Chapter 5 - The List
The schedule was labeled Projected Asset Contributions.
Projected.
Not completed.
But every parcel belonging to Reyes Vineyard appeared on it.
The winery building.
The tasting room.
The production barn.
The family house.
Even the hillside chapel where Isabel’s parents had renewed their vows on their twenty-fifth anniversary.
Helena had not merely wanted leverage over a well.
She had planned for the entire property to enter HL Agricultural Holdings.
Isabel read the document three times.
At the bottom was a proposed valuation.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
She felt strangely detached from the number.
Her father had never spoken about Reyes Vineyard as twenty-eight million dollars.
He measured it in harvests.
Workers.
Years.
Mistakes.
The 1998 frost.
The fire that nearly reached the eastern blocks.
The row where Isabel learned to prune vines badly at fourteen.
Money was real.
But it had never been the whole thing.
To Helena, apparently, it had become arithmetic.
Isabel met Maya the next morning.
“We file,” Maya said.
“For what?”
“Initially, a civil action challenging the north parcel deed and seeking temporary restrictions on any further transfer or encumbrance.”
“Can a judge give the parcel back immediately?”
“Not immediately.”
Isabel exhaled in frustration.
Maya continued.
“We can ask for an order preventing further transactions while the dispute is investigated. We can also record notice of the litigation if appropriate, which alerts third parties that title is contested.”
“And Helena?”
“She gets due process too.”
“I watched her try to trap me in a cellar.”
“And that may matter elsewhere. But property law does not disappear because someone behaved badly.”
Isabel leaned back.
“I hate how calm you are.”
“It’s why you hired me.”
Despite herself, Isabel almost smiled.
Then Maya’s expression changed.
“I also pulled preliminary lending records connected to the LLC.”
“How?”
“Publicly recorded security documents.”
“And?”
“HL Agricultural obtained a three-million-dollar commercial loan six months after the north parcel deed.”
Isabel felt sick.
“Using my land?”
“The north parcel is listed among the collateral.”
“So there’s already a lender involved.”
“Yes.”
“What happens if the deed is forged?”
“That gets complicated. We need the loan file and title work.”
Isabel rubbed her temples.
“I want to know where the money went.”
“So do I.”
Back at the vineyard, harvest preparations had begun.
This was the worst possible time for instability.
Forty seasonal workers were expected within two weeks.
Contracts with growers and buyers had deadlines.
Fermentation tanks had to be inspected.
Equipment had to arrive.
Wine did not care about family betrayal.
Grapes ripened anyway.
Luis met Isabel near the production barn.
“We have another problem.”
She almost laughed.
“Of course we do.”
“Ortega Distribution called.”
Ortega handled almost thirty percent of Reyes Vineyard’s restaurant accounts.
“What did they want?”
“They heard ownership is disputed.”
“How?”
Luis looked uncomfortable.
“Someone told them.”
Isabel knew immediately.
Helena.
“What did they say?”
“They want assurance we can fulfill the fall allocation.”
“We can.”
“I told them that.”
“But?”
“They asked whether the bank could freeze operations.”
Isabel closed her eyes.
A title dispute had become a commercial weapon.
If buyers believed Reyes Vineyard might collapse, they would move their orders elsewhere before harvest.
And once restaurant placements disappeared, they were difficult to recover.
“Get Ortega on a call this afternoon.”
Luis nodded.
As he turned away, Isabel noticed Julian standing near the end of the crush pad.
He had been helping technicians repair a pump.
For the first time in days, he looked like the man she had married—dirty boots, rolled sleeves, hair damp with sweat.
It made her angrier.
He approached carefully.
“Camila told me about the asset schedule.”
“Did she?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Another surprise.”
“Yes.”
He accepted the insult.
Isabel folded her arms.
“I need your phone.”
His eyes lifted.
“What?”
“Not permanently. Maya wants relevant messages preserved.”
“You can have it.”
The immediate answer surprised her.
“Don’t delete anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Not even messages that make you look guilty?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Julian looked at her for a long moment.
“Because I’m done making choices based on what I’m afraid will happen if the truth comes out.”
Isabel wanted to believe him.
That made her furious with herself.
He handed her the phone.
“Passcode is still your birthday.”
She stared at it.
“Don’t make that sentimental.”
“I wasn’t.”
She gave the phone to Maya’s investigator that afternoon.
The Ortega call went badly.
Their purchasing director remained polite but cautious.
“If there’s any interruption in production—”
“There won’t be.”
“We need more than verbal assurance.”
“You’ve bought from us for eleven years.”
“And we intend to continue. But our customers need supply certainty.”
After the call, Isabel stood alone in the tasting room.
Her father’s photograph hung beside the old fireplace.
Miguel Reyes in work clothes, laughing, holding a bottle from the first vintage Isabel had helped blend.
She looked at him.
“You would’ve seen this coming.”
The room, naturally, offered no answer.
Her phone rang.
Maya.
“We found the notary.”
Isabel straightened.
“Who?”
“A man named Evan Pike. Commission active at the time. His stamp appears on the recorded deed.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“I already tried.”
“And?”
“He said he does not remember the transaction.”
“That’s believable?”
“No.”
Isabel waited.
Maya continued.
“Because according to the acknowledgment, the deed was notarized at the Laurent Cellars administrative office.”
Isabel went still.
“When?”
“June fourteenth last year at 4:20 p.m.”
She remembered that date.
Not vaguely.
Exactly.
Because on June fourteenth, Isabel had been in Oregon attending a three-day wine-industry conference.
She had given a panel presentation at four in the afternoon.
In front of more than two hundred people.
Her photograph from the panel had appeared online that same evening.
Isabel sat slowly.
“So I can prove I wasn’t there.”
“Yes.”
“For once, yes.”
But Maya did not sound relieved.
“What?”
“There’s another signature on the notary acknowledgment as an identifying witness.”
“Whose?”
Silence.
Then Maya answered.
May you like
“Julian’s.”
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