Page 93 of Red Flagged
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and directed our brother on what room upstairs myunassembled desk would go, then opened up a box. The glass cups were separated by dividers. I pulled one out with each hand, placing them side by side in one of the cabinets even though my hands were still trembling.
Étienne returned a while later, flushed and sweaty. He bent over and braced his hands on his knees. “Jesus, how much shit do you have?”
I glowered at him as I broke down the box I’d emptied. “I bought ahouse, Étienne. So, a lot.”
“I’ve doneat leastsix hauls. I don’t even want to know how many more I have. There’s still so much on the goddamn porch.”
That pulled a laugh from me.
Étienne stepped over to the counter, pulling his keys from his pocket and flipping out the built-in corkscrew.
Perks of having a family in the vineyard business: one of usalwayshad a bottle opener on hand. A corkscrew was practically a birthright.
He popped the cork clean and held the bottle out. I leaned in, inhaling the soft bloom of the wine—a blend of summer-ripe stone fruit, orange blossom, and the faintest kiss of oak. Soleil d’Or always smelled like home. It tasted like it, too. Warm and elegant, like our family’s land taught it to speak in full sentences.
I arched a brow. “Wild vines? Papa must be panicking.”
Wild vines meant rebellion. They twisted away from their guides, reaching for sun and soil on their own terms. Sometimes it made the grapes unpredictable, sometimes it made them extraordinary.
Emilie pulled out three wine glasses from a cabinet we’d just finished stocking. I eyed the glasses, guilt pooling in my stomach. Of course I could drink. But the mere thought that I was actively miscarrying made me want to drown in something stronger.
“He’s pretending to be mad, but secretly he loves it.” Étienne poured us all a glass and passed one to me. “He said it reminds him of your first solo blend. The one you made in secret when we were fifteen.”
I snorted, lifting the glass. “Oh myGod.I forgot about that. I snuck berries from the ripest row and added them to the late harvest muscat batch. Then I spilled sugar all over the press and tried to clean it up with a mop I’d dipped in rosemary water. It fermentedso weird, like—jammy lavender disaster.”
“You made Maman cry when she tasted it,” Emilie added dryly.
“She said it was ‘a beautiful mistake’.”
“She also grounded you for two weeks,” Étienne reminded me.
I laughed, and it felt good. Real.
We lifted our glasses and clinked gently.
“To beautiful mistakes,” Étienne said. “And wilder vines.”
The chardonnay was soft on the tongue, sun-drenched and a little floral, with hints of nectarine and lemon peel. Bright and smooth, with a slow-burn finish. My go-to blend from our vineyard.
“And Maman…” Étienne hesitated. “She keeps setting an extra plate every Sunday. Says it's a habit, but she’s not subtle.”
Emilie set a wooden cutting board down, placing a small wedge of cheese on it. “They miss you. Even if they won’t say it the way you need them to. You left a hole when you said you weren’t coming home until you moved your stuff out, Ray. One that even you couldn’t outrun.”
I blinked fast, looking down into the golden hue of the chardonnay. “I didn’t mean to leave things like that.”
“We know,” Étienne said simply. “And so do they. But time does heal all wounds.”
Silence drifted in around us—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was whole, as though something had been unearthed, and didn’t need to be explained further.
They kept unpacking. Emilie moved on to stacking towels in the bathroom. Étienne unboxed the coffee maker and set it up, taking time to wind the cord, rinse the carafe, and test the brew setting. I trailed after them in small bursts, grabbing hand soap for the sink, folding tea towels beside Emilie.
The house began to take shape—not all at once, but in flickers. A chair in the corner. Candles lit. Bed made. Bathroom linens hung. Familiar laughter drifted in from the living room as Étienne found a picture frame I hadn’t realized they’d brought. It was a candid from the vineyard harvest four years ago. My hair was shorter. Étienne had a sunburn. Emilie still had braces and unfortunate bangs.
I reached for it slowly, brushing a thumb across the edge of the glass.
“We’re still here, you know,” Emilie said softly. “Even when you’re not.”
For some reason, that’s when it hit me.
