Lily led him back down to the cellar they had visited only days before, hoping beyond all hope that what she was doing was right. She’d wanted to come sooner, but the restaurant had taken up all her time. Vihaan had returned from his holiday and had needed a couple of days to get back into the swing of things – and to see how much Kev had developed in his absence. Enough to step up so that she’d have more time for the wedding.

But before she could do that, she needed to do this. For Henry. For herself.

Henry hadn’t questioned her about where they were going, he seemed to follow her with a trust and acceptance she wasn’t sure she deserved. This was either going to work or it wasn’t. But she would at least have tried. Lily had resigned herself to the fact that he was going to sell the estate, but the conversation with her mother had repeated in her head and, having lost her own father, she knew how important that relationship was. She wanted to give Henry something of that back. Not because she was going to get anything out of it. But because he deserved it.

She turned on the light, thankful she was wearing her cardigan, as the cool dry air of the cellar bit a little in contrast to the heat from the summer’s sun. She drew him towards the mahogany chest.

‘This is yours,’ she said, giving him the key.

‘Why do you have it?’

Henry was shrouded by the shadows of the alcove in the cellar so she couldn’t quite see the expression on his face but noted the curiosity in his tone.

‘Blake was worried he might lose it. He was always losing things. And … it was important to him.’

Henry took the key, but held it in his hands for a moment as if unsure as to whether he wanted to use it or not. She nodded to herself and turned to leave.

‘Can you stay?’ he asked.

‘Are you sure? I—’

‘Please.’

‘OK,’ she replied. Henry held her gaze and she wondered what he saw. Because for a moment, they were there, together, and the moment that he opened the chest … She wanted him, needed him, to see that she wasn’t intruding.

He turned to the chest, breaking whatever strange hold that moment contained, and placed the small key in the lock and turned. One large mahogany swing swung open to reveal a wine rack with twelve bottles on the shelves and a series of drawers beneath.

‘The drawers have Blake’s diaries in them. Decisions about the vineyard, descriptions about the grape varieties, when planting worked, what seasons were good. That kind of thing,’ she explained.

‘And these?’ he said of the wine bottles.

‘Take a look,’ she directed.