Centuria Books · Tasting Life Again
Tasting Life Again — Read the First Chapter
It’s never too late to taste life again — a widow past sixty rediscovers desire, art, and love in the vineyard where she buried her heart.
Chapter 1 – Autumn’s Echoes
The timepieces announced seven o’clock with military precision, thirty-seven antique clocks striking the hour in perfect unison. The sound rippled through the cavernous rooms of Sterling Estate like a heartbeat, filling spaces where laughter once lived. Victoria Sterling counted each toll silently, standing motionless at the eastern window of her office as the final chime faded into the stillness she had so carefully cultivated around herself.
Morning light spilled across Napa Valley, turning dew-kissed vines to liquid gold. Workers moved through the neat rows below, their practiced hands selecting only the perfect clusters of Cabernet Sauvignon. From this height, they looked like notes on sheet music, playing a harvest symphony she once would have joined. Three years ago. Before.
“Good weather for the Cabernet,” she whispered to no one, her voice rusty from disuse. Daniel would have already been among those rows, his tall frame moving with surprising grace for such a large man, fingers stained purple by noon. He would have brought her a perfect grape to taste, held it to her lips while his eyes—
Victoria inhaled sharply, pulling her shoulders back. The thought sheared off cleanly, surgical in its removal. She had perfected this technique in the one thousand, three hundred and forty-one days since finding him face down among his prized grandiflora roses, dirt still clutched in his lifeless hand.
She turned from the window, retrieving her untouched coffee from the desk—a massive slab of polished redwood that Daniel had commissioned for their tenth anniversary. The wood still radiated a subtle warmth beneath her fingertips, as if it remembered what she refused to acknowledge.
Her black leather planner lay open beside a stack of quarterly reports. She checked her watch against the grandfather clock in the corner. Six forty-eight. Twelve minutes until her first call. Plenty of time to review her notes on international distribution channels. The European market had grown seventeen percent under her stewardship. The board was pleased. The critics were impressed.
The Wall Street Journal had called her “formidably efficient” in their profile last month.
No one mentioned that efficiency had become her religion after Daniel’s death. No one noted that the woman who once spent afternoons painting watercolors of the changing seasons now color-coded her calendar in fifteen-minute increments. No one seemed to notice that Victoria Sterling, once known for impromptu dinner parties that lasted until dawn, now lived by the metronome tick of synchronized clocks.
That was exactly how she wanted it.
Her assistant knocked twice before entering—exactly as instructed—her expression carefully neutral.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sterling. I’ve updated your calendar with the distributor call that came in late yesterday. They can only do eleven instead of two.” Jennifer’s voice was modulated to the precise tone of professional courtesy Victoria required.
“Fine.” Victoria didn’t look up from the distribution figures. “Move the vineyard walk to Thursday. Cancel my lunch.”
“You haven’t eaten with the European investors yet. They specifically requested—”
“Reschedule them for dinner tomorrow. Tell Matthew to prepare the ’09 vertical tasting. They’ll appreciate the chance to sample the library vintages.” Victoria made a notation in her planner, her handwriting flawless and compact.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jennifer hesitated, clutching her tablet with white knuckles. “Also, the contractor is here about the pool restoration. He’s asking where you want him to set up.”
Victoria’s pen paused mid-stroke. “What contractor?”
“For the infinity pool renovation?” Jennifer took a small step backward. “The board approved it last month. They said it was undermining property value to have it sitting empty.”
The pool. Daniel’s ridiculous extravagance. Designed to mirror both sky and vineyard, making swimmers feel suspended between worlds. Victoria had closed it the week after the funeral, unable to look at the reflecting surface that had captured so many summer evenings, so much laughter. So much Daniel.
“Fine.” Victoria resumed writing, her hand steady. “Tell him to coordinate with maintenance. I don’t need to meet him.”
“He specifically asked to speak with you about the design elements—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Victoria looked up then, her gaze stopping Jennifer mid-sentence. “The pool should be restored to its original specifications. Nothing more.”
Jennifer nodded quickly and retreated, the door clicking shut behind her.
Victoria exhaled slowly, straightening the already-aligned stack of reports on her desk. The quarterly numbers were excellent. Sales projections exceeded targets. Distribution was expanding in Asia. The 2018 Reserve Cabernet had received 98 points from Wine Enthusiast.
She was doing everything right.
The estate operated with clockwork precision under her guidance. The wines were technically flawless, each vintage a calculated improvement on the last. She had transformed grief into spreadsheets, heartache into strategic planning, and the hollow place inside her chest into a silent engine that powered Sterling Vineyards toward record profits.
Her phone buzzed. The European distributors were calling early. Victoria cleared her throat, settled into her chair, and adopted the pleasant, professional tone she’d perfected.
“Victoria Sterling speaking.”
For the next thirty-seven minutes, she discussed shipping logistics and marketing strategies, made four decisive calls that would increase European distribution by twenty percent, and ended exactly on time. The distributors were pleased. Everyone was always pleased with her decisions now. Easier that way. Cleaner.
When the call finished, she found herself staring at the closed door of her studio across the courtyard. Visible through her office window, the glass-walled space stood empty, easels draped in sheets like shrouded monuments. Dust had probably settled on the skylights Daniel had insisted on installing.
“To catch the light that makes your eyes dance,” he’d said, his voice so clear in her memory that Victoria’s head turned as if he’d spoken from the doorway.
She forced her attention back to the computer screen. Three years, seven months, and sixteen days since the funeral. Two hundred and twenty-four days until she could finalize the handover to the board and retreat permanently to—
To what? She never finished that thought.
Outside, a truck engine rumbled in the driveway, followed by the sound of equipment being unloaded. The pool contractor, presumably. Victoria ignored it, focusing instead on the production reports from the east vineyard. The Merlot was showing promise this year, with complex tannins developing earlier than expected.
Four hours and three conference calls later, Victoria emerged from her office for her scheduled vineyard inspection. She’d allocated exactly forty-seven minutes to walk the south vineyard before her call with the marketing team. Her Mercedes waited in its usual spot in the circular driveway, sunlight gleaming off its immaculate black surface.
Except today, she couldn’t reach it. A faded blue pickup truck blocked her car completely, a metal ladder extending from its bed at a diagonal angle that made it impossible to pull out.
Victoria stood beside her car, keys clutched tight enough to leave imprints in her palm. This disruption wasn’t on her calendar. The vineyard manager was expecting her. She needed to evaluate the Cabernet harvest personally. That’s what Daniel would have done.
“I’m so sorry about this.”
The voice came from behind her, warm and carrying a hint of an accent—Spanish, perhaps, but weathered by generations in California. Victoria turned to find a man in his early forties approaching, wiping his hands on a faded red cloth. He wore worn jeans and a simple white T-shirt, both bearing evidence of his work. His dark hair was slightly too long, curling at the collar, and a day’s stubble shadowed his jaw.
“You must be Mrs. Sterling.” He extended his hand, then seemed to think better of it, glancing at the smudges on his palm. “I’m Ricardo Morales.” His eyes were a startling shade of amber in the afternoon light, direct and unapologetic in their gaze. “I’ll move my truck immediately. I didn’t realize I was blocking you in.”
Victoria nodded curtly. “Please do.”
Instead of rushing to comply, he stood looking at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher—something between curiosity and recognition, though they’d never met.
“The pool has good bones,” he said, gesturing toward the covered structure beyond the rose garden. “It just needs someone to see its potential again.”
Victoria felt something unexpected flutter in her chest—discomfort, irritation perhaps. This man was looking at her too directly, speaking too personally. No one at Sterling Vineyards spoke to her this way anymore. They deferred. They accommodated. They certainly didn’t block her car and then stand there making philosophical observations about swimming pools.
“I have a meeting,” she said, glancing pointedly at her watch. Three minutes behind schedule now.
Ricardo nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Of course. Time waits for no one, my father used to say.” He moved toward his truck, his gait unhurried but purposeful. “Though sometimes,” he added over his shoulder, “it stands still in the right moments.”
Victoria watched him slide into the driver’s seat, suddenly aware that her perfectly scheduled day had developed a small tear in its fabric—an irregularity she hadn’t accounted for. As the truck pulled away, she caught sight of something on the passenger seat—a weathered sketchbook, splayed open to reveal what looked like a drawing of vines heavy with fruit, rendered in swift, confident strokes.
For one unguarded second, Victoria felt a flicker of something long dormant—a recognition of beauty observed by someone else’s eyes, a glimpse of the world as something other than a series of tasks to be completed. Then she closed her car door, started the engine, and pulled up her mental checklist for the vineyard inspection.
By the time she reached the south field, she had restored order to her thoughts. The anomaly was cataloged, filed away, and her day proceeded exactly as planned. She spoke with the vineyard manager about irrigation adjustments, evaluated the sugar content in the ripening grapes, and returned to the main house precisely two minutes before her next call.
The pattern of her days stretched before her, identical and safe. Wake at five-thirty. Exercise for forty-five minutes. Shower. Dress in one of her carefully selected outfits—architectural designs in muted tones that served as both armor and camouflage. Review reports over breakfast. Answer emails. Attend meetings. Make decisions that kept Sterling Vineyards profitable and prevented anyone from looking too closely at the woman behind the spreadsheets.
Later that evening, Victoria stood in her bedroom, removing her earrings before the antique vanity that had belonged to Daniel’s mother. The clock on her bedside table read 9:47. In thirteen minutes, she would complete her nightly routine and slide between Egyptian cotton sheets, alone in the center of a king-sized bed.
Outside her window, lights still burned in the pool area. The sound of a radio drifted up through the night air—something with acoustic guitar and a male voice singing in Spanish. Ricardo Morales working late, apparently.
Victoria found herself walking to the window, looking down at the covered pool area. The protective tarp had been partially removed, revealing the cracked blue tile that had once reflected both stars and vineyard lights. A single work lamp illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the patio.
Ricardo moved into view, kneeling to examine something along the pool’s edge. Even from this distance, she could see the careful attention he gave to whatever he was studying. His fingers traced the edge of a tile, his head tilted in concentration.
Something about his solitary focus in the pool of light made Victoria’s throat tighten unexpectedly. She stepped back from the window, drawing the curtains closed with a decisive movement.
Whatever Ricardo Morales saw in that broken pool was irrelevant. It was simply a property feature that needed maintenance, nothing more. Victoria had long ago drained away the memories of floating there while Daniel read aloud from whatever novel had captured his imagination that week. She had emptied herself of the recollection of midnight swims under harvest moons, of champagne sipped at the pool’s edge as they planned Sterling Vineyards’ future.
Victoria turned away from the window and proceeded with her nightly routine. Moisturizer applied in upward strokes. Hair brushed exactly one hundred times. Silk pajamas laid out on the bathroom counter.
Yet as she moved through these familiar motions, a small disruption persisted—like a single clock out of synchronization among the thirty-seven that measured her days. The sound of that Spanish guitar continued to drift through the closed window, carrying with it something Victoria had carefully excised from her world.
Spontaneity. Messiness. Life continuing after hours.
She closed the bathroom door firmly, shutting out both the music and the unwelcome awareness it had awakened. Tomorrow would proceed according to plan. The estate would run with mechanical precision. The wine would age. Victoria Sterling would continue to exist in the hollow space where living had once occurred.
The alternative was unthinkable. Wasn’t it?
Chapter 2 – The Unexpected Visitor
Victoria had managed to avoid Ricardo Morales for three days since his truck had blocked her car. Three days of hearing his radio from a distance, glimpsing his steady progress through her office window, and instructing Jennifer to handle all communication regarding the pool restoration. Three days of pretending the ripple in her routine had smoothed itself out.
Until now.
“Mrs. Sterling?” Jennifer appeared in the doorway, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. “Mr. Morales insists he needs to speak with you directly. Something about structural issues with the pool design.”
Victoria looked up from the marketing proposal on her desk, her face composed into the mask of calm efficiency she’d perfected. “Tell him to document his concerns in an email.”
“I did. He said—” Jennifer hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “He said some things can’t be explained in an email, and that he’ll wait as long as necessary.”
Victoria set her pen down with precise movements. “How long has he been waiting?”
“Almost an hour.” Jennifer’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He’s just… sitting there. Sketching.”
Something about the image—Ricardo waiting patiently, filling time with creation rather than impatience—stirred an unexpected warmth in Victoria’s chest. She checked her watch against the grandfather clock: 8:43 AM. Her next call wasn’t until 9:30.
“Fine. Send him in.” Victoria straightened papers that needed no straightening. “Ten minutes.”
When Ricardo entered her office, the air seemed to change, as if he carried a piece of the outside world with him. Her carefully maintained space felt suddenly too small, too sterile. He wore clean jeans and a faded blue button-down rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms marked with the honest evidence of his craft. His dark hair was damp, as if he’d quickly showered before this meeting.
The scent of soap and cedar clung to him, cutting through the emptiness of her office. Victoria found herself inhaling deeply, her body betraying her mind’s determination to remain distant.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Sterling.” He didn’t wait to be invited to sit but settled comfortably in the chair across from her desk. His directness should have irritated her. Instead, it cracked something in her practiced composure—a hairline fracture in a porcelain mask.
“Jennifer mentioned structural concerns.” Victoria kept her tone brisk, professional. “I’ve allotted ten minutes for this discussion.”
Ricardo smiled—a genuine expression that reached his amber eyes and revealed a slight dimple in his right cheek. “Time is precious,” he agreed, but without hurry in his voice. “I found something while examining the foundation that I thought you should see personally.”
Victoria noticed how his hands moved as he spoke—steady, certain, with a grace that belied their strength. They were hands that built things, fixed broken pieces, brought life back to forgotten spaces. She found herself wondering what those hands would feel like against her skin. The thought rushed through her like electricity, shocking and unwelcome.
“Mrs. Sterling?” Ricardo’s voice brought her back to the moment. He was watching her with those amber eyes that seemed to read the thoughts she’d spent years learning to hide.
“Yes,” she said, straightening in her chair, fighting the blush threatening to climb her neck. “Show me what you found.” He placed a weathered leather portfolio on her desk and opened it to reveal detailed sketches of the pool area—not just as it existed now, but as it had been before. The drawings captured details Victoria had forced herself to forget: the way evening light reflected off the water surface, the small cove where Daniel had installed underwater seating, and the precise angle where swimmers could float and see both mountains and stars.
“These are very accurate,” she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “Did you work from photos?”
Ricardo shook his head. “My father was on the original construction crew fifteen years ago. He kept detailed notes about Mr. Sterling’s vision for the space.” He turned another page, revealing Daniel’s handwritten comments in the margins of the technical drawings. “Your husband was very specific about wanting the pool to create an illusion—being suspended between earth and sky.”
Victoria stared at Daniel’s familiar handwriting—the slightly slanted letters, the way his g’s curled beneath the line. She hadn’t seen his handwriting in years, had packed away all cards and notes in boxes she couldn’t bring herself to open.
Her fingers hovered over the page, not quite touching. The nearness of these traces of Daniel made her chest tighten with an ache she’d grown accustomed to carrying.
“He used to sketch ideas in the middle of the night,” she found herself saying, the words slipping out before she could contain them. “I’d wake up and find him sitting on the balcony with a flashlight, drawing plans on whatever paper he could find. Once he used the back of our electric bill.”
The memory came back with startling clarity—Daniel outlined against the darkness, the soft scratch of pencil, how he’d look up with that smile that still lived in the corners of her heart. “Come see what I’m thinking,” he’d whisper, and she’d wrap herself in a blanket, the cotton soft against her skin as she stepped into the night. She’d stand behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, breathing in his scent while he explained his latest vision with hands that moved like they were already building it.
Ricardo watched her quietly, his expression patient. He didn’t rush to fill the silence that followed her words.
“What’s the structural issue?” she asked, forcing her attention back to the present.
Ricardo’s eyes held hers. “The foundation remains sound, but the design itself was created for a specific purpose—to bring joy, to create connection with the landscape.” He gestured toward the window, where vines stretched toward the horizon. “The board’s directive was to restore it to the original condition, but I wanted to confirm that’s truly what you want.”
Victoria felt a flicker of irritation. “I don’t see how my personal preferences matter. The board approved this as a property improvement project.”
“With respect, Mrs. Sterling, a pool like this isn’t just concrete and tile.” Ricardo leaned forward slightly. “Your husband designed this space for living, not just for increasing property values. If we’re going to restore it properly, I need to understand what it’s meant to be.”
Victoria stood abruptly, moving to the window with her back to Ricardo. Beyond the glass, workers moved through the vineyard, harvesting the last of the season’s grapes. Everything proceeded according to schedule.
The methodical rhythm of their work usually calmed her, but today it felt like she was watching a scene from someone else’s life—orderly, predictable, and strangely distant.
“He used to swim at night,” she said quietly, still facing the window. “Even in winter. Said the contrast of cold air and warm water made him feel alive.”
She hadn’t meant to share this detail. It had been years since she’d spoken of Daniel’s habits, his preferences, the small peculiarities that had made him uniquely himself.
“The pool should be functional and attractive,” she said finally, her voice firmer. “Beyond that, I have no specific requirements.”
She heard Ricardo stand, the soft sound of his portfolio closing. When he spoke, his voice was closer than she expected.
“May I show you something before I go?” Victoria turned, surprised to find him only a few feet away. He held out a small watercolor painting, no larger than a postcard. It showed the infinity pool at sunset, the water’s surface reflecting vineyard lights and early stars. Two figures sat at the edge, their forms suggested rather than detailed—a large man and a slender woman, their shoulders touching as they looked out over the valley.
“My father painted this the summer before the pool was finished,” Ricardo said quietly. “He said Mr. Sterling described exactly what he imagined happening there—evenings spent with you, watching the day end from the water.”
Victoria’s fingers trembled slightly as she took the painting. The image was simple but captured something essential about those evenings—the sense of possibility, of connection, of being precisely where she was meant to be. With Daniel.
She remembered those nights with painful clarity—how Daniel’s hand would find hers underwater, how he’d point out constellations until she laughed and told him he was making up names. How the water would cool around them as they talked about everything and nothing, making plans for a future they believed stretched endlessly before them.
“Keep it,” Ricardo said, stepping back. “Consider it part of the research for the restoration.”
Victoria looked up sharply. “I couldn’t—”
“My father made dozens of these.” Ricardo smiled again, that simple expression that somehow brightened the carefully neutral room. “He loved capturing moments that mattered to people.”
The painting felt warm in her hands, as if it contained not just pigment and paper but a sliver of time itself. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had given her something without expectation—not as a business courtesy or calculated gesture, but simply because it might bring her joy. Because it might make her remember.
Before Victoria could form a proper response, Ricardo glanced at the grandfather clock. “Your ten minutes are up, Mrs. Sterling. Thank you for your time.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “One question before I go—the tiles along the eastern edge had custom designs. Are those important to maintain in the restoration?”
Victoria blinked, thrown by the shift to practical matters. “Custom designs?”
“Small motifs hidden among the blue tiles—a rose, a paintbrush, a musical note.” Ricardo’s head tilted slightly. “You didn’t know they were there?”
She hadn’t. In all the years of swimming in that pool, hosting parties around its edge, floating beneath summer stars with Daniel, she had never noticed these details. What else had she failed to see?
“The rose was for your first date,” Ricardo continued, his voice gentle. “My father said Mr. Sterling talked about bringing you roses when he picked you up at your apartment in the city. The paintbrush because you were studying art history. The musical note—”
“Because he proposed during intermission at the symphony,” Victoria finished, her voice barely above a whisper. “How could I not have seen them?”
Ricardo shrugged, a small, elegant movement. “Sometimes we miss things even when they’re right in front of us.”
The simple truth of his words settled over her. She’d spent three years, seven months, and nineteen days carefully not seeing, not noticing, not feeling. Had built walls of schedules and obligations to keep grief at bay.
“Maintain them,” she said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. “And… I’d like to see them. The original designs.”
Ricardo nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Of course. Maybe tomorrow, when the morning light hits them best?” He didn’t wait for her answer, simply inclined his head slightly and left, closing the door with a quiet click.
Victoria remained standing, the small watercolor in her hand, the ghost of Ricardo’s presence somehow lingering in the room. The grandfather clock ticked steadily, marking the passing of time that suddenly felt less measured, less contained.
She looked down at the painting again. The two figures at the pool’s edge sat close enough that their reflections merged in the water below, becoming a single shape against the darkening sky.
For the first time in one thousand, three hundred and forty-four days, Victoria felt a crack in the careful shell she’d constructed around herself—a tiny break through which something raw and real began to seep.
She placed the watercolor on her desk, next to her precisely aligned stack of reports and color-coded calendar. It looked wildly out of place there—a splash of color and memory amid the monochrome efficiency of her current existence.
Her phone buzzed with a reminder: Nine-thirty call in twelve minutes. Victoria straightened her shoulders and turned toward her computer. The day would proceed as planned. The estate would run with precision. Everything would continue exactly as it had since Daniel died.
Except for the small watercolor on her desk. Except for the promised meeting at the pool tomorrow morning. Except for the unexpected awareness that someone had seen her husband’s vision for their shared life with clearer eyes than she currently possessed.
The antique clocks throughout the house began to chime the half-hour, their synchronized voices rippling through the mansion. Victoria counted each toll silently, as she always did.
One. Two. Three.
By the tenth chime, she had made a decision. She would meet Ricardo at the pool tomorrow. She would see these hidden designs Daniel had incorporated without telling her. Not because it mattered to the restoration, but because it mattered to the woman she had been—the woman who had loved floating in water designed by a man who had known exactly what would bring her joy.
When the final chime faded, Victoria picked up her phone and dialed Jennifer’s extension.
“Please inform Mr. Morales I’ll meet him at the pool tomorrow at seven-thirty AM.” She paused, then added, “And clear my calendar until nine.”
As she set the phone down, her fingers brushed against the watercolor again. The touch sent a whisper of something through her—not quite hope, not quite anticipation, but perhaps the first faint notes of a melody she had once known by heart.
Chapter 11 – An Impulsive Escape
Victoria stepped back from the map, her fingers trailing away reluctantly. She stared at the outline of Paris—a city of lights and love that now seemed to mock her with what could have been. The thirtieth anniversary trip Daniel had planned with such care: wine tastings chosen specifically for her palate, restaurants with views that would make her gasp, that private showing at the Musée d’Orsay where they would stand alone before paintings that had survived centuries of human joy and sorrow.
The leather folder still sat in her desk drawer. She hadn’t touched it since the funeral.
“Two years planning,” she whispered to the empty room. Her fingertip traced Paris again, the paper cool beneath her touch. She could almost hear Daniel’s excited voice describing their hotel.
“Views of the Seine from every window, Vic.” His voice was so clear in her memory she nearly turned, expecting to find him leaning against the doorframe with that crooked smile. “You’ll be able to paint the sunrise over Notre Dame without leaving bed.”
The memory cut through her like glass.
Just yesterday, the vineyard’s financial advisor had called about the non-refundable deposit on the luxury suite. “It expires next week, Mrs. Sterling. We should decide whether to recover what we can or…” He’d left the sentence hanging, the way people did now when mentioning Daniel’s plans. As if completing the thought might break her beyond repair.
She’d thanked him and hung up without deciding. Another dream to bury, another future erased.
But this morning, something had pulled her to her laptop. Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d opened the airline website and checked if those first-class seats were still available.
They were.
Victoria caught her reflection in the office window—surprise written across a face she sometimes didn’t recognize anymore. When had she last considered following through on something Daniel had arranged? The thought sent equal parts terror and electricity through her veins.
A soft knock broke her reverie. Ricardo stood in the doorway, holding a small package wrapped in brown paper. Morning light caught in his dark hair, illuminating silver strands at his temples that hadn’t been there when he’d started photographing Sterling Vineyards five years ago.
“The eastern vineyard photos you requested,” he said, stepping inside. “For the new brochure.”
She nodded, gesturing toward her desk. As he set them down, his eyes fell on her computer screen. The flight confirmation. He didn’t comment, but something flickered across his face—interest, perhaps. Worry, maybe.
“Paris,” he said simply, his voice warm with appreciation rather than question.
Victoria turned back to the map, her finger finding the city again. “Daniel and I were supposed to go next week. For our anniversary.”
The words felt heavy in the air between them. Three years of grief had taught Victoria that mentioning Daniel made people uncomfortable. They shifted their weight, looked away, rushed to change the subject. No one knew what to say to a widow who refused to speak of her husband exclusively in past tense.
But Ricardo moved beside her, close enough that she caught the clean scent of his soap mixed with earthy notes from his morning in the garden. “It’s a beautiful city,” he said quietly.
“You’ve been?” Victoria asked, suddenly aware of how little she knew about his life before the vineyard. They’d spent countless hours together this past year—him photographing the changing vineyard seasons, her accompanying him to capture the light she wanted for their marketing—but they rarely discussed personal histories.
“Twice. Once as a student, sleeping in hostels and sketching the Seine at dawn because I couldn’t afford museum entries. And once for an exhibition where my work hung in a tiny gallery in Montmartre.” His smile held pride without arrogance. “Both times, the city changed how I saw the world.”
Victoria studied his profile, the genuine expression that made him seem younger than his thirty-eight years. “I’ve only seen it through five-star hotels and private tours,” she admitted.
“Both have their place,” Ricardo said with characteristic kindness. “Paris shows itself differently to each visitor.”
The cursor on her screen continued its steady rhythm—blink, blink, blink—as Victoria made a decision that surprised even herself.
“Would you like to show me your Paris?” she asked.
Ricardo’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
Her heart pounded against her ribs, but something pushed her forward. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her—not with pity or caution, but with genuine interest.
“I’m going to cancel the hotel reservations,” Victoria continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. “The private tours, the chauffeured cars—all of it. But I’m still going to Paris.” She took a breath. “And I’d like you to come with me.”
The silence between them felt charged with possibility. Ricardo studied her face, perhaps looking for hesitation or impulsiveness. Victoria met his gaze steadily, though inside, questions tumbled through her mind. Was this inappropriate? Ridiculous? Was she his employer offering a strange assignment, or a woman inviting a man who made her feel something besides grief?
“Victoria,” he said finally, her name like a complete thought on his lips. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Daniel loved Paris because it made him feel alive. After he died, I stopped allowing myself that feeling. But now…” She gestured to the photographs Ricardo had brought, images capturing the vineyard’s beauty through his unique perspective. “You’ve helped me remember what that’s like.”
Ricardo stepped closer, taking her hand in his. The calluses on his palm felt reassuring against her skin—evidence of work done with care and passion.
“Then yes,” he said, his voice soft with emotion. “I’d be honored to show you my Paris.”
The week that followed passed in a blur of arrangements and quiet excitement. Victoria canceled the luxury accommodations and booked a small apartment in Montmartre that Ricardo recommended. She instructed her assistant to reschedule meetings, ignoring the raised eyebrows and concerned glances from the board members who happened to overhear.
“Just be certain you’re not making decisions from grief,” Walter had said gently when he’d stopped by her office to sign the quarterly reports. His eyes, kind behind wire-rimmed glasses, held genuine concern.
Victoria had smiled at the man who’d been Daniel’s closest friend. “I think I’m making decisions despite grief, Walter. There’s a difference.”
When Sophia called, voice tight with disapproval after learning of Victoria’s travel plans from Walter, Victoria surprised herself again with her calm response.
“Yes, I’m going to Paris. Yes, Ricardo is coming with me. And no, I don’t need your permission or approval.”
The line had gone silent before Sophia managed a cold, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Victoria had smiled, though her stepdaughter couldn’t see it. “For the first time in a very long time, I actually do.”
Each evening that week, Ricardo came to the main house after finishing his work in the vineyards. They sat on the veranda with maps and guidebooks spread between them, planning their days in Paris. Victoria found herself laughing at his stories, charmed by his enthusiasm for small cafés and hidden art studios she never would have discovered on Daniel’s meticulously planned itinerary.
“You should bring your sketchbooks,” Ricardo suggested on the third night, pouring her another glass of their estate Chardonnay. When she looked surprised, he added, “I’ve seen the drawings in your office. You capture beauty in a way that feels honest.”
Victoria felt warmth creep into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the wine. “I haven’t sketched seriously in years.”
“Paris has a way of awakening forgotten parts of ourselves,” he said, his dark eyes holding hers with unexpected intensity. “Sometimes we need new surroundings to remember who we were meant to be.”
The evening before their departure, Victoria found herself in Daniel’s closet, running her fingers over his collection of silk ties. She selected a deep burgundy one—his favorite—and carefully folded it into her suitcase. Not as an anchor to grief, but as acknowledgment that love didn’t require forgetting.
She’d almost finished packing when she spotted her old leather-bound sketchbook on the upper shelf. Victoria stood on tiptoe to reach it, dust coming away on her fingertips as she pulled it down. Inside, the last completed drawing was dated three weeks before Daniel’s heart attack—a quick study of him asleep in his reading chair, book still open on his lap.
Victoria traced the lines with her finger, remembering the quiet contentment of that Sunday afternoon. Then she tucked the sketchbook into her carryon alongside a small box of charcoals and graphite pencils.
Their arrival in Paris was marked by gentle rain and soft evening light. The taxi driver who took them from Charles de Gaulle spoke rapid French with Ricardo, who responded with surprising fluency. Victoria watched the city unfold outside her window—grand boulevards giving way to narrower streets as they climbed toward Montmartre.
The apartment was on the fifth floor of an old building with no elevator. By the third flight of stairs, Victoria was laughing at her impractical choice of shoes.
“We’re almost there,” Ricardo encouraged, carrying both their suitcases despite her protests.
When he unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open, Victoria felt her breath catch. The space was small but filled with light, even in the evening hours—a single large room with worn wooden floors, tall windows, and simple, elegant furnishings. A small balcony overlooked a tangle of rooftops and, in the distance, the unmistakable silhouette of the Eiffel Tower.
“It belongs to an artist friend who lives in Barcelona now,” Ricardo explained, setting down their luggage. “He only rents it to people who promise to leave a small painting or sketch behind.”
Victoria moved to the windows, pushing them open to let in the cool evening air and the sounds of the neighborhood below—distant accordion music, the clatter of dishes from a nearby restaurant, voices calling gentle goodnight greetings in French.
“It’s perfect,” she said, meaning it completely.
Ricardo smiled, the warmth in his eyes making her heart quicken. “I’ll get us some groceries,” he offered. “There’s a market just down the street that should still be open.”
When he had gone, Victoria unpacked slowly, hanging her clothes in the small armoire beside Ricardo’s. The casual intimacy of their belongings sharing space felt both strange and right. She placed Daniel’s tie in the drawer beside her jewelry case, then moved to the balcony with a glass of water.
Paris spread before her, lights beginning to twinkle as darkness fell. Not the Paris she had planned to see with Daniel—no champagne waiting on ice in a suite overlooking the Champs-Élysées—but a living, breathing city waiting to be discovered anew.
Ricardo returned with fresh bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and flowers wrapped in brown paper. They ate at the small table by the window, sharing the day’s observations and planning tomorrow’s adventures with a freedom Victoria hadn’t allowed herself in years.
“I think tomorrow we should start with the small galleries in this neighborhood,” Ricardo suggested, breaking off another piece of bread. “There’s one on Rue des Martyrs that showcases only unknown artists. The owner is a former ballet dancer who believes art should be accessible to everyone.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Victoria said, swirling the wine in her glass. “Daniel always wanted to see the major museums first—check them off his list before exploring the smaller places.”
Ricardo smiled. “Different approaches, both valid. We have time for both, if you’d like.”
As night deepened around them, the conversation slowed to comfortable silences. Victoria found herself studying Ricardo’s hands as he poured more wine—the strength in them, the careful precision of his movements.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching her gaze.
Victoria smiled, the wine and the moment making her brave. “That I want to sketch you. Tomorrow, in the morning light.”
His expression softened with surprise and pleasure. “I’d like that.”
Later, as they prepared for sleep, the single bedroom presented an unspoken question. Ricardo began to make up the sofa with extra blankets until Victoria touched his arm.
“Stay with me,” she said quietly. “Just to sleep.”
He nodded, understanding the significance of her request. In the bedroom, they moved around each other with careful courtesy, creating a new rhythm together. Victoria changed in the bathroom, emerging in a simple silk nightgown that made Ricardo’s eyes widen appreciatively before he politely looked away.
The bed was narrow enough that they couldn’t help but touch as they settled beneath the covers. Victoria felt the solid warmth of him beside her, his breathing steady in the darkness. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder. His arm came around her naturally, holding her close.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she whispered.
Ricardo’s fingers traced gentle patterns on her shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me.”
Morning came with golden light streaming through curtains they’d forgotten to close. Victoria woke first, momentarily disoriented until she felt Ricardo’s arm still around her waist, his body curled protectively around hers. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply feel—the warmth of him against her back, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the unfamiliar but welcome sense of another person sharing her space.
When she carefully shifted to face him, she found him already awake, watching her with an expression of such tender wonder that something tightened in her chest.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
Victoria reached up to touch his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the slight stubble rough against her palm. The intimacy of the gesture felt both daring and inevitable.
“Good morning,” she replied, her own voice barely above a whisper.
Neither moved to get up, content in this suspended moment between sleep and wakefulness. The sounds of Paris drifted through the open window—church bells, distant traffic, a street musician beginning the day with a melancholy violin melody.
“I’d like to sketch you now,” Victoria said, surprising herself with her boldness. “Just like this.”
Ricardo smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “As the lady wishes.”
She retrieved her sketchbook and pencils from her luggage, then returned to the bed where Ricardo waited, sheet draped casually across his waist, morning light playing across the planes of his chest and shoulders. Victoria worked in comfortable silence, losing herself in the familiar rhythm of pencil against paper, capturing the strength and vulnerability in his pose.
“You’re very good,” Ricardo observed, watching her hands move with growing confidence across the page. “Why did you stop?”
Victoria paused, considering the question. “It felt self-indulgent after Daniel died,” she admitted. “Creating beauty when he couldn’t see it anymore.”
Ricardo nodded, understanding in his eyes. “And now?”
“Now I think maybe creating beauty is how we fight against loss.” She continued sketching, adding shadow to define the curve of his shoulder. “Daniel always said art was how humans proved their aliveness.”
When the sketch was complete, Victoria showed it to him, unexpectedly nervous about his reaction. Ricardo studied it in silence, his expression moving from appreciation to something deeper.
“You see me,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion.
“Yes,” Victoria replied simply. “I do.”
The moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken feelings. When Ricardo reached for her, Victoria went willingly into his arms, the sketchbook falling forgotten to the floor.
His kiss was different from their first—not tentative but certain, not questioning but answering. Victoria responded with a hunger that surprised her, her hands exploring the warmth of his skin, the strength in his shoulders, the texture of his hair between her fingers.
“Victoria,” he murmured against her lips, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she interrupted, suddenly sure. “I want this. I want you.”
The final barrier of uncertainty dissolved between them. Ricardo kissed her again, deeper now, his hands sliding beneath her nightgown with reverent purpose. Victoria arched into his touch, her body remembering sensations she had thought lost forever.
Their coming together was unhurried—each touch a discovery, each response a revelation. Ricardo whispered her name against her skin like a prayer, his attention focused entirely on her pleasure. Victoria surrendered to the moment, to the feeling of being fully alive in her body again, to the joy of connection without guilt or reservation.
Afterward, they lay tangled together in the rumpled sheets, Victoria’s head resting on Ricardo’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. The morning light had strengthened, illuminating dust motes that danced in golden beams across the room. Outside, Paris continued its daily rhythm, unaware of the small miracle that had occurred in the apartment above its streets.
“Are you all right?” Ricardo asked softly, his fingers combing gently through her hair.
Victoria considered the question, taking inventory of her emotions. There was no regret, no sense of betrayal as she had feared—only a profound gratitude for this unexpected second chance at joy.
“Yes,” she answered, pressing a kiss to his chest, directly over his heart. “More than all right.”
They spent the day exploring Ricardo’s Paris—small galleries tucked away on side streets, a hidden garden where local artists gathered to sketch, a café where the owner greeted Ricardo like a long-lost son and insisted on serving them his special blend of coffee. Victoria watched Ricardo navigate the city with easy confidence, speaking French with locals, bartering good-naturedly with street vendors, pointing out architectural details she might have missed.
“Look at the way the light catches that wrought iron,” he said, pointing to a balcony overflowing with red geraniums. “The contrast between the delicacy of the ironwork and the solid stone beneath tells the whole story of Paris—beauty built on strength.”
Victoria captured the balcony in her sketchbook, her fingers remembering old skills, finding new confidence with each line.
Chapter 12 – Scandal’s Shadows
“Ready?” Ricardo asked, his fingers finding Victoria’s across the leather seat.
Victoria considered the question. After two weeks in Paris—walking cobblestone streets hand in hand, sketching together in small cafés, falling asleep tangled in each other’s arms—returning felt like waking from a beautiful dream. But unlike most dreams that faded upon waking, this one had changed her irrevocably.
“More than ready,” she said, surprising herself with how true it felt.
The truth was, Paris had awakened something in Victoria that had been dormant for too long—a hunger for life, a willingness to feel everything without apology. She glanced at Ricardo’s profile as he gazed out the window, the California sunshine highlighting the sharp angles of his face that she had traced with her fingertips in the dim light of their Parisian hotel room.
The memory sent a rush of warmth through her veins. How strange that after three years of emotional numbness, she could now feel so much, as if her heart had been asleep and was now making up for lost time.
As the car stopped at the front entrance, Victoria didn’t wait for the driver. She opened her own door and stepped out into the bright California sunshine, breathing in the familiar scent of her vineyard—sun-warmed earth, ripening grapes, and the ever-present hint of oak. Ricardo emerged behind her, his presence solid and reassuring as the driver retrieved their luggage.
“It’s more beautiful than I remembered,” she said softly, more to herself than to Ricardo. The vineyard stretched before them, rows of green vines catching the afternoon light, transforming them into ribbons of emerald and gold. For three years, she had seen this view without truly seeing it, her grief like a veil between her and the world.
Ricardo moved beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth but not touching. Even that—his understanding of when she needed space and when she needed contact—made her heart swell.
“You see it differently now,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Victoria nodded, unable to explain how the same view that had been merely scenery for so long now seemed alive with possibility. Before she could try to find the words, a familiar voice cut through her thoughts.
“Victoria.” Sophia’s voice sliced through the afternoon air, sharp as a newly pruned vine. “We need to talk immediately.”
Victoria turned to her stepdaughter, noting the rigid posture, the too-perfect blonde hair, the expensive dress that seemed calculated to emphasize the twenty-year age gap between Victoria and Ricardo. Three years ago—even three weeks ago—Victoria would have felt defensive, perhaps even embarrassed by Sophia’s obvious disapproval. Now she felt only a mild curiosity about what exactly had prompted this welcoming committee.
“Hello, Sophia. It’s lovely to see you too,” Victoria said evenly. “Ricardo, you remember Daniel’s daughter?”
Ricardo nodded politely. “Ms. Sterling. I hope you’re well.”
Sophia’s perfectly lined eyes narrowed. “I’d like to speak with my stepmother. Privately.”
The tension in the air crystallized, sharp and brittle. Victoria found herself studying Sophia as if seeing her for the first time—the defensive set of her shoulders, the careful application of makeup that masked her emotions, the faint shadows beneath her eyes that suggested she wasn’t sleeping well. In the past, Victoria had always been so careful around her stepdaughter, treading softly to avoid disturbing the fragile peace between them. Now she wondered if that caution had been another form of hiding.
“Of course,” Ricardo said smoothly. He turned to Victoria, his expression warm but respectful. “I should check on the eastern garden anyway. The new irrigation system was being installed while we were away.”
Victoria nodded, resisting the urge to touch his face or kiss him goodbye—not out of shame, but because what existed between them felt too precious to perform for Sophia’s critical gaze. “I’ll find you later.”
As Ricardo walked away, Victoria noticed the vineyard workers watching with undisguised interest. She caught Rosa’s eye—the housekeeper who had been with the family for twenty years—and saw not judgment but something like cautious happiness in the older woman’s expression.
“Shall we go inside?” Victoria suggested, already moving toward the front door without waiting for Sophia’s response.
Inside the cool foyer, Victoria placed her purse on the entryway table and turned to face her stepdaughter. Before she could speak, Walter emerged from the library, his expression a practiced mask of concerned friendship.
“Victoria,” he said, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “Welcome home. We’ve been worried.”
The coolness of his lips against her skin felt wrong somehow, performative in a way that made Victoria want to step back. She remembered suddenly how Daniel had always laughed about Walter’s “lawyer kisses”—the affectionate but empty gestures he distributed at social functions with the same precision he applied to contract negotiations.
“Worried?” Victoria repeated, her eyebrow arching slightly. “About what, exactly? I informed the board of my absence, delegated all necessary responsibilities, and remained available by phone for emergencies.”
Walter and Sophia exchanged glances that spoke volumes—the sort of look shared between conspirators who had rehearsed their approach.
“It’s not about the business,” Sophia said, her voice softening into the tone one might use with a confused child. “It’s about you. Your… decisions lately.”