Some took selfies in front of the vines. One even picked a bunch of grapes like they were wildflowers. Robert tried to stay calm. He wasn’t a man quick to anger. But each time he found a broken branch or saw a stick pulled from the trellis and tossed aside, something in him tensed.
He’d worked hard to keep things neat, even if the vines weren’t perfect. One morning, he stood with a watering can in hand and stared at the prints left in the dirt. Deep and careless. The vines on either side were drooping—tugged, possibly stepped on.
And worse, it wasn’t just about the plants anymore. These vines had been Marianne’s favorite row. Robert knelt and inspected the crushed soil. The stake had snapped clean in half, and a tendril of vine now drooped sideways like a broken wrist.
He let out a long breath through his nose, brushing dust from his jeans. There was something deeply personal about it. Not just damage—it felt like violation. He tried the polite route first. Printed a small sign: “Private Property – Please Stay on Trail.”
Laminated it, mounted it on a stake, and placed it just beyond the outer row where the path began to fade into his vineyard. It lasted two days. He found it twisted sideways in the dirt, a fresh shoeprint across the paper.
But instead of heading to the resort right away, he gave people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they didn’t know better. Maybe if he just explained. The next morning, he spotted a woman in a sunhat wandering through the vines, phone in hand.
“Ma’am,” he called out gently, “this is private land. Please stay on the marked trail.” She blinked, looked up from her phone. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, backing up with her hands raised. “I didn’t realize. I’ll head back.” She looked genuinely remorseful.
Robert nodded. “Thank you.” The following day, he found a young man crouching between the rows, camera rig mounted to a gimbal. “This your land?” the man asked, grinning. “Yes. And I’d appreciate it if you’d move along. This isn’t a photo backdrop—it’s a working vineyard.”
The man stood, brushing dirt off his knees. “Wait—can I get a shot with you real quick? Like, old-school meets new-school?” He was already lifting the camera. Robert turned and walked away without a word.
Later that week, he spotted a teenager ducking between the trellises with earbuds in. As Robert approached, the kid turned, saw him—and sprinted off without a word, cutting across a row and snapping another vine in the process. That was it.