“There I was," Riley said, gesturing with her wine glass. “Hanging upside down from a zipline in the Costa Rican rainforest, and the other guide starts yelling at me in Spanish. Apparently, I was supposed to use the brake to slow me downas I approached the next tree long before I even thought about it. You know, because I was too busy enjoying the view… upside down.”
"Please tell me you didn't crash into a tree," Brea said, covering her eyes in mock horror.
"Worse. I crashed into one of our guests. A very large, irate German man who was not amused by my lack of ziplining skills." Riley grinned.
The sound of footsteps echoed as the door to the private cellar opened, and Bryson and Devon appeared carrying two small cases of wine.
“What are we discussing?” Devon asked.
“The fact that Riley’s not the most athletic, but she managed to make a career out of it,” Walter said in a teasing tone.
“She’s pretty good at scaling walls.” Bryson leaned against the counter and winked at his girlfriend. “Used to sneak into my bedroom at night when we were kids. I used to lecture her about how she could break her neck if she ever fell.”
"Says the man who once tried to surf during a lightning storm," Riley shot back.
Walter chuckled from his position at the head of the island. "Your mother made me ground you for that stunt. Do you remember, Brea?"
"I remember wanting to ground him permanently," Brea replied dryly. "And I also remember a certain someone encouraging that behavior."
"I was building character," Walter protested.
"You were building gray hairs," Brea corrected, but her smile was fond.
Emery swallowed. She loved her parents. And her sister. They were terrific people. Kind. Considerate. Loving, even. But the world flipped when her father had done… well, thatinsurance fraud had been a nightmare, and her family paid a huge price—two years later, and they were still paying for it.
Gabe laughed, swirling his wine. "I'm beginning to understand how this family built such a successful business. You're all completely insane."
"Sanity is overrated," Devon said, leaning against the sink. "Risk-taking is what separates the successful from the safe."
"Speaking of risk-taking," Bryson said. “Wait until you see what we found in the reserve cellar. I’ve been down there a million times, but I can’t say I’ve ever studied some of those bottles.”
“Let’s take a look.” Walter rose and pulled out the first one, giving a low whistle. “Early on, my dad and I would pluck a bottle here and there and stick them down in the reserve cellar. Our intention was always to drink them during celebrations. Sometimes we did.” He waved the bottle. “This one was from our wedding, Brea.”
“We can’t auction that,” Emery said.
“There are two more with that label down there, and I know there’s more in the main cellar.” Devon moved closer, leaning over the island. “All we need to do is make sure we have two of everything.’
“An heir and spare.” Bryson chuckled.
“Don’t let your sisters hear you say that.” Brea arched a brow.
Each bottle they revealed made Emery's breath catch. Even in the kitchen lighting, she could see the age in the labels, the careful way sediment had settled in the glass, the patina of time that marked truly exceptional vintages.
"My God," she whispered, leaning forward to examine one particular bottle. "Is this from your grandfather's original plantings?"
"That one is," Walter said with evident pride. “Third harvest. Might have only made one hundred bottles.”
Gabe tapped his knuckles on the counter. “I wish I had my binder. There are some old records in there that your grandfather kept.”
“There were a few more down there with that label,” Devon explained, pulling out his notebook. "We thought it might be a good starting point for the authentication program—pieces with real history and provenance we can document completely."
Emery lifted the bottle with reverent hands, studying the label's condition and the wine's color through the dark glass. "This is incredible. With proper documentation and marketing, bottles like this could establish Stone Bridge as a serious player in the collector market."
"That's the idea," Walter said. "I'll need you to be thorough with the research. Collectors at that level don't just buy wine—they buy stories, history, proof of authenticity."
"I can do thorough," Emery assured him, already mentally cataloging the research she'd need to conduct. "But I'll need access to your records—harvest notes, production details, storage conditions over the years."
"Everything's documented in my home office, and Gabe has records as well. I have meetings with distributors tomorrow, so you're welcome to use the space. Just don't reorganize my filing system—Brea tried that once, and I couldn't find anything for weeks."
