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“She’s been more vocal the past few years, sharing her thoughts on how we can increase profits and drive more sales. You know Freya.” A smile formed at the left corner of his mouth. “She does love her numbers.”

Alana couldn’t tamper her irritation at that point. She crossed her arms tight. “So, what? You’ll start mass-producing wine and become the next Friedrich Kasner with plots scattered up and down Seneca Lake?”

Otto washed his hands, his tone and demeanor remaining calm and patient. “He did mentor my father.”

“Sure, but it’s not like he has our land. That can’t be replicated.”

Otto flicked his fingers, then dried them with the faded gingham tea towel before draping it over the oven’s handle. “She’s not suggesting expansion, darling. She has ideas for getting more people through the doors and selling wine on premise, and they’ve worked. We’ve expanded our reach and found new customers in the area and beyond.”

Her mind flashed to the truck driver Trent and his wife, how excited he was to get home, have dinner, and pop open his bottle of Marien. Her shoulders eased and she leaned against the counter.

Otto drew closer. “It would be nice not to race through every season hoping we’ll be in the green by the end of it. I would like to start in the green and stay there. Freya has made that possible.”

Alana bit her lip, then nodded. Even after all of her time away, it was hard not to be defensive about this place, especially after everything her family had done to keep their sacred secrets. Inviting people in to drink wine and tour a vineyard was normal protocol in a significant wine region. But employing an outsider felt a little too close for comfort.

“So, the winemaker. What’s his experience like?”

“His name is Leo,” Sophie chimed in from the table where she’d been intricately folded cloth napkins, slipping forks and knives into neat pockets.

Alana rolled her eyes. “The winemaker. What’s his story?”

Her father picked up the tray of rolls and brought them to the table. “He’s originally from Normandy but spent the majority of his twenties in the Loire assisting smaller winemakers and learning the craft. He moved to Manhattan four years ago to follow a girl, but things fell through, so he left the city.”

“Does that mean we’re sponsoring his visa?” she asked.

“He’s a citizen,” Sophie replied. “His father’s from California.”

“Oh.” Alana chewed on her bottom lip. “So…does he know?”

Her father and sister exchanged a glance, then Otto shook his head. “Not that we know of. But I think he’s growing…suspicious.”

“How so?”

Otto gestured for Alana to take her seat. She did as instructed, ignoring the fact that she was back looking out the same window, in the spot she’d sat practically every single night for twenty-four years.

“Freya, darling!” Otto called. “Dinner!”

The three of them waited in silence, staring at their piles of grilled chicken and corn and fresh leafy green salad and rolls with Belmont’s homemade blackberry jam from Watkins Glen.

After several excruciating beats, Otto swept a hand over the food. “Eat. She can have some later.”

“Is that allowed in this household now?” Alana jabbed. “I thought we always had to eat at the table. Together.”

“I’ve made a few exceptions these past few years,” Otto replied evenly. He snatched a rolled and slathered it with jam, not meeting Alana’s eye.

She stabbed a fork in a chicken thigh and plopped it on her plate. “So you think the winemaker has figured something out?”

“Leo,” Sophie emphasized.

“Not exactly,” Otto answered. “But he has made a few comments about how everything seems to run so…smoothly.” She watched her father bite back a grin. “No matter how harsh the growing season is, the grapes are always fine. No issues with bud burst and frost, no mildew or mold, just a perfect measurement of acid and sugar before harvest, which takes place on the same day without fail.”

“He told me fermentation and bottling went so smoothly in the winery, he was almost hoping something would go wrong so he actually had a problem to fix.” Sophie smiled, cheeks pink. “It’s endearing how frustrated he is with it.”

“Oh, we fancy him, huh?” Alana teased.

Sophie frowned and shook her head vigorously. “No. But he’s not bad to look at, is he?”

She hummed in a noncommittal response. She wasn’t going to engage in that kind of conversation. Men were strictly off-limits, especially after…everything.