The Winemaker

There was something magical about the bay at twilight. Not the pixie dust and fairy wings kind of magic, the imaginary kind that left a person wishing for something they couldn’t have. 

No, this kind of power was very much here, very much within reach. It was a quiet that came over the water after the boats were tucked into the marina and everyone who normally filled the air with their chatter along the boardwalk had gone home. 

Some people said I had my head in the clouds, that Selena Contreras would never achieve anything extraordinary. Maybe they were right, but tonight I wished for so many things as I lay in the clearing beyond the trees. Beyond the confines of the traditions that dictated what my life would be before I was even born.

But living along the beautiful Maine coastline made me feel like anything was possible.

I’d ridden my moped from my family’s orchard down dusty back roads and through town to get to my favorite spot near the bay boardwalk.

I stared up into the darkening sky. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to see anything save the sweeping beam of the distant lighthouse that turned the dull, gray rocks silver. 

A sigh rattled from my lungs as I let my body relax into the ground, releasing the strain of another day’s work. I loved my family’s orchard. Some days, I didn’t even mind working my hands to the bone to keep it going. We could only afford minimal help, and it was on the entire family to pitch in, even grandma, though I think she enjoyed it the most. 

But other days—days when all I felt was a bone-weary ache in my soul—on those days, I wanted something more. 

As stars began dotting the sky, I listened to the sound of the gentle waves rushing up against the rocks. There weren’t big waves this far into the inlet that led to our little town of Superiore Bay, but as the wind rippled over the surface, it created a tiny splashing that was comforting in its rhythm. 

The purr of a boat engine nearing the shore had me lifting my head. I recognized that sound. It came from a tiny fishing boat, the only one that would dare venture near the rocks this late in the day when shadows cloaked the shore. 

Because it was driven by someone who never thought anything would happen to him. Carter Ashford. My best friend. A best friend I wasn’t allowed to have.

I pushed to my feet, throwing my dark wavy hair over my shoulders before shoving my hands into the pockets of my overalls. 

The boat ran up onto the only gap in the rocks, a tiny strip of beach Carter and I found years ago, barely large enough for a boat. It was the only place we could see each other without our families hearing of it. 

The Contrerases and the Ashfords were rivals. We lived on opposite sides of the bay, them in their mansion on the edge of their vineyard and us in our run-down Victorian-style house among the orchards we put our blood sweat and tears into for generations. Grapes verses apples, but the rivalry ran deeper than fruit, though all I knew was the feud dated back several generations before us. 

Older people could be so childish. 

Carter hopped out of his boat, dragging it farther onto the beach before climbing up the rocks to the grassy area where I waited. The boardwalk sat behind us, dozens of feet above the rocks and boulders that concealed us from the prying eyes of the town.