“The world is your oyster,” she says. “So what do youwantto do, Corinne Marie Boudreaux?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s invasive, but because no one ever asks me that. I truly don’t have an answer for her.
And then I think about the scholarship. My heart races at the thought.
We walk again, passing between two tall sculptures. A child runs past us, laughing at the colors splashed across her hands.
“I got a call yesterday,” I say finally.
Delphine glances at me. “From who?”
“That sommelier program I told you about last summer. In Sonoma.” I make a face. “They offered me a scholarship. Full ride. Tuition, housing. Everything.”
She stops walking. “Wait. You applied?”
“That’s the thing.” I shake my head. “I didn’t. I sent in an inquiry months ago asking for information. I knew the gist, but I was scrolling one night and put in my info.” I huff out a breath. “It was always too far-fetched.”
“Ahh. So you were in their sights,” she says.
“But that was right around when I started doing morefor my father. And then Ridge came into the picture,” I add quietly.
I glance up at the lanterns. “I forgot about it, honestly. Completely. So when they called, it was just strange.”
Delphine smiles, and I know immediately she’s putting together a plan.
“That’s called fate, Coco. That’s how doors open when you finally stop standing in front of them.”
“I don’t even know how I’d make it work,” I say. “I’d have to be gone for three months. I have a house. A life here.”
“You have a house,” she corrects gently. “You don’t have a life here, to be honest.”
The words hurt, even though they are the truth.
“Everything’s covered, right?” she asks.
I nod. “Everything.”
Delphine doesn’t hesitate. “Then you go.”
We pause beneath a canopy of suspended mirrors, sunlight breaking across our faces in fractured pieces.
“If you don’t do it now,” Delphine says, “you’ll keep finding reasons not to. Coco. I’m making you go. This is an amazing opportunity, and the timing couldn’t be right. Speaking of timing, when does it start?”
I don’t answer. The tension I’ve been carrying eases, and the idea stops sounding like something I need permission to want.
There’s a term starting in January.”
“Six weeks,” she says, nudging my shoulder. “That’s plenty of time to get your affairs in order. I’ll stop by your house every other day to visit your plants and clear the cobwebs.”
As we circle back toward the square, my mind moves ahead of me. Logistics. The idea of being out of this city for that long.
For the first time since Ridge walked out of my house, the ache isn’t the only thing there. There is a tiny glimmer of hope beyond him.
It isn’t happiness yet. But its direction.
And it’s mine.
The late afternoonsun settles over the vineyard, turning the rows of Pinot Noir vines the color of warm honey.
