Chapter 6 - The Man Waiting to Own My Vineyard
Simon Vale smiled when he saw me enter his Providence office.
"Emily Harrington. You've grown into quite a businesswoman."
He rose behind an expensive mahogany desk.
I didn't shake his hand.
"You're trying to take my vineyard."
His smile faded slightly.
Jonathan stood beside me.
Simon glanced at him.
"I see you've brought counsel."
"I brought someone who understands the difference between a legitimate loan and a forged one."
Simon sat down.
"That's a serious accusation."
"So is claiming ownership of property I've never pledged."
He folded his hands.
"North Quay Capital extended financing based on documentation supplied by authorized parties. If your family misrepresented something, that's unfortunate."
"My signature was forged."
"That remains to be established."
Jonathan placed a copy of the disputed agreement on the desk.
"Your firm accepted documents witnessed by someone who wasn't present when the supposed borrower signed."
Simon studied the paper.
"Mr. Pierce, surely you understand that a lender relies on certifications provided through its closing process."
"Then you won't object to an examination of that process."
Simon didn't answer.
I looked around his office.
On the wall hung a photograph of him beside my father at a charity fundraiser.
Two successful men.
Two reassuring smiles.
Two people who had apparently decided my inheritance was available for their convenience.
"What happens if I refuse to pay a loan I never authorized?" I asked.
Simon leaned back.
"The matter will proceed through the courts. Litigation can be expensive. Commercial uncertainty can be particularly damaging to agricultural businesses."
It wasn't a direct threat.
It didn't have to be.
He knew that a vineyard couldn't simply stop operating while lawyers argued.
There were employees, suppliers, property taxes, and a harvest to manage.
He was counting on pressure doing what the law might not.
"There's another option," he said.
I waited.
"Your family could negotiate an orderly settlement."
"Meaning?"
"Transfer a controlling interest in the vineyard to an entity that can stabilize its finances. You could retain a minority stake and continue managing day-to-day operations."
I almost smiled.
"You want me to give you my grandfather's property so you'll stop trying to steal it?"
Simon adjusted his cuff.
"I want everyone to avoid unnecessary losses."
Jonathan rose.
"We'll communicate through counsel."
Outside, the afternoon sunlight felt strangely bright.
I stood beside my car, fighting the urge to cry.
Jonathan waited.
Finally, I said, "He thinks I'm going to surrender."
"He's hoping you'll calculate that surrender costs less than fighting."
"Does it?"
Jonathan considered the question.
"Financially, the uncertainty is real. But that doesn't make his claim legitimate."
We drove back to the vineyard.
By the time we arrived, Ruth had received troubling news.
Our largest equipment supplier had suspended new credit pending clarification of the property's ownership.
A packaging company wanted future deliveries paid in advance.
Two employees had heard rumors that an outside investor planned to close the cellar.
I gathered everyone in the processing room.
I refused to pretend things were fine.
"We're dealing with a serious legal dispute," I told them. "But our existing operating funds are separate, and payroll is covered."
Miguel raised his hand.
"Should we start looking for other jobs?"
The question hurt.
"You should always protect your families," I said. "But I'm not planning to shut this place down."
Ruth stood beside me.
"Neither am I."
Afterward, she brought me Grandpa's old pocket watch.
It was silver, scratched across the back, with a slightly stiff winding crown.
"He left this in the cellar office," she said. "I kept meaning to give it to you."
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Grandpa and me standing beside our first successful grape harvest.
I remembered that day.
I was twenty-two.
He'd told me that owning something meant being responsible for the people who helped create it.
I held the watch until my hands stopped shaking.
That evening, my father arrived at the vineyard.
Without Mom.
Without Olivia.
He looked older than he had three days earlier.
"I spoke with Simon," he said.
"So did I."
"He'll accept a settlement."
"I heard his offer."
Dad stepped closer.
"Emily, if you cooperate, I can protect Olivia and possibly save the rest of the family."
"And if I don't?"
His jaw tightened.
"Then this could get ugly for everyone."
I looked at him.
"You came here to ask me to sign away half my inheritance?"
"To save what can still be saved."
"No."
His face hardened.
"You're making a mistake."
"Maybe. But at least it'll be mine."
He turned toward the door.
Then Ruth entered, carrying an old wine-shipping register.
"Charles," she said, "before you leave, there's something I'd like you to explain."
She placed the register on my desk.
Beside a shipment entry dated October 2025 was a handwritten notation.
A $660,000 consulting fee.
Recipient: Portline Services.
Authorized by Charles Harrington.
Ruth looked at me.
"Emily, I checked the supporting invoices. Your sister's actual business debt was nowhere near nine hundred thousand dollars."
Dad stopped walking.
Ruth tapped the entry.
"Most of that money wasn't borrowed by Olivia."
May you like
She looked directly at my father.
"It went to a company you controlled."
