Lily felt the rise of goosebumps across her skin, sadness mixed with nostalgia and swirled with a strange happy kind of peace that Henry could not only see as much, but acknowledge.

‘And I wanted you to know that. I also want you to know how thankful I am that you are here today. Not just to help, which of course you did,’ he insisted as a gentle laughter broke out. ‘But also, for a moment, giving me back something of my father.’ At that, his gaze finally settled on Lily and pierced her heart with a look as much as his words.

She couldn’t have held back the tear that escaped and rolled down her cheek so she hastily swiped at it before anyone could see.

‘And that’s it! Now is the time to drink – responsibly! – and eat and be merry,’ Henry concluded.

It was some time before Lily saw him again, as she’d seen him stop and talk to each and every one of the volunteers, laughing with them and thanking them in person. And she didn’t mind one bit. It felt good to see him do the very thing that his father had once done. She had just seen the last of the volunteers off and packed up Kate in her old Volvo – having deposited Lily’s bicycle – and Vihaan in his beetle with all the now empty food containers and trays, before patting the little car on the back window and watching them disappear down the drive.

‘Was that Kate and Vihaan?’ Henry asked, coming to stand beside her.

‘Yes, they said to say goodbye. They’ve still got prep for tomorrow’s breakfast before they finish for the day.’

‘I’m sorry you had to close the restaurant.’

‘It’s OK. It makes a nice change, and besides we do – did – it every year,’ she said, trying to keep the dull ache at the thought of not getting to do another harvest at the estate at bay.

‘One more for the road?’ he asked, tipping the bottle of rosé in his hand.

‘Why not?’ she said, smiling as they went to the last of the blankets on the grass bank that looked out over the vineyard. It had been a beautiful day and … and she couldn’t deny it. The desire to have Henry all to herself was too much.

He poured her a glass and passed it to her as she came to sit beside him, waiting. Because he seemed to have something he wanted to say.

‘Was that OK? What I said,’ he asked, refusing to look at her just in case it wasn’t.

‘Yes, Henry. It was more than OK. It was beautiful.’

He let out a small growl as if it was unmanly to be accused of being beautiful and she laughed.

‘I couldn’t remember what my father used to say and I wasn’t sure …’