrels, the soft hum of music through the vines. For a moment, Ethan almost forgot the letter in his pocket.
Richard wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "So. What are your plans for the vineyard? I imagine you'll want to modernize— automate the bottling line, maybe sell the upper fields."
"I'll decide after I see the books."
Something flickered in the older man's eyes. "The books?"
"The ledgers," Ethan said. "I found one yesterday. Interesting reading."
A brief pause. Then Richard's smile returned, brittle at the edges. "Ah. My private accounting. You've always been curious. You know, curiosity can be dangerous in business."
Before Ethan could answer, Aria appeared beside them, calm as if she hadn't been watching the exchange from across the lawn. "Everything's ready for your speech, Mr. Cole."
Richard turned to her with practiced warmth. "Aria, my saving grace. What would I do without you?"
His hand brushed her arm— a casual gesture, yet too familiar. Ethan's chest tightened.
Aria met the older man's gaze politely, then looked at Ethan. "You'll both join the toast?"
Ethan nodded, jaw set. Richard lifted his glass again and stepped onto the small stage beneath the tent. The crowd quieted.
"Friends," Richard began, voice smooth as aged wine. "Another year has blessed our vines, our town, and our family. Though we've weathered storms— literal and otherwise— the roots hold strong. That's what legacy means."
He raised his glass higher. "To the next generation— to Ethan, who's returned to remind us that home is not a place, but a promise."
Applause broke out. Ethan forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Beside him, Aria leaned close enough for her whisper to brush his ear. "Breathe. Everyone's watching."
"I'm fine," he said, though his pulse betrayed him.
"Then stop crushing your glass."
He glanced down— a thin crack veined the crystal where his fingers had tightened.
After the toast, people crowded around to congratulate Richard and to welcome Ethan home. He answered mechanically, mind still fixed on the ledger, on the letter, on the way Aria had looked at Richard as though she'd once known him too well.
When the guests drifted toward the dance floor, Aria found Ethan again. "You handled that better than I expected."
"Meaning I didn't punch him?"
Her lips twitched. "Something like that."
The band shifted to a slower song. Lanterns swayed in the sea breeze, scattering gold light across her face. Ethan caught himself staring.
"You should dance," she said.
"With you?"
"With whoever asks."
He took her hand before she could retreat. "Then I'm asking."
For a moment, she didn't move. Then she let him pull her onto the makeshift floor. The music wrapped around them, soft and melancholy. Her hand fit against his chest, light but sure. He felt her heartbeat through the thin fabric— steady, cautious, alive.
They moved together in silence. Around them, laughter blurred into the hum of wind and surf. When she finally looked up, her eyes searched his, as if afraid of what she might find.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she whispered.
"Because I can't decide if you're my best chance at answers or another secret he planted."
She flinched, and for an instant, pain crossed her face. "Maybe I don't know either."
The song ended. They didn't let go right away. Her fingers lingered at his collar, tracing the edge of his jaw before she caught herself. "You should get some air," she said softly. "Before you say something you can't take back."
He watched her slip into the crowd, her silhouette dissolving among the lights. The space she left behind felt colder than the sea wind.
Later, when most guests had gone and only the hum of generators remained, Ethan walked back toward the tent. A single glass sat on the table where Richard had poured their wine. Beneath it lay a folded napkin with a smear of red ink— Richard's handwriting.
Let's not dig up old ghosts, nephew. Some roots run too deep.
Ethan's pulse quickened. He looked toward the vineyard, where the moonlight silvered the rows. Far out among the vines, a lone figure moved— tall, deliberate. Richard, perhaps. Or someone else guarding what the night wanted to hide.
Behind him, the main house glowed faintly through the mist. Somewhere inside, Aria was probably closing accounts, making lists, pretending not to tremble from the same unease that haunted him.
He turned the napkin over once, then slipped it into his pocket beside his father's letter. Together they felt like pieces of a puzzle that would only hurt to finish.
Above the vineyard, thunder rolled again— distant this time, but promising return.