He kept logs in a spiral notebook but still couldn’t find a pattern. Marianne had made it look easy. He wished he’d asked more questions back then. Each morning, he would step outside with his coffee and survey the vineyard.
His knees hurt more these days, and the cold bit a little harder, but the land still gave him purpose. He’d tug weeds, test the soil, replace broken stakes. It was meditative. Healing, even. Until things began to change.
It started with a sound—hammering, distant music, trucks on the gravel road beyond the hill. Construction. Robert heard it for weeks before he saw the final product. A luxury resort, tucked just over the ridge. Glossy, angular, modern. Out of place. But close. Very close.
At first, he didn’t mind. “Might raise property values,” he muttered to himself. And maybe it would. A boutique resort meant attention, maintenance, local business. He even thought the guests might buy wine. He told himself it was progress. Then came the footprints.
At first, it was just one or two—a trampled section between the vines, a snapped post, a paper coffee cup half-buried in the soil. He frowned, cleaned it up, and chalked it up to kids. Then it happened again. And again.
By the third week, the vineyard felt different. Tourists began using his property like a shortcut to a scenic overlook near the back hill. They crossed the rows without care, stepping over roots and dragging bags behind them.