I missed sitting under the crooked tree with him for hours, even when he wouldn’t say a word. I missed meeting at the bridge and catching up on everything we’d missed in each other’s lives. Most of all, I missed his silence, which always calmed my constant storm, my need for adventure, and my careless search for it. He was the peace in my existence. And even when he did speak, his words were always carefully chosen, respectful, and meaningful. What he’d told me on that first day we met had been true. Ridge didn’t like to waste his words, and I loved him for it.
It irked me to the core to know that our families had every opportunity to settle the feud but refused to do so. Three months ago, I’d tried to bring up the feud with my papa again, desperate to put an end to it all.
“There are rumors, Papa. Rumors that you’re sabotaging Farmer Cross’s business. Is that true?”
My papa had been sitting cross-legged in the vineyard, cutting back the unwieldy vines. He stopped what he was doing and wiped the sweat from his brow before smiling at me. “Don’t worry yourself with small-town rumors, mija. Look at us,” he said, pointing to his chest and mine. “We’re out here working. Does it look like I have time to go around sabotaging businesses? Farmer Cross is doing that all on his own.”
A quick flash of a memory brought me back to the first day we’d seen Ridge and Harold at the farmer’s market. My papa had been brimming with hatred that day, making me doubt his words.
“Then why can’t we all be friends? His family and ours?” I had to be careful with my tone. I wanted him to believe that the intent behind my question was innocent and playful.
My papa cupped my cheek, an adoring look in his eyes. “You are too good and too young to understand, my Camila.”
“But I’m not too young,” I insisted.
“Maybe, but trust me. The history is long and boring, and it’s better not to get involved.” Then he had turned back to his precious vine, ending our conversation.
My unsettled thoughts were interrupted when my parents nudged me to join them in the barrel of fruit. The grapes immediately squeezed out of their skins and between our toes. While the act of grape stomping was a little gross, I laughed every single time.
I clutched the bottom of my long white dress and bunched it at the top of my thighs, giving me room to move my legs. There was no use trying to avoid getting dirty. I didn’t care about stains or getting wet. That was all part of the fun, to dance among the fruit that afforded our family the opportunity to give back to the community in so many ways. I considered it a privilege and an honor to lead the celebration.
As always, my mama was the first one to start moving around the barrel, twisting her shoulders and stomping in time with the folk music, earning the first cheer from the crowd. The wide smile on her face showed that she was filled with pure joy. She was practically exploding with it. And every year that I watched her, I was always mesmerized by her smile, her laugh, and the sheer exuberance as she danced. She was in her element, right where she was meant to be.
I turned to Papa and saw the look on his face as he watched Mama dance. My heart squeezed. He was like a lovesick puppy, grinning and shoving his hands into his pockets while stomping around with much less coordinated movements than Mama.
Those were the moments I lived for and cherished. I would hold them close forever.
I grinned like a fool as I watched my parents, waiting for the perfect moment to jump in and join them.
“Dance, Camila! Dance!” came a familiar voice from the crowd.
My eyes sifted through the people until I found Josie. I stuck my tongue out at her. She was wrapped up in Emilio’s arms. They’d been dating since that night I rode the gondola with Ridge. It turned out a love story had been born that night—it just wasn’t mine.
Josie’s beauty had always been mesmerizing to me. With her strawberry-blond hair, electric-blue eyes, and freckles that looked like specks of gold in the sun, she was so clearly the reason boys wanted to hang out with us lately. I had always been the tomboy of the bunch—always dirty, always running, and always one of the guys. Josie was so far opposite me on the spectrum that I often had a hard time believing we were friends.
Then something happened over the summer. My hair had grown past my shoulders for the first time in my life, and I suddenly cared what I looked like for school and outings with my friends. I asked Josie to teach me how to do my makeup and style myself in a way that still felt true to me. I became her miniproject, and in turn, the boys had started to look at me differently.
I began flirting and going on one-off dates, but no matter how hard they tried, I wouldn’t let them kiss me. Kissing was reserved for something more—something I knew I was waiting for even though I didn’t know when it would come.
Josie and Emilio were attending the festival with some classmates of ours, all regulars over the years. Most of us had known each other since we were toddlers. Ridge might have adopted the term Wild One for me, but my preference for living on the edge was no secret. My peers called me a tomboy, a farm girl, and one of the boys. To some, it was an insult. To me, it was a compliment. They knew I wasn’t afraid to get a little dirty and that Josie’s jeering would be enough to get me to join in on the fun.
I spent most of my days out in the fields with Papa instead of with my mama. While she gathered fresh crops from the garden for supper, I tucked vines in preparation for a storm or chopped wood to be used in the burn bins whenever a cold front was about to come through. Neither of my parents argued with my preferences. In fact, I thought it made my papa realize just how invested I truly was. Since I was the only child, I believed he might have even been relieved, to some extent.
Hiking my skirt a little more, I mimicked my mama’s movements. She looked far more graceful than I ever could, not that I was trying to look like a professional grape stomper up there or even a beautiful goddess like my mama. I just wanted to have fun, and that was exactly what I would do.
I exaggerated my steps, kicking up my heels and stomping around while I circled the perimeter. Halfway through the song, I looked around to see how much the crowd had grown in the past two minutes. From the front of the platform that separated the barrel from the crowd, all the way down the first slope of the vineyard, the crowd stood packed in tight.
Everyone clapped in time with the music, causing my chest to swell. I was proud of my family and all they had accomplished over the past century. My papa alone had been managing and operating our ancestors’ land and vineyard for nearly three decades. And with the help of his business partner and dozens of workers and volunteers, our vineyard was able to bottle hundreds of thousands of premium bottles of wine each year.
I snapped back to the present when the music transitioned into the next song.
My papa grabbed my hand and spun me under his arm before bringing me in to dance. “Your dancing gets better every year.”
I smiled at the unexpected and sweet compliment. Not many times in my life would I have said that about my papa. After a few spins around the barrel, he released me and took my mama into his arms. Their dance was a slow and romantic one that had the crowd swooning. Apparently, even my mama thought so. She giggled and fell into him while the slow song played on.
When the third song came on, a line had already formed at the bottom of the stairs, and one by one, guests started to climb inside to partake in the stomping fun.