But I didn’t stop, and I sure as hell didn’t complain. I kept my head down and focused on the work, even as I felt the crew watching me and assessing.
By lunch, blisters had formed under my gloves. Maria noticed when I flexed my fingers.
“Let me see.”
I shook my head, but she grabbed my hand. “Let me see.”
When I removed the gloves and showed her my palms, she retrieved a first aid kit from the truck.
“You should have said something.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.” But she smiled as she wrapped my fingers in bandages. “Good. You’ll need that here.”
The second day was easier. My body adjusted to the physical demands. I learned to read the vines better, to see which canes would produce the best fruit, and to make decisions faster. I split my time between working alongside the crew and following Bas throughmanagement decisions—discussing irrigation timing, reviewing the soil test results, planning the schedules for different sections.
He was patient as a teacher, enthusiastic about every detail.
The crew warmed to me, including me in their conversations during lunch, asking my opinion on things, and listening when I answered.
Maria commented on the third day: “You’re not like other marketing directors.”
I laughed. “I’m trying not to be.”
“And Bas?” She nodded toward where he stood talking to Carlos. “He’s good to you?”
“We’re friends. Have been since we were kids.”
She gave me a knowing look but didn’t push.
Over the next few days,I settled into a routine. Mornings in the field, afternoons in my office in the winery building. I dove into sales data, customer demographics, and budget reports—building the foundation for the campaigns I wanted to launch.
For the first time in months, I felt useful. Purposeful.
By the end of the week, calluses had formed on my palms and my muscles had grown stronger. I could keep pace with the crew and make decisions without second-guessing myself.
At the end of every workday, I thanked Bas for his invitation to join him and his father in the main house for dinner, insisting I was too tired. Thankfully, he didn’t push even though his disappointment was apparent.
Once alone in the cottage, my thoughts would drift to Kick. I missed his laugh, his easy confidence, and how things were between us. We were friends. Before I ruined it. Before it became something it never should have been.
The crew hada half day on New Year’s Eve. I stayed late anyway, working through rows of Chardonnay until Bas found me.
“Come on, Izzy. Even I’m taking the afternoon off.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Yes, you do.” He plucked the shears from my grasp. “Dinner at the main house.Thomasinsists. And before you argue—it’s not negotiable. Dad’s orders. Six o’clock. Don’t make me carry you there.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I went because arguing with Bas when he used that tone was pointless.
Thomas’ house was filled with family that evening. Three of Bas’ four siblings had driven in from their various colleges. Everest, the second oldest, was studying medicine at Stanford. Arlow, the oldest daughter, was in her second year of graduate studies in UC Davis’ Viticulture and Enology. The second youngest was Huxley, and he was still an undergrad in the same program as his sister. Brylee, the only other girl, was attending NYU’s film school and had been here for Christmas but returned to spend New Year’s Eve in the city.
The meal was loud and full of laughter as they all told embarrassing stories about each other as kids. I sat at the table, watching them interact. At first, I felt like an outsider despite knowing them most of my life, but their warmth embraced me. They treated me like family. Not someone to be managed or controlled.
