Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Myles
I’d flown back the day before yesterday.
I’d expected to be busy once I landed, but Mrs. Crane had arranged times for every department to touch base with me, and then she’d taken me on a tour of what the contractors had been up to.
Progress was only a week behind schedule.
The place had run just fine while I was out of town.
Now I was left with an evening free, and I wasn’t set to fly out until tomorrow. My car was at the airport in Bozeman, and I was stuck at Foster House, or I’d drive back tonight. I had checked with the co-op, but the plane was booked.
So I was kicked back on my couch, remembering how fucking epic it was to wake up with Wynn in my bed. I’d made myself an old fashioned—with Foster House’s Original—and tried to relax.
I made it five minutes before I called Lane.
He answered with “Fuck, you’re old. Do you know people don’t call anymore?”
I chuckled. He reminded me of Teller when he bit my head off. “It’s more efficient than staring at my phone waiting for you to fat-finger a reply.”
“I have deftly talented fingers. There’re a few girls you could ask.”
I’d rather not hear more about Lane’s sex life. “How was the weekend?”
“Worth the drive to see Cruz miserable.”
I sat forward, worry zinging down my spine. “He’s miserable?”
“Tired. Cold all day. Can’t cock off whenever he wants. But he’s still there, getting bossed around all day by someone other than me. That’s good enough.”
“Mae cooks better than you.”
He grunted. “That’s for sure.”
“What about you?”
“They tried to get me to do shit, but I fixed a few things and left. Have to give it to them—they pay faster than any customer I’ve ever seen.”
“When you going again?” Would he be going again?
He was quiet. “This weekend.”
I chuckled, knowing it’d piss him off.
“What? There’s some fucking good food there.”
“Next thing you know, you’re going to be grooming a horse.”
“I don’t need to groom a goddamn horse. I don’t need to get one, and I don’t need to feed one.”
I could encourage him or point out he was scared, but I’d rather act like an asshole brother instead. “Buuuuck…buck-buck-buck.”
“I’m not a chicken, jackass!”
“Bet you’d ride a motorcycle.”
“I can control the motorcycle. It doesn’t suddenly decide to buck me the hell off.”
I laughed. “Cruz is going to ride circles around you.”
He grumbled. Cruz’s progress might be what got him on a horse. “Whatever, it’s winter anyway. Tate said they prefer the ice be all melted before they ride. What about you? Did you win the girl back yet?”
Since he’d been open with me, and since I was quickly getting used to talking to Lane about my personal life, I told him the truth. “No. She got weird on our date and cut it short early. I don’t know what I did or said.”
“Did you do the flowers?”
“Flowers don’t win the girl.”
He grunted. “She worth it?”
“Yes.”
“There you have it. More flowers.”
I chuckled. “I’m going to be the first to tell you that you’ll need to make more of an effort than that.”
“I’m not interested in forever, Myles. You don’t see our mother in a relationship and think you want that for yourself.”
“I saw her in a healthy relationship.” Would Wynn have had a chance otherwise? “It was after my dad died that she…changed. Took his pills. Started making claims about my dad’s parents.”
“She have something against in-laws?”
“Right?” We both fell quiet. “I’ll let you go. Don’t eat all of Mae’s food without doing dishes.”
“I did fucking dishes. Do you think that woman would let me get away without drying? What the hell does she think a dishwasher’s for?”
Laughing, I hung up on him.
His question about Gianna came back to me. She have something against in-laws?
What if Gianna had been lying about my grandparents? Lane and Cruz’s grandmother had been a godsend.
What if my grandparents weren’t even dead?
I pulled up a browser and searched for Fosters in the Portland area. A ton of names came up, but thanks to Gianna’s rants, I found them anyway. Ella and Nicolas Foster.
Still fucking alive.
That goddamn liar!
I let the hatred roll through me. I’d learned a long time ago not to hide from it. Stuffing the hate in a corner was akin to planting an incendiary device in my brain. Next thing I knew, I’d be drunk dialing Wynn again, and she didn’t need that bullshit.
Once the emotion died down, I dialed Wynn.
“Hello?” Her sweet voice tamped the rest of the anger down.
“Gianna lied about my grandparents being dead.”
“What?” Fabric rustled.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“I mean, I have to tell my date to leave, but he already got me off three times, so I think I’m good.”
More anger sparked bright and died quickly. A smile stretched my lips. “Only three? Chump.”
She laughed. “I am curled up with a barn cat that’s recovering from a fight with some unknown creature. Mama retired her and brought her inside. Little Miss doesn’t have to wear the cone of shame if she’s sleeping with me.”
I’d love to see her snuggling with one of the thick-coated cats from outside.
“So your grandparents are alive?” she asked quietly.
“Apparently. I don’t know for sure it’s them.”
“Did you check for obituaries?”
No. “Hold on.” I did a quick search in and around the Portland area. None of the ages fit. My grandparents would be in their late seventies or eighties. “I don’t see them.”
“What are you going to do?”
What would I do? My grandparents had been out of my life for over thirty years. I was forty. They’d had plenty of time to contact me as an adult. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide now.”
What if they were in their eighties? How was their health? “Soon, though.”
“Or never. It’s okay to just let it go, too.”
How did Wynn know what I needed to hear? “If I do contact them, and they want to see me, would you go with me?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No. What if Gianna was right, and my grandparents were horrible people who’d only wanted the life insurance and hadn’t cared about their grandkid or their widowed daughter-in-law?
When had I known my mother to be truthful? Lane and Cruz were two big damn examples of her manipulation.
“Do you remember anything about them?” she asked.
I hadn’t thought of them for so long, I had to turn into an archaeologist, wiping dirt and layers of neglect off the memories.
When Gianna had told me they were gone, I had thought Of course they were.
Why wouldn’t they leave, too? “I remember they seemed kind but distant. Gianna would never let me stay with them. I guess we lived with them when I was a baby and then we moved to an apartment and then to Bozeman.” Both places I barely recalled.
“I guess ultimately you aren’t going to know anything about them if you don’t reach out. Are they still in Portland?”
“Looks like it.”
“Isn’t it weird—you moved about the same distance away in a different direction?”
“I did.” Where I went hadn’t been a conscious thought at the time, but Gianna’s rants had likely been banging around in my head. I might’ve increased the distance between me and the city where her troubles had originated.
I glanced at the time. Portland was an hour behind. “I’m going to do it.”
“Let me know how it goes.” A small mew sounded from the background. “I’m not going anywhere,” she calmed the kitty.
“Wynn.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not going anywhere.”
“You’re not as fluffy as Little Miss, but you’re welcome.”
I was grinning when I got off the phone. I rode the wave of good vibes and dialed the number I found online. Gotta love landlines.
An older lady answered, her voice crackling. “Hello?”
“Is this Ella Foster?”
“I’m Ella. Who is this?”
“It’s…” Was I really doing this? I should’ve thought about making the call harder, the repercussions. But my grandmother was on the line, and it was too late. “It’s Myles.”
I pulled into what was becoming my normal parking spot at the Baileys’. Wynn and I were still dating, and other than some kissing that steamed up the inside of my car, we hadn’t slept together. I kept a hotel room in Bozeman so I could check in with Lane, but the reservation was getting pointless.
Lane had been in Bourbon Canyon each weekend since the first time. He liked being his own boss, but I’d also seen him helping spread the silage around.
Three weeks had gone by since I’d first called my grandparents.
After explaining to Ella I was that Myles, she had dropped the phone.
Then Nicolas had come on, demanding to know what was going on.
Once they’d heard Gianna had passed away, they’d divided into separate rooms so they could each be on the line.
Most of our conversations were them asking what I’d been up to since my dad died.
I told them Gianna had ended up in Bozeman, then I had landed in Bourbon Canyon.
They oohed and ahhed over the Baileys, stunned that I had been living with such a respected and successful family.
When I told them Foster House was mine, they hadn’t heard of the place, but when I compared what I did to the Baileys, there was more awe.
Both had asked a ton of questions about Gianna—what she’d done for work, what kind of places we’d lived in, and even how she’d looked.
The naturally suspicious part of my brain insisted their leading questions had an end goal, and it wasn’t my welfare, but the logical part argued that they’d been burned by Gianna before she’d made lying her life’s work.
Nicolas had been focused on Foster House during our last conversation.
You must do pretty well with the distillery.
Another comment that had wound through my mind, whispering about my grandfather’s true intentions.
I ignored it. I wasn’t handing over my balance sheets to show him how successful I really was.
Maybe the guy wanted to be proud of his grandson.
Wait’ll I tell Junior that, he’d said.
Junior was Nicolas Foster Junior. My dad’s older brother. He had two years on my dad, which put him in his late fifties.