But their expressions weren’t hostile. In fact, the older one was already chuckling as he approached. “You the guy who gave the influencer a compost shower?” he asked, adjusting his sunglasses.
Robert raised an eyebrow. “If you’re here to file a complaint, I’ve got a whole lot of complaints myself as well that you should know of.” The younger officer smiled. “We’re not here to scold you, sir. Frankly, we wish more folks handled problems this… effectively.”
The zoning officer stepped forward. “We’re installing some new signs today. Metal ones. Official seal. ‘Private Property. No Trespassing. Offenders May Face Jail Time.’” Robert blinked. “Seriously?”
The older man nodded. “Seriously. That video stirred up enough noise to finally get us the funding. We’ve also had words with the resort—they’re putting up barriers at the trail’s edge now. No more lazy detours through your vines.”
For a moment, Robert didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the path, the dirt finally untracked, the vines undisturbed. “I don’t like causing trouble,” he said. “You didn’t,” the officer replied. “You protected what’s yours. We should’ve done that sooner.”
They left him with a copy of the new local ordinance update and a laminated printout of the official warning sign—until the metal one arrived. As the SUV rumbled away, Robert turned toward the vineyard.
Sunlight filtered through the trellises. The air smelled faintly of earth and green leaves and something old, something familiar. He walked the rows, touching each vine with care. And when he reached the stake where Marianne’s rose bush used to grow, he paused, kneeling down in the soil that now showed no footprints but his own.