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Hmm, maybe I should make a plan for meeting a guy. But first I need to focus on my new job here at my family’s vineyard.
My gaze is inevitably drawn past the vineyard, rolling hills, and oak trees to the monstrosity on the other side of the road, a medieval stone castle—complete with towers, turrets, and an actual moat with a drawbridge. Castle Sangria was constructed about five or six years ago and is definitely out of place here. Rumor is an eccentric reclusive billionaire built it as an homage to his ancestral home in Italy. Personally, none of us have ever met the man, but the vineyard manager, Neli, seems friendly enough. And very young—about my age, twenty-two. I have only met her once, about a year ago, when I was home for Christmas break. My mom had me deliver homemade sugar cookies in yet another attempt to make nice with the antisocial neighbors who are rarely seen in public. My parents are the opposite; they’ve been active members of the community ever since they moved here to start Stellariva Vineyards when I was little (Stella—me; Riva—Italian for creek).
I spend a few moments looking for signs of life across the road like usual. It’s really strange that their winery just showed up out of the blue, started growing grapes, making wine, and winning awards left and right, while my family’s been at it longer with zero awards. But it’s kept our family going for years. I mean, sure, my parents haven’t had the money to maintain our old Victorian house, but that’s just because they reinvest in the business. Plus, they were paying for my college tuition.
And now I’m back home, after graduating from UCLA, to work at the family winery as their manager. If Neli can be successful at it, then why can’t I? I’ve been preparing for my role for years. Still, I plan to shadow my father, the master winemaker, to be sure I’m up to date on the production side. Next I’ll spend time with my mom, who does the marketing. We’re close, and I’m proud to work for the family business.
I turn from the window and shut off my white noise machine that I sleep with every night to ward off ghosts. Ha! Kidding. No such thing as ghosts. I’m much too practical to believe in the otherworldly. It’s just that this old Victorian house settles at night, and lately it’s been making all kinds of creaks and ghostly moan-like sounds. The white noise machine is to cover those completely explainable noises.
I take a quick shower and then dress in my favorite short-sleeved, pale pink floral maxi dress with black sandals. I love wearing maxi dresses that drape loosely to my ankles. So much more comfortable than jeans or pants. I leave my hair down since I’ll be working indoors today. First stop, the kitchen. I’m hoping the twins made something good for breakfast. My seventeen-year-old identical twin sisters—who will be seniors in high school this fall—are culinary geniuses.
In the kitchen, I find my sisters working on their latest recipe. The space is so inviting and cheerful, with honey wood cabinets, a huge center island, and a double-basin farm sink at a window that overlooks the backyard. The scent of warm cinnamon fills the air, and my stomach growls.
My sisters have their long hair up in high ponytails. We three girls resemble our Italian mother’s side with our dark brown hair and eyes, our petite frames, and light olive skin. I’m five feet four, and the twins are an inch shorter. Cute as buttons. Mabel wears an apron with a lemon pattern over her T-shirt and shorts. Eliza sticks with her peppermint-candy-striped apron year-round.
Mabel turns to Eliza. “What do you think about adding—”
“—pureed strawberry,” Eliza says.
“Just for the filling,” Mabel says.
“Yes!” Eliza exclaims, heading to the refrigerator.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” Mabel says cheerily. “We’re working on a dark chocolate cupcake recipe.”
Eliza lifts the strawberry container in a little wave. “Less than two weeks until the bake-off.”
“I know. It’s all I hear about around here.” I help myself to a glass of water. “Any chance you made breakfast before the cupcakes?”
Mabel waves toward her twin. “Eliza made cinnamon rolls, but Dad took them out for the staff.”
“You snooze, you lose,” Eliza says with a grin from the sink, where she’s washing the strawberries.
I cross to her. “Guess I’ll just steal a few strawberries.”
“Back away from the strawberries,” Eliza says, lifting the colander and setting it on the counter away from me.
“Just one,” I coax.
“Ha! I was kidding before,” Eliza says. “I saved a cinnamon roll for you. It’s on the dining room table.”
I beam. “You’re now officially my favorite sister.”
Eliza sticks her tongue out at Mabel.
Mabel arches her brows. “Eliza is my favorite sister.”
“Oh! Direct hit!” I stagger and pull the pretend knife from my back. Mabel smiles and goes back to measuring ingredients for cupcake batter. The food processor whirs a moment later, and they’re back in action.
