When I got remarried it saved me, that I didn’t tell my husband or his children the winery was mi…

Red Flags and Strategic Omissions

Emily flew up from Napa for the wedding. The night before, as we were having wine on the porch of the farmhouse, she shared her concerns.

“Mom, are you sure about this? Those kids of his give me a weird vibe.”

“They’re just protective of their father,”

I told her.

“He’s all they have left since their mother died.”

“Yeah, but the way Patricia was looking at the winery building, the tasting room, the barrels,”

Emily countered.

“Mom, she was assessing value. I know that look. I see it from developers all the time.”

I waved her off, telling her she was being paranoid.

“Did you get a prenup, Emily? Mom, please tell me you got a prenup.”

I had. My attorney, Linda Chen, whom I’d known since my real estate days, had insisted.

Richard had seemed a little hurt when I brought it up, but he’d signed without too much fuss. The prenup was clear: assets acquired before the marriage remained separate property.

The estate, the winery, and the business were all mine. But what I didn’t tell anyone—not Emily, not Linda, and not even Richard—was what I actually told Richard and his children about the property ownership.

I lied. It wasn’t a big lie, just a strategic omission.

I told them the estate was cooperative family property that had been in the Morrison name for generations. I implied there were other stakeholders.

I made it sound like I was the manager and the operator, but not the sole owner. When they asked direct questions, I deflected.

“It’s complicated,”

or,

“There are family trusts involved,”

or,

“My attorney handles all of that.”

Was it dishonest? Maybe. But something in my gut told me to protect this information.

Some instinct I developed over 30 years of fighting to build and keep my business told me that Richard’s children seeing me as a wealthy widow with millions in real estate might not be a good thing. And oh, was I right.

The Shift in the Second Year

The wedding was small and intimate. We got married at the estate, of course, under an arch covered in grapevines.

Emily was my maid of honor, and Richard’s three children stood as his attendants. They were all smiling and gracious.

Patricia even hugged me and called me “Mom,” which should have been sweet but somehow felt performative. We didn’t go on a honeymoon.

Harvest season was approaching, and I couldn’t leave Carlos to handle it alone. Richard said he understood.

He moved into the farmhouse, bringing his furniture, his books, and his golf clubs. We settled into married life.

For the first year, it was good. Richard seemed content to play golf at the club in Santa Rosa, host his children for Sunday dinners, and sit on the porch in the evenings with a glass of my wine.

He didn’t interfere with the business or ask too many questions. He was just there for companionship.

But in year two, things shifted. It started with Derek.

He came to visit alone one Saturday and asked if he could take a look at the books for the winery. He said it was just from a financial planning perspective.

“Dad mentioned you might want to expand distribution, and I have some connections in that world.”

I’d never mentioned wanting to expand distribution.

“Thanks, Derek, but Carlos and I have the business side handled. We’re happy with our current distributors.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You know, Kathy, you’re family now. We want to help. That’s what families do.”

Then Patricia started showing up with real estate agents. She said it was just to get the property appraised for insurance purposes.

“You’re probably underinsured, and with climate change affecting California, fire insurance is crucial.”

I already had excellent insurance, and I told her so.

“But have you had the land appraised recently? I’m seeing comparable properties in Sonoma going for 12, even 15 million. You should know what you’re sitting on.”

I asked her to leave. Mitchell was subtler.

He’d come over for dinner and casually mention how his tech consulting was going.

“You know, a lot of wineries are moving into e-commerce and direct-to-consumer sales. I could help you build out a platform. Family discount, of course.”

I already had a website, and I already did direct sales.

Hidden Documents and Secret Calls

The most disturbing thing was Richard. He started asking me to sign things.

“Just updating my life insurance beneficiaries,”

he’d say, sliding a form across the kitchen table.

“Standard stuff.”

I’d read every word. Half the time, the documents had nothing to do with his life insurance.

They were financial powers of attorney, property transfer authorizations, and papers that would give him legal authority over my accounts.

“Richard, I’m not signing this,”

I said more than once.

“Why not? Don’t you trust me? We’re married, Catherine.”

“It’s not about trust. I’m just not signing documents I don’t fully understand.”

He’d get cold and then distant. He wouldn’t speak to me for days.

Then came the phone calls. I started noticing he’d take calls outside, walking down between the vine rows where I couldn’t hear.

When I asked who it was, he’d say it was just Derek, or Patricia, or nobody important. Three years into the marriage, I came home from a meeting with my distributor to find Richard, Derek, and Patricia in my office.

They had my filing cabinet open and papers spread across my desk.

“What are you doing?”

I asked. They all jumped like they’d been caught.

Patricia quickly started gathering papers while Derek closed the filing cabinet. Richard smiled that smooth smile.

“We were just looking for the insurance papers, darling. Patricia was right; we really should update your policy.”

“Those are private business documents. You had no right to be in here.”

“Catherine, I’m your husband. We don’t have secrets in a marriage.”