Only three people in the world knew that I painted—my mother, my father, and Dane. Other than that, I kept it to myself even though the walls of my room and our home were covered with my artistic creations. I painted our winery, the buildings, the vines, the town, Julia’s vineyard, and even some label mockups for our special-edition wines, but so far, I hadn’t been able to convince my parents to ditch the traditional logo and try one of mine. They were so rooted in tradition and what worked that they were afraid to rock the boat.

Pulling my car into the driveway, I hopped out and headed straight toward the small barn where my paints and canvas were set up. Some people wrote out their frustrations with words in journals or books but not me. I’d never been good with writing, and when Julia had basically stepped on my heart that night in the vineyard back in high school, I’d come here and painted until the sun rose. She said I had no feelings, but I spilled them all over seven canvases that night, painting broken hearts on fire with vines twisting through them and a shattered heart among the rubble as she walked away from it. I painted out my pain, and by morning, even though I was exhausted, I thought I felt better. That was, until I had seen her at school, and she’d refused to even acknowledge my existence.

Dipping my brush into the red acrylic paint, I swiped it across the stark white canvas in long brushstrokes, my heart screaming in anger as thoughts of Julia with Todd filled my head. It was the smell that pulled me out first. I stopped moving as I breathed in the air, my skin suddenly alive with the awareness that something was wrong. I knew that scent all too well.

Throwing open the barn door, I ran outside. The smell of fire was definitely stronger, and I could see the smoke and the light of the flames rising through the darkness in the distance.

“Dad!” I screamed as I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Dad!” I yelled again as I started sprinting.

Running for the back of our property in the dark toward the light of the flames, I slammed to an abrupt halt when I saw the actual fire, my eyes practically bulging out of my head at how close it was and how high the orange bursts were shooting into the night’s sky. I said a quick thank you to whoever listened for the lack of wind and prayed the air would stay still.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“Tina, it’s James Russo,” I stuttered, recognizing the voice of the operator. “There’s a fire on the land behind mine and the La Bellas’. Send the trucks quickly. It’s growing and heading straight for the property.”