Present Day
“Mom, I haven’t seen you this excited in…well, ever. You’re practically vibrating,” Esme Galtero says as we hurry toward the loading dock.
My daughter’s voice is laced with amusement, but I don’t care. Still, she’s right. Today, I just can’t dial back my feelings, not when I’ve waited for this moment for as long as I can remember.
I do my best to stop my voice from shaking with excitement, but it’s no use. “It’s just that this painting is a piece of history, mija. Our history.”
“If it truly is Cosecha de Uvas, the long-lost jewel of El Ocaso,” Esme says, sounding skeptical.
At twenty-four, she’s the spitting image of me at that age—fiercely independent, with a quick wit and a heart full of dreams. But, unlike me, she’s not afraid to chase her passions, to take risks, and leap into the unknown.
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if it isn’t, Mom. Remember the last time you thought you’d found it, only to discover it wasn’t?”
“Ah, yes, the copy that collector…” I pause, enclosing the word in air quotes, “tried to pass on as real. Oh, I remember.”
Just another scam artist who thought he could fool my parents into buying the painting he swore was the one my great-great-great Uncle Pedro painted of the resort back when it was a working rancho. Only it wasn’t, and if I hadn’t insisted on provenance, my parents would have paid thousands of dollars for a poor copy. When one only has faded black-and-white photographs to go by, it’s easy to miss the details.
“But you caught it just in time,” Esme says.
“The forger used paints that didn’t exist at the time,” I say. “He must have hoped that, in your grandparents’ excitement, they wouldn’t consult anyone else until it was too late.”
My parents have always been razor-sharp when it comes to business, but since they retired and passed on the management of El Ocaso Resort to me five years ago, they have relaxed, trusting me to handle the details in everything while they enjoy their golden years. However, their passion for preserving the family’s legacy remains as strong as ever, which makes today so important.
As we approach the loading dock, my parents emerge from the side of the building, the excitement evident on their faces as they join us.
“I hope this is it,” Dad says as the delivery truck turns the corner of the driveway.
“With all the work Mom has done to verify the authenticity of the painting, Grandpa, I’m confident it’s the real thing,” Esme says, grinning. “It’s all she’s done in the last six months.”
I roll my eyes. “All I’ve done? I’ve been training you as my assistant as well, mija, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Hush, you two,” my mother says as the truck approaches.
“This is the painting he had to sell after all the grapes died?” Esme asks as her grandparents wince at the little bit of history that still packs an emotional punch. Once upon a time, Rancho El Ocaso was a thriving vineyard, but all that changed in 1883 when Anaheim Disease, later named Pierce’s Disease, caused the grapes to wither, their roots dying shortly after. What had been a Southern California dream to become the winemaking capital on the West Coast died overnight, forcing the Galtero family to pivot into growing oranges instead, but not before Pedro Galtero had to sell most of his paintings. This included selling his most prized painting with the hope that when their fortunes turned, he’d be able to recover them.
Unfortunately, he never got to, but through the generations, our family has been doing just that, filling the great hall of the resort with his recovered paintings, as well as others from the family that came after. And with each work of art, a story woven into bedtime tales and Sunday afternoon chats with Esme, my only daughter, filling me with hope that there’ll always be a Galtero passionate about the family’s history and legacy. “Exactly,” I reply as we reach the side entrance of the main building. “It’s a huge part of our history.”
Since pivoting to become El Ocaso Orchards in the late 1890s, the thousands of acres granted by the Spanish government has dwindled to a few hundred acres where the resort now sits. The rest of the land was parceled out to other family members from one generation to the next or sold to the quickly developing region of Orange County. These days, the El Ocaso Resort is a luxury resort and spa, popular for weddings and large celebrations. With a hundred rooms, the property includes two swimming pools—one indoor and one outdoor—an award-winning restaurant, beautiful gardens, and private villas. The old winery is part of the historical tour, as is a portion of orange groves, now a symbol of our family’s resilience and renewal, and whose harvest creates our famous marmalades.
The rumble of an engine snaps me out of my thoughts as a delivery truck comes to a halt, and the crew begins the careful process of unloading the precious cargo. My parents, Esme, and I watch with bated breath as the crate is lowered to the ground. The atmosphere is charged with reverence and excitement, the culmination of years of longing and searching.
“This is it, Lucia,” my father whispers. “Thanks to your hard work, it’s really happening.”
I nod, unable to tear my gaze away from the crate. It’s more than just a painting. It’s a piece of our history coming home at last.
The crew carefully pries open the crate, revealing layers of protective padding. Each covering removed brings us closer to the painting, the anticipation building to a crescendo. Finally, the last piece of protective material is peeled back, and there it is—El Ocaso: Cosecha de Uvas, Pedro Galtero’s masterpiece, a vivid depiction of the rancho’s heyday as a vineyard.
The painting surpasses all my expectations. Influenced by the earthy, subdued tones reminiscent of French painter Jean-François Millet, its intricate details and vivid depiction transport me to an era previously known only through stories. It feels as though our ancestors are reaching out through the canvas, their legacy vibrant and palpable in this moment.
“It’s stunning,” Esme breathes before stepping away from my side to direct the crew on where to place the painting.
“I can’t believe it’s finally back home.” My father’s eyes glisten with tears as he continues, “And from a mystery donor, no less.”
“Whoever donated this didn’t have to do it,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “They could have sold it and made a fortune, but they chose to bring it home to us.”
“So, you have no idea at all?” my mother asks as I shake my head.
“They’ve chosen to remain anonymous. All I know is the buyer based in New York,” I say. “It’s where they bought it.”
“I hope they attend the centennial celebration tomorrow evening where we’ll be sure to honor their donation,” Dad says, exhaling. “But whether or not they show, I am grateful to have it back in the family.”
We follow the crew into the hall where they proceed to install the painting on the main wall, taking care not to damage it or the wall with its adobe finish. Thirty minutes later, the crew leaves, followed by my parents who retreat to their cottage on the property.
As I immerse myself in the painting, lost in its details, the sound of approaching footsteps pulls me back to the present. The footfalls are measured, deliberate, as if the person is taking their time, savoring the moment. A prickle of awareness skitters down my spine, a sensation I haven’t felt in years.
No, it can’t be. It’s impossible.
I turn slowly, my heart lodged in my throat, as a tall figure emerges from the shadows. The light catches his features gradually, revealing him inch by tantalizing inch. First, the strong line of his jaw, then the chiseled planes of his face. When his gaze meets mine, the breath leaves my lungs in a dizzying rush.
Those eyes. Dark, intense, unforgettable.
Hiroyuki Asato.
Wearing a white Henley shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders and jeans, the sight of him sends a jolt through me. The wild tangle of dark curls I once loved to run my fingers through is now cropped short, peppered with silver that only enhances his aura of authority and experience. The lines around his eyes speak of laughter, of life lived fully, but there’s a depth there, too, one I can only imagine. His eyes still hold that same intensity that used to captivate me, a deep brown that feels so familiar.
Has it really been twenty-five years?
“Lucia, it’s very nice to see you again,” he murmurs, his voice a sound I hadn’t realized I’d been longing to hear again. Deeper, richer, unmistakably Hiro.
“What are you doing here?”
He glances at the painting, then back at me. “I would have arrived with the painting, but my head of security wouldn’t let me get into the truck.”
“Your head of security?”
“They’re checking into their rooms at the moment, but yes.” He cocks his head toward the door behind him just as Esme appears, out of breath. “I gather this lovely woman is your daughter? She told me where to find you.”
“Oh, good, you found her,” Esme says, her brow furrowing as she studies both of us, before she turns to face him. “I’m Esme, by the way, Miss Galtero’s daughter. You sped off before I could formally introduce myself.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Esme.” As he shakes her hand, his grin brings back a flood of memories. “I apologize for not introducing myself straight away. I’m Hiroyuki Asato, an old friend of your mother’s. But you can call me Hiro.”
Esme’s eyebrows rise in a mix of surprise and curiosity, her gaze flickering between us. “An old friend,” she repeats. “Yet she’s never mentioned you.”
“It was a very long time ago,” I say before turning my attention to Hiro. “Wait. You donated the painting?”
“It belongs to your family.”
I stare at him. The idea that Hiro, of all people, would return a piece of our legacy feels like a twist of fate I never expected. “How did you even find it? We’ve looked everywhere.”
“My business partner discovered it in New York. Daniel must have remembered my stories of growing up here when he saw the name of the painting and mentioned it to me. A few calls later…” he pauses, chuckling, “more than a few calls later, the owner offered to sell it, and now it’s back where it belongs.”
“You can’t imagine how excited Mom was when she heard you were donating the painting to El Ocaso,” Esme says. “She’s been obsessed over finding that painting for years.”
Hiro’s smile softens, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that feels both comforting and unsettling. “Well, it’s finally back home at El Ocaso.”
The mention of El Ocaso from his lips brings a rush of memories—of us, young and reckless, racing through the orange groves, climbing up our favorite tree where he’d carved our initials, and the quiet walks in the moonlight where he promised me we’d be together forever.
“It’s good to be back here,” Hiro says quietly, almost to himself. “I’ve missed this place.”
“Clearly, I missed something,” Esme says, her eyes narrowing. “You said something earlier about growing up here? Is that true? But how...?”
“My father used to be the foreman of the rancho.”
“And that’s how you know my mother?”
“He knows the whole family,” I say, pausing. “Well, he knew the whole family. It’s been years since he’s been back.”
“We moved away just before your mother went to Switzerland for college.”
“Where I met your dad and we had you,” I add quickly. “The rest is history.”
Okay, Esme mouths, her brow furrowing as her gaze goes from me to Hiro and back to me again. “Anyway, why don’t I leave you two to catch up? I have to check on catering for tomorrow’s event.”
As she gracefully excuses herself and leaves the room, the silence that falls between Hiro and me feels heavy, pregnant with unspoken words and lingering what-ifs accumulated over the years.
“Your father was more than just a foreman to us,” I murmur. “You were family.” The words hang in the air, hinting at the pain of his absence when I needed him most, though I stop short of voicing the accusation. Hiro disappeared just as my family suddenly sent me to Europe, hoping to keep me apart from the man I thought would always be mine.
Still, he could have made an effort to find me, to reach out and assure me of his love. Just a glimmer of hope would have sufficed, a promise that he still believed in our future together.
But he never did.