He laughs, wiping down the counter with a towel. "They're out back in the garden dining area, probably drinking the wine Margot set out for them and arguing about who's going to embarrass me most during their toasts tonight. Last I heard, Jack was taking bets."
I smile, warmth spreading through my chest. The garden dining area is one of my favorite parts of the property, ten tables set among roses and rosemary and lavender, overlooking the vineyard rows that stretch toward the hills, string lights overhead for when the sun sets.
All four of Alex's brothers and their families flew down for the opening, so it's been a chaotic week of last-minute setup, family dinners that go late into the evening, wine tasting in town, mornings with coffee on the cottage porch while everyone talks over each other.
In other words, wonderful. Loud and overwhelming and exactly what family should be.
Even Mia’s here. She happened to be visiting LA this week and flew up when she heard about the opening. We stayed in contact after our night in San Francisco, the occasional text turning into actual friendship, and she's spent the last two days helping with last-minute details and making Margot laugh with stories about her disastrous dating life.
Who would have thought, this time last year, working in my father's cold sterile kitchen in New York, going home to an empty apartment and craving connection, that I'd be here now, feeling like I'm wrapped in a warm hug every single day.
Alex still co-owns Harbor & Ash with Theo, and we fly back up to Dark River every now and then to check in, spend a long weekend helping with new menu development and catching up with Miranda and the rest of the team.
"Come on," I say, moving to the prep station. "Let's finish this together."
We work side by side for the next twenty minutes, prepping the last components, bumping hips and laughing the entire time, that easy partnership we've developed over months of cooking together. We move around each other like we've been doing this for years, reading each other's movements, anticipating needs.
There's a knock on the kitchen door and Margot pushes through, the vintage serving platters carefully balanced in her arms, the blue-rimmed ovals catching the kitchen light. "Isabelle, your father's here."
I feel my stomach drop slightly, and I glance at Alex automatically. He gives me an encouraging smile and a small nod, his hand finding mine and squeezing briefly before letting go.You've got this, his expression says.I'm right here.
I've been slowly rebuilding my relationship with my father over the last two months, tentative phone calls that have graduallygotten longer and easier, and he flew out from New York for the opening tonight. But the fact that my father is here at all still surprises me. And scares me just a little.
I guess after Alex managed to prove that he was never in it for the money or the connections, only me, my father had to reconsider everything he thought he knew. But mostly I just think Jean-Pierre respected that Alex beat him at his own game.
And he's been different these past two months, I have to admit. Maybe almost losing me completely—the very real possibility that I would cut him out of my life entirely—scared him into actually changing. I don't know yet. But I'm willing to try, and see if this new version of him is real or just another manipulation.
I glance at Margot, who sets the platters down carefully and then steals a strawberry off the prep counter, popping it in her mouth with a wink that makes me smile despite my nerves. I take a breath, smooth down my apron, and push through the swinging door into the dining room.
Jean-Pierre is standing near the entrance, hands in the pockets of his expensive slacks, looking around the space with an expression I can't quite read. There's something different in his bearing today, something that might be nervousness.
He turns at the sound of the door, his eyes finding me immediately, and his expression shifts into something softer. "Isabelle."
"Hi, Papa," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected it to be.
I cross to him, my heart pounding, and after only a moment's hesitation, I pull him into a hug.
He returns the embrace, his arms tight around me for a moment before he pulls back, his hands on my shoulders, looking around the room again. "Isabelle, it's beautiful. It's like your grandmother's house. Just like it."
He turns slowly, taking in the warm lighting, the vintagefurniture, the family photos on the walls, the copper pots hanging over the bar, the fresh flowers everywhere.
"She would have loved this," he says, and his voice cracks slightly.
My throat goes tight. "I hoped she would. I tried to capture what I remember, what it felt like to be there with her. There's a photo of her on the wall, over there. A few actually, from different years."
He follows my gaze to the cluster of frames near the bar and walks over slowly, looking at each one with careful attention. I can see the grief there, still present after all these years, mixed with love and longing and the particular ache of missing someone who shaped who you became.
After a long quiet moment, I speak again. "There's a photo of you too, Papa. Right there."
I point to the photo I hung specifically for him, the one I've always loved. Him and me at a beach in southern France, me eight years old and sitting on his shoulders, my arms spread wide like I'm flying. Him lifting me up toward the sky, both his hands on my waist keeping me safe, his face tilted up toward me, smiling.
Both of us laughing, completely happy, the Mediterranean sparkling behind us. Before cooking became my career instead of my joy. Before our relationship became about control and disappointment.
"I remember that day," he says quietly. "You wanted to touch the clouds. You were convinced if you could just get high enough, you could grab one and bring it down to show your mother."
"You told me if I reached high enough, I could do anything," I say, the memory suddenly vivid.
"Thank you for putting this here," he says, gesturing to the photo. "I love this photo. I'd forgotten about it until now, but seeing it... thank you."