All those years he had left the vineyard to her, dismissing it as her hobby. Marianne had studied it, nurtured it, made it flourish. Now, Robert watched it crumble under his own incompetence—and the thoughtless feet of tourists who didn’t care what they stepped on as long as it looked good in a photo.
He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long minute. Then he dialed Peter. “Peter,” he said when the line picked up, “I need to ask you something.”
Peter was an old friend from his teaching days, a fellow educator who’d gone on to study law after retiring.
“I want to press charges,” Robert said quietly. “Or file something. Against the resort. The guests. Anyone. They’re trespassing. Damaging my property. This can’t be legal.”
Peter sighed on the other end. “You’re not wrong, but it’s not simple. Even with signs, even with proof—it’ll be a civil case. Civil means slow. Paperwork. Filing fees. Hearings. Best case, you get a court date in eight months. More likely a year.”
“I can’t wait a year,” Robert replied quietly. “No. And even if you did, damages would be minor. Maybe a few hundred bucks. They’ll argue no malicious intent. Guests didn’t know better. The resort will blame individual behavior.”
Robert didn’t answer. “You’re not going to get justice that way, Rob,” Peter said gently. “Not fast enough. Not in a way that stops it.”
Peter hung up without saying goodbye. Robert let the phone fall flat on the table beside his untouched mug.