"Was Bethany in the same program as you?"
"Yeah. She was my best friend." Past tense, and she says it without drama but with the particular flatness that means the ending was sharp enough that time hasn't softened the edges. "We came to Sonoma together. She got a harvest internship at a different property. We were both trying to break into the industry at the same time, which meant we were both broke, terrified, and absolutely sure we were going to make it."
She stops, and the silence that follows is full enough that I wait it out.
"When I ended things with Derek, it wasn't just that he'd been unfaithful." She meets my eyes, her expression matter-of-fact. "He'd been sleeping with Bethany. I walked in on them at a graduation party and that was the end of it."
"I packed my things that night and left for Stone Creek." She shrugs. "I've always figured that was the universe's messy way of pushing me onto my path."
She picks up the wine list again, her way of marking the subject closed, and I let it go.
When the sommelier appears, she asks about the wine list, keeping the language at a register the man clearly appreciates. The look he gives her when she finishes is the one professionals give when they recognize another's fluency. He departs with a satisfied nod, and Sunny turns back to me.
The candlelight turns her eyes into a mesmerizing shade of quicksilver blue, and I can't look away. "Evan used to say I was the only intern he'd ever had who set a timer on conversations so I could get back to the barrels."
I huff. "Is that what you had planned for me when I started working to the winery?"
She snickers. "I was going to. But you took everything so seriously that I didn't have the heart."
"So, your grand plan was to time me out of your production room like a misbehaving child."
"It was a perfectly reasonable quality control measure."
"You're diabolical," I tease.
"I prefer thorough." Her eyes give her away, bright with mischief.
The food and wine arrive in waves, each course plated with care. We eat without rushing, and Sunny narrates more stories. Evan Reynolds, it turns out, was exactly the kind of hard-ass mentor who makes someone great.
"You became what he’d hoped," I tell her.
"He said something like that today." Her voice goes soft. "It matters more than I can explain."
"You don't have to say it. It's written all over your face."
She absorbs this without deflecting and tops off my glass without being asked.
By the time I settle the check and we step out into the Sonoma night, there’s a quiet, easy contentment in the air. The plaza is alive with the Saturday crowd, music filtering from somewhere down the block, couples moving in and out of the galleries and wine bars with the ease of people who have nowhere to be.
"I want to show you the dress shop," Sunny announces, tugging me by the hand across the plaza.
She recounts stories as we walk, and I drink it all in. The bakery on the corner that sold her breakfast most mornings because it was three dollars cheaper than the café. The alley shortcut she discovered in her second week that cut the drive into town when she was running late. The bookshop that was always open slightly later than advertised because the owner couldn't bear to lock up while anyone was still reading.
We stop in front of a boutique with a hand-painted sign above the door and a few items arranged in the window display.
"Right here," Sunny says, peering in. "I folded things on that table in the back right corner."
"And upsold scarves and shoes," I tease.
"More than I could count," she answers with unmistakable pride. "The owner was a woman named Donna who wore her hair in a braid down to her waist and could talk anyone into anything. She taught me more about reading people than I ever expected to learn folding clothes."
Sunny glances at the boutique one last time. "I always knew California was temporary. Evan used to say that every winemaker belongs to a piece of land and spends their career either finding it or refusing to look." She glances at me, nothing in her expression but the truth. "I found mine."
We walk another half-block before she slows and turns to face me. "Charlie, do you want to stay tomorrow? Or go home?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to go home. I've missed the winery, and my little house, and I want to sleep in my own bed, and I want to see the ducks and Pearl and—" She cuts herself off, and the flush that crosses her face is sheepish. "And I want to be where you are."
