I stand with the rest of the group, a glass of wine balanced in my hand, listening as Marcel talks about terroir like it’s something alive rather than a concept you memorize.
“Pay attention to where this wine comes from,” he says, gesturing toward the hillside. “The limestone here shows up on the finish. It always does.”
I swirl the glass and watch the wine climb the sides before sliding back down. Eight weeks into the program, and I’m no longer guessing. I’m starting to trust what my senses give me instead of waiting for permission to be right.
“Ms. Boudreaux.” Marcel nods in my direction. “What are you getting?”
I bring the glass up and breathe in slowly. The motion itself steadies me, the familiar rhythm of it.
“Black cherry,” I say. “Forest floor.” I take a measured sip and let it sit. “There’s baking spice, too. Clove.”
“And the acidity?”
“Bright,” I answer. “But balanced. It doesn’t overpower the fruit.”
He gives a brief nod and moves on. No praise. No correction. Just acknowledgment. The satisfaction thatfollows is quiet and clean, nothing like the rush I used to mistake for excitement. This is different because it lasts.
My days here have a shape to them. Early mornings and strong coffee. Notes smudged with purple ink from tastings that run long. Lectures before noon, vineyards in the afternoon, service practice at night. The structure holds me steady in a way chaos never did.
I crouch and scoop a handful of soil, letting it slip through my fingers. It’s lighter than what I grew up with, pale and dry, shaped by years of careful attention. My hands are learning something new here, something that has nothing to do with my last name or the expectations that came with it.
“Wine is patience made visible,” Marcel calls out. “What you taste today started years ago.”
I straighten slowly. Patience made visible. I love that.
Ridge crosses my mind without warning. The way he could stand perfectly still, all that contained energy held in check. I wonder what he’s doing now, whether the city feels different without me in it.
The image shifts, sharpens into something harder. I let it go before it can settle.
The thought passes. Two months ago, it would have taken me under. Now it moves through and keeps going.
“Think about place,” Marcel says. “The fog. The sun. How time shapes what ends up in the glass.”
I close my eyes and let the warmth of the day rest against my skin. Neither my father nor Ridge has reached out since I left. At first, the silence was all I noticed.
Over time, it loosened. Somewhere along the way, it turned into room.
When I open my eyes, Marcel is demonstrating proper tasting technique. Around me, my classmates take notes, focused and intent. Everyone here is chasingsomething different, but we’re all moving toward it on purpose.
As the group heads toward the next block, I lag behind for a moment. The vines stretch out in front of me, orderly and patient, the result of thousands of small decisions made over time.
I breathe in, dust and green growth sharp on my tongue, and notice how steady I am standing here. The sadness still shows up in the evenings, but it no longer dictates the shape of my days.
The vines reach down into the soil and up toward the light at the same time. I take in the rows one last time, letting the moment hold, and then follow the others forward.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ridge
The Custom House Years:Completed in 1881, the U.S. Custom House in New Orleans was one of the largest federal buildings ever constructed, a symbol of Washington’s attempt to assert control over a port city long accustomed to governing itself. While meant to curb smuggling and corruption, its presence instead formalized a quieter truth: illicit trade in New Orleans was rarely eliminated, only monitored, redirected, or selectively punished.
The conference roomoverlooks the river, with glass walls running floor to ceiling. Barges move below us in slow procession, steel on water, schedules stacked on schedules.
From up here, everything looks orderly and predictable. That illusion is what I ensure. Our contracts are part of what keeps these ports running on time.
Vin sits to my left, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He hasn’t said a word since we sat down. He doesn’t need to. His presence reinforces what the board and the clients already know. Stone Intermodal didn’t fracture when my father died. It adjusted.
Across the table, two federal agents review a set of manifests projected onto the screen. Customs and Border Protection insignia on one badge. DEA on the other. No weapons on the table. No raised voices. This isn’t a raid. It’s an autopsy.
