Page 110 of The Spare

Now, enjoying the stillness of this place requires you to get up earlier. Otherwise, the day begins with a full crew of vineyard workers and the low hum of campers in the distance.

In place of the charred remains of the back quadrant now sits Camp Braveheart. There are three timber cabins, a small dining hall, a winding trail lined with pine and wildflowers, and assorted outdoor activities to keep the kids entertained.

A pair of arms slips around my waist from behind, warm and familiar. Alexis rests her forehead on my back. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yourself?”

I give her a squeeze. “I was just thinking about the last twenty-three years. How every wrong turn brought us to this moment.” I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. God, how my life has changed in the last three years.

I’m still in therapy, working through the torment of my past. And so is Alexis. But with the help of Dr. Miller, and the unwavering love and support of my wife, I’m finally learning to love and appreciate myself.

“Thinking about how much we’ve grown.” I turn to peer down at her, trying to blink back the tears in my eyes. “Look at what we’ve created here.” The winery isn’t simply surviving. It’s bountiful.

And it’s all ours.

My wife looks off into the distance. “They all sleeping in after the bonfire last night?”

“Most likely. They should be pretty worn out after the week they had.” I grin, taking another sip of coffee. I lean down to kiss her cheek. “I think Gavin spent hours leading them in terrible campfire songs with his acoustic guitar.”

“He’s a good egg.” She laughs. The beautiful sound is even more rich in the crisp morning air.

Three years ago, Sutter Creek was circling the brink of bankruptcy. Today, we’ve rehired every vineyard worker we had to let go, and then some. The vineyard is flourishing, its vines dripping with abundant grapes worthy of an excellent vintage. And the addition of Camp Braveheart has allowed up to twenty-four kids who’ve lost parents or siblings to realize they don’t have to carry their grief all by themselves. Each week, new campers move in to those cabins, making friendship bracelets, learning how to ride horses, and creating lasting friendships.

In a very short time, we’ve been able to support ourselves with the well-managed profits of the winery. Not one additional cent of trust money was infused into Sutter Creek. But with each new anniversary Alexis and I celebrate, a new injection of funds, thanks to Pops, arrives to ensure we can continue to host grieving children for years to come.

My mother has tried to contest the validity of our marriage, the yearly trust distributions, and her standing at Sutter Creek on numerous occasions. Yet Mr. Sterling’s airtight legal team shuts her down before she can say courtroom each and every time. I haven’t spoken to her since the night I threw her out of our home.

And for the first time in my life, I feel free.

After hours and hours of watching security footage, Aaron Sterling’s private investigator was able to locate the intern in his office who obtained copies of my grandfather’s trust. However, there’s no video capturing my mother receiving said documents. Thus, the only party held responsible was the poor sap she probably paid. Hope they enjoyed all the years of law school education they’ll never use now.

“Look,” Alexis whispers, pointing toward the main trail.

Down near the wooden archway bearing the camp’s name, a little boy in an oversized jacket is sitting on a bench, staring out at the wildflowers. “Is that Adam?” I ask.

“Yes.” Adam is an eight-year-old who lost his mother six months ago and hasn’t spoken more than three words since he arrived last weekend.

Alexis disappears for a few short moments before returning, then reaching for my hand. I set my coffee mug down on the railing, lacing my fingers through hers as we walk down the wooden steps together.

We cross the grass quietly, stopping a few feet from where he’s perched. Alexis sits down on one end of the bench, leaving plenty of space, while I lean against the wooden post nearby.

After a long minute, she reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out a small, brightly colored packet, and gently sets it between them.

“They’re Pop Rocks.”

Adam blinks. He looks down at the brightly colored wrapper, then up at Alexis.

“They snap in your mouth,” she says, her voice soft. “Sometimes, when everything in your head feels like it’s too much, it helps to focus on something noisy.” She laughs. Pulling a second packet from her pocket, she tears open a corner and pours a small amount into her mouth. She sticks her tongue out enough he can hear the popping noise.

Adam stares at the packet for a long moment, then reaches out with a small hand and picks it up. He tears open the top, pours a tiny pinch onto his tongue, and listens to the quiet crackle. A ghost of a smile touches the corner of his lips.

Adam looks up at Alexis, then at me, before taking a slow, deep breath of the mountain air.

I look over at my wife. Her golden hair catches the morning light, and her wedding ring glimmers in the sun. I’m full of immense pride. For what we’ve been able to do for Pops’ vineyard, for the children who visit, and for each other.

Because out here, where the wildflowers grow, we finally have everything we ever needed.

Lexi

The afternoon sun warms the rolling green fields of Sutter Creek, casting a golden hue over the crowded landscape. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the lively chatter of hundreds of guests permeate the air as we host the annual Hanover Wine Festival.