Page 69 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
When we return inside, Dominic administers the first dose of medicine to a remarkably cooperative Merlot. Hannah watches with approval before gathering her things.
"We should head back before the sun gets too high and turns the snow to slush," she says. "It was lovely meeting you, Elena. Will you be staying in town for a while once the roads clear?"
Before I can answer, Dominic speaks. "Ms. Santiago has business back in San Francisco. She won't be staying."
The dismissal stings more than it should, reinforcing the distance that's opened between us since our argument.
"That's too bad," Hannah says, genuine disappointment in her voice. "We could use more sophisticated tastes in town. I'm still trying to convince Dominic to host a tasting at the library fundraiser."
"Speaking of fundraisers," Liam pipes up, "Mom says we have to say thank you again for the guest house money, Mr. Dominic, even though you said not to tell anyone."
Hannah flushes. "Liam! That was supposed to be private."
"What guest house money?" I ask, curiosity overriding my determination to remain professionally detached.
"It's nothing," Dominic mutters, suddenly very interested in Merlot's ear.
"Nothing?" Hannah laughs. "He anonymously funded half the renovation costs for Mabel's place when the county threatened to shut it down over code violations. Without him, we'd have lost the only historic guest house in Angel's Peak."
The revelation doesn't surprise me as much as it might have days ago. I've seen enough of Dominic's character to recognize his capacity for generosity, however much he tries to disguise it beneath gruffness.
After Hannah and Liam depart, an uncomfortable silence descends. Dominic busies himself with Merlot's medicine, his back to me as he carefully administers the drops to the patient dog.
"You didn't want anyone to know about the guest house," I observe.
"It wasn't relevant." His shoulders are tense, defensive.
"Why hide your generosity?"
He sighs, finally turning to face me. "Because I don't do it for recognition or gratitude. I do it because I can, and because places like Mabel's matter to this community."
"The same way the Denver Wine Festival matters to the wider wine community?" I can't help the comparison.
"That's different."
"Is it? You're willing to support others anonymously but refuse opportunities that might benefit you and your work."
"You don't understand." His voice holds an edge of frustration. "After the fire, after my father..." He stops, gathering himself. "The industry vultures descended. Everyone wanted a piece of the tragedy, the drama. Journalists calling for statements, competitors offering fake sympathy while eyeing our distribution channels. People I'd known my entire life suddenly treating me like a combination of charity case and sideshow attraction."
The raw pain in his voice silences my argument.
"I came here to make wineon my terms," he continues, quieter now. "Without the baggage of the Mercer name, without people watching for me to fail or succeed based on my father's legacy. Silverleaf is mine in a way Mercer Vineyards never could have been."
"And you think the festival would threaten that?"
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize as signaling internal conflict. "You can’t control how people see you once you enter that spotlight. Or your work."
The vulnerability beneath his words touches me, tempering my earlier anger.
"Isolation isn't the answer either. Not for your wines, and not for you."
"Maybe not," he concedes, surprising me. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready for the alternative."
We stand at an impasse. Both understand the other’s position better, but are unwilling to concede. The argument exposes fundamental differences in our approaches to life and career that can’t be easily reconciled, regardless of our chemistry.
"I should pack," I say finally, needing distance to sort through my conflicted feelings. "If the roads will be clear tomorrow."
Dominic nods, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "I'll help you with your things."
