That night, Robert stayed up late, flipping through Marianne’s old notes, trying to figure out what was wrong with the vines. Why had the yield dropped? He wasn’t sure if it was the heat, the soil, or just his own inexperience.
“I should’ve asked more questions,” he muttered in the dark. “I should’ve learned from her when I had the chance.”
The next morning, he walked the rows and froze in his tracks. A dozen fresh footprints, another broken row, and a vine that looked like someone had tripped over it. The last cluster of grapes lay crushed in the dirt.
Robert crouched beside the wreckage, staring for what felt like forever. He didn’t pick the grapes up. He didn’t brush away the dirt. He just looked, his breath caught in his throat.
A heaviness settled over Robert. It wasn’t just about losing control of his land—it was about failing the one person who had loved it completely. He walked back to the house in a haze, the porch door creaking under his weight as he stepped inside.
He sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the mug of cold tea he hadn’t touched. The walls were still painted in the soft green Marianne had chosen, her sunhat still hanging by the back door. Her boots sat in the corner, dusty but untouched.
Robert felt like he was failing her.