Tessa, his wife of over fifty years, disagreed. She enjoyed new technology. When Mia was at her language school in Washington, Tessa had e-mailed her every day, then printed out the responses and read them to him before they went to bed.

Women dealt with change better than men, he acknowledged grudgingly. Perhaps because they were born knowing that time was liquid and always moving. They understood that the babies to come from their bodies would eventually grow and leave. Hearts were broken and then mended. For women, the world was shades of gray. Men saw only black and white.

He finished writing and carefully tore off the page. His secretary would type up his letter and send it out, but first she would remind him that even if he didn’t want to use the computer, he could simply dictate into a tape recorder. She would transcribe his words, saving him the pain of carefully forming each word. He did not bother to tell her that he’d used his tiny handheld recorder to prop up an unsteady table and that when Mia had later sat on the table, the small machine had been crushed.

He read over the letter, then dropped it into his out basket. Now that he was finished, he slowly flexed his aching hands, then opened the top drawer and reached for the pain medicine he kept there. At his age, pills were tangible markers of time. Each hour or two meant another medication, another glass of water, another aftertaste left on his tongue. Whenever he complained, Tessa reminded him that the alternative was no pills, no bitter taste, only darkness and the earth reclaiming his body. Then she would pull the rosary from her pocket and take a quick trip around the beads to ward off any inadvertent invitation of death brought on by their conversation.

He smiled at the thought of his wife. He was an old man, and yet he loved her more today than on the day they married. God had blessed him in many ways. His son, his grandchildren, the bounty of the earth.

Lorenzo shook his head. Was his mind to go next? He refused to become maudlin about his good fortunes. Despite his complaints, his doctor assured him he would probably see eighty and beyond. Plenty of time to annoy those he loved most.

A knock on the door to his office distracted him. Lorenzo glanced up. “Come,” he called.

The door opened and Joe entered.

Antonio, Lorenzo thought sadly. That was the name he had picked out for Marco’s firstborn son. There had been so many hopes and plans. So much that went wrong.

“You come to see me,” Lorenzo said, trying not to sound too pleased.

Joe crossed to the chair in front of the desk and pulled it out. He moved like a man used to trouble-carefully and with purpose. Lorenzo liked that. Joe was young and strong, all the things his heir should be.

“I’ve come to say good-bye,” Joe said as he took a seat. “I’ve reached my limit of family bonding.”

Lorenzo frowned. “You cannot go. Your life is here now. With the vines.”

Joe shook his head. “Not my style. I told you, I’m a beer drinker.”

“What about your inheritance? You could have all this.” He spread open his arms. “How can you walk away from what I have to give you?”

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, right. This isn’t a gift. Not any of it. If you were handing me a check, I’d give it some thought, but you want me to buy into what you have here. The whole Marcelli heritage. Sorry, but I’m not in the market for that kind of responsibility.”

“No. You must stay. I insist.”

“It’s not your call.” He leaned toward Lorenzo. “You’re playing some game with everyone, especially Brenna, and I won’t be a part of it.”

“What game? There is no game.” Lorenzo pushed painfully to his feet and walked to the far wall. He motioned for Joe to come with him. When they were standing next to each other, Lorenzo realized the younger man topped him by several inches. That pleased him. Every generation should be bigger, more powerful. It was the way of the world. Strength improved the family.

He pointed to the map on the wall. It was old, dating back to the 1920s, and drawn by hand. It detailed much of the county, oriented so the Marcelli land was in the center.

“From the old days,” he said. “My father, your great-grandfather, drew this himself. This is who we are.” He tapped the yellowing paper. “This is what is important to us.”

Joe studied the map. “Did he do this before the feud?”

“Yes. Many years before. Things were much simpler then.” Friends were friends, he thought. When friends became enemies, the world became a more difficult place.

Lorenzo looked at Joe. Marco’s son. His grandson. A stranger. All those years ago, he’d been so sure he was right. He’d stood against his wife, his son. He’d insisted. Tessa had warned him, but he hadn’t listened. The mistake was his.

“You will stay,” he insisted. “You are family.”

“No, I’m not,” Joe said quietly. “My family is my SEAL team. You folks have been nice and all. I appreciate the hospitality, but it’s time for me to head out.”

Lorenzo wanted to argue the point. He had plans for this young man. He would stay, learn, take the family name. Was it not to be?

He touched Joe’s arm. “It was me,” he told his grandson. “Your grandmother, she wanted to allow Marco to marry, even though he was only a boy. Her parents, they weren’t sure what they wanted, but I’m the one who convinced them. My son, your mother-” He shrugged. “They were in love. They wanted each other and they wanted you. I’m the one who made them send you away. I was wrong. I wanted you to know.”

Joe’s steady gaze never wavered. Lorenzo would have given half the Chardonnay harvest to know what the young man was thinking. But Joe was too wily. He kept his thoughts and feelings to himself.

“None of that matters now,” Joe said. “What’s done is done.”

Perhaps, but Lorenzo wanted to undo it. “If you had grown up here, you would have learned our ways. You would understand about the wine. It would be in your blood. It’s there now, singing to you, if only you will listen.”

“Maybe it would have made a difference,” Joe admitted. “Maybe not. We’ll never know. In the here and now, I’m not interested in the winery. I want you to be clear about that. I don’t want it.”

“Why not? The money-”

“Sure. Like there wouldn’t be strings attached to all of it. I don’t know what you’re up to, old man, but I’m not interested. You’ve tried to use me against Brenna. I don’t know why and I don’t want to know. If you don’t listen and decide to leave all this to me anyway, be warned. I’ll give it to Brenna.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Give it? Not sell it?”

Joe smiled. “No way, old man. I’m not going to be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing.”

Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. “Can you be so sure you haven’t already?”

Joe shook his head. “You’re a slick one, Grandpa. Be careful. If you take this too far, you’ll hurt the ones you love.”

Grandpa. Joe’s casual use of the word tugged at his heart. He held open his arms. His strong grandson stepped close and hugged him.

“You’re a good man,” he said, releasing Joe. “Come to see me again. I will show you that you’re wrong about us not being your family. You belong here.”

“We’ll see.”

Lorenzo reached up and cupped his face. “Your work. I know it is dangerous. Be careful. Now you have a family to come home to.”

Joe didn’t say anything, but Lorenzo thought he understood. They shook hands and the younger man left.

When he was alone, Lorenzo once again touched the map. He traced the outline of Marcelli Wines. Joe had accused him of playing a game. There was no game. But a plan? Ah, that was something different.

Brenna stood in the center of the vineyard and watched as the last of the Cabernet grapes were harvested by the awkward-looking machine being driven between the rows. The difference between her own small winery and this one could be measured in the number of days it took to bring in the grapes. Marcelli would produce over ten thousand cases. Hers would number in the hundreds.

But it was a start, she told herself, basking in a glow of pride. She’d done what she wanted and everything had gone well. Now she just had to wait for time and chemistry to produce magic.

She bent down and touched a denuded vine. The mechanical harvester was only used on the less-than-premium grapes. She hated how the machines stripped away too many leaves and left tire tracks on the hard earth. While she understood the financial necessity, she wished each cluster of fruit could be treated with gentle reverence.

“Okay. I’ve been out in the sun too long,” she murmured as she straightened and laughed. Having philosophical thoughts about grape picking couldn’t be good. Next she would be waxing poetic about each fallen leaf. The bright spot in her morning was that she’d managed to think about something other than Nic. Given their last very intimate encounter, that was something close to a miracle.

Nic. Just letting his name echo in her brain made her smile. She wasn’t clear on what exactly had happened or what it meant. Three days after the fact, she was still experiencing aftershocks. She had a suspicion it was illegal for sex to be that good.

Feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge or name fluttered through her. Something had happened that night when they’d finally talked about the past. Clearing the air had changed things between them. She wasn’t ready to deal with it, but in time she would have to. What happened after that was anyone’s guess.

“What are you so happy about?”

The voice came from directly behind her. Brenna jumped and screamed. When she spun around, she saw Joe standing less than three feet away.

“Don’t sneak up on me. What is it with the men around here. First Nic, then you.” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”