Page 97 of Under Southern Stars
“Sounds perfect.” I reach for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about today. We’re going to be fine.”
He squeezes back, but something flashes in his eyes—worry, guilt, I couldn’t quite place it. Before I can ask, Madison bounds in, grabbing for her chocolate drink.
“So when do we leave? I want to see everything!”
???
The drive starts pleasantly enough, with Jack pointing out landmarks as we leave Queenstown behind. The landscape transforms from the rugged peaks surrounding the lake to rolling hills that gradually flatten and open into vast valleys. Madison, initially chatty, eventually dozes off in the backseat, her headphones still playing.
“This area is called the Gibbston Valley,” Jack explains as we drive through a particularly picturesque stretch. “Famous for Pinot Noir grapes. The schist soil and climate are perfect for them.”
“You really do know a lot about wine,” I observe.
His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “Grew up with it. Hard not to absorb some knowledge.”
“Your family’s vineyard—is it big?”
Jack clears his throat. “It’s…established. Been around for generations.”
Something about his tone makes me glance at him more carefully. His shoulders have tensed, and his eyes keep darting to the side mirrors as if checking whether we are being followed.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, not wanting to wake Madison.
“Fine,” he says, too quickly. “Just…been a while since I’ve been back.”
I study his profile as he drives, noting the tightness around his jaw, the way his knuckles have whitened on the steering wheel. This is more than just normal anxiety about introducing a girlfriend to family. Something else is going on.
The GPS announces we are approaching Cromwell, and Jack’s tension seems to increase with each kilometer. We round a bend, and I spot a sign by the roadside that makes my heart skip.
McKenzie Estate - Est. 1872
Award-Winning Central Otago Pinot Noir
Private Tours by Appointment Only
The sign is elegant, understated but unmistakably high-end, with a stylized ‘M’ logo that matches the label on the bottle of wine Jack had ordered that first night at Giuseppe’s.
The $300 bottle.
My mouth goes dry, my pulse thunders in my ears as the ground I thought I knew disappears entirely.
“Jack,” I say slowly, “is that your family’s—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off, his voice strained. “That’s…ours.”
Ours. The casual ownership of what is clearly a substantial operation hits me with unexpected force. I know his family owned a vineyard, but this is not some small family farm. This looks like a major commercial operation.
“I thought you said your family had a vineyard,” I say carefully. “This looks more like a…winery. A big one.”
His laugh is hollow. “It is. Both, actually.”
We turn onto a private road that twists through acres of meticulously maintained vines stretching in every direction. The scale is overwhelming—row after row, precision-planted along gentle slopes that catch the afternoon sun.
“How big is this place?” I ask, my mind struggling to process what I am seeing.
Jack swallows visibly. “The original estate is about 300 hectares. But there are other…properties now. Parcels added over generations.”
Properties. Parcels.The casual way he uses these words sends a chill through me. This is not just a vineyard; this is an empire.
