The last cluster of grapes on that branch lay crushed in the dirt. Robert crouched beside it, staring for a long time. He didn’t pick the grapes up. Didn’t brush the soil away. He just looked, the breath caught in his throat.
Something in him sagged. He wasn’t just losing control of his land—he was failing the memory of the one person who had loved it completely. He wandered back to the house in a haze. The porch door creaked as he stepped inside.
He sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the mug of cold tea he hadn’t touched. The walls were still painted the soft green Marianne had picked. Her sunhat still hung by the back door. Her boots were in the corner, dusty but untouched. He was failing her.
All those years he’d left the vineyard to her, dismissing it as her hobby. She’d studied it, nurtured it, made something beautiful out of it. And now? He was watching it crumble under his own incompetence—and the careless feet of tourists who didn’t care what they stepped on, as long as it looked good in photos.
He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a minute. Then he tapped in a number. “Peter,” he said when the line picked up. “I need to ask you something.” Peter was an old friend from his teaching days—a fellow educator who’d gone on to study law after retiring.
“I want to press charges,” Robert said, voice low. “Or file something. Against the resort. The guests. Anyone. They’re trespassing. Damaging my property. This can’t be legal.” Peter sighed on the other end.
“You’re not wrong. But it’s not simple. Even with signs, even with proof—it’ll be a civil case. Civil means slow. Paperwork. Filing fees. Hearings. Best case, you get a court date in eight months. More likely a year.”
“I can’t wait a year,” Robert said quietly. “No. And even if you did, damages would be minor. Maybe a few hundred bucks. They’ll argue no malicious intent. Guests didn’t know better. Resort will blame individual behavior.”
Robert didn’t answer. “You’re not going to get justice that way, Rob,” Peter said gently. “Not fast enough. Not in a way that stops it.” He hung up without saying goodbye. Just let the phone fall flat on the table beside the mug.
He sat there for what felt like an hour, the light shifting across the floor as the day dragged on. Taffy barked once in the backyard, then went quiet. He thought about selling the land. Letting it go. But the idea made his stomach turn.