Chapter 5 #2
“Where he came to the attention of the judge,” I added.
“Judge became a regular at the bar, flirted with Tavo, and finally asked him out. Romanced him, made him feel special. Spoiled him rotten—which was powerful, considering Tavo’s family hadn’t been well-off even before he started living on the streets.
I think his mom worked as a housekeeper, and his father was a day laborer. ”
Tommy nodded in understanding. “Would’ve been easy to fall for someone who could make your life more comfortable. Plus, the kid was probably desperate for someone to care about him.”
Sadie showed up to pass us plates filled with food, and when she disappeared again, Tommy asked, “So he’s here in Legacy, hiding from the judge who doesn’t like the word ‘no’?”
I nodded. “Uncle Dante called and told me the situation. I offered to help. And since the judge in question has access to law enforcement resources, that means keeping Tavo’s name out of anything official.”
Ella added, “Including fire investigation reports.”
Tommy glanced at me and lowered his voice even more. “He here legally?”
I shrugged. “He’s a DACA recipient, which means it might not take much to get him sent to Mexico. And if his social security or immigration records ping here in Montana, the judge could find him. So, I can’t hire him at Timber. But he’s helping out for free in exchange for room and board.”
Lennon looked up from the food piled on his plate. “Soon as Tavo upsets the judge, the judge can do any number of things to ruin his life.”
Tommy sucked in a breath and nodded. “So we keep Tavo safe. And we don’t tell anyone he’s here.”
I scooped a bite of scrambled eggs onto my fork with a toast triangle. “Thankfully, the judge calls him Octavio. So if we all stick to his nickname, it’ll help.”
Everyone dug into their food as I picked around mine carefully, wondering if my stomach was upset from the hangover or because I was worried Kincaid would learn that Tavo had been involved in the fire at Timber.
I still felt bad about lying. Not because I hated taking the fall for something that wasn’t my fault, but because I didn’t like lying, full stop.
And for some reason, I especially didn’t like lying to Judd Kincaid.
As much as I disliked the man and thought he was overly strict about fire safety and his vaunted “protocol,” I also respected someone who took his job seriously and followed the rules.
I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t the same, because I was.
I’d worked my ass off at my fathers’ vineyard growing up. I’d learned the family business and taken in as much information about viticulture as possible, since it had been understood that Alexander Vineyards would be under my management one day.
Ella had always been the adventurous sibling, the kind of person who didn’t intend to stay near home.
Mattie, on the other hand, was content to stay in the Bay Area now that she had a job in the wardrobe department of the San Francisco ballet.
That had left me to carry on the Alexander tradition—the winery in Napa that had been in our family for generations.
But I hadn’t been sure I wanted it.
And it wasn’t until finding an anonymous confessor online that I’d finally admitted it “out loud.”
IndexEcho had encouraged me to follow my own dreams.
Your family loves you. They’d want you to live your best life, no matter what that looks like.
As I left my family at the Pinecone and walked back to Timber to start my workday, I lost myself to memories of the man.
The way I’d met him on a random message board five years ago while asking for help with a certification course on Incident Command Systems I had to take on behalf of the vineyard.
DrunkenPoet: I’m taking ICS-100 and I’m confused about how span of control applies to a small business staff.
IndexEcho: Here’s how we handled it on airfields with limited crews…
That one question had led to IndexEcho basically hand-holding me through the certification process.
He’d been so funny, so calm, so patient, that even when the certification was over, I’d found any and every excuse to keep talking to him.
Had a question about wildfire breaks in agricultural settings?
I’d ask IndexEcho. Came across an article on aviation innovation? I’d send it to IndexEcho.
Over the months, we’d become close enough that I began to confide in him. Things I hadn’t told anyone else.
DrunkenPoet: Do you ever worry about letting your parents down?
It had taken a few minutes for him to respond.
IndexEcho: Not really. My parents passed away years ago.
I’d stared at the screen, stomach tumbling with regret and guilt at being so thoughtless.
DrunkenPoet: Index, I’m so fucking sorry.
IndexEcho: Me too. But please don’t be sorry you brought it up. Tell me what’s on your mind.
So, I had. I’d confessed about having incredible parents, about being spoiled with an embarrassment of riches. And still feeling smothered by expectations.
IndexEcho: You deserve a chance to be yourself without family pressure.
I’d started to respond that they didn’t pressure me, exactly. They loved me and wanted my happiness. But then I’d realized their assumption that I would take over the vineyard was pressure enough.
DrunkenPoet: I don’t want to disappoint them.
IndexEcho: Your family loves you. They’d want you to live your best life, no matter what that looks like.
IndexEcho: Not everyone wants to be a farmer, Poet. Surely your Mom and Dad know that.
We’d still been early enough in our online relationship for me not to correct him.
I didn’t tell him it was a vineyard, not the kind of family agriculture business he probably expected.
And I hadn’t told him it was two dads instead of a mom and dad.
At that time, all I’d known about him was that he was a military contractor working on aviation firefighting equipment somewhere overseas.
I hadn’t known whether he was phobic or not.
Later, once we’d kept talking and he’d casually referred to a bad date with the word “he,” I’d stared at the word in shock and excitement.
He. As in, the date had been a man.
DrunkenPoet: You’re gay?
IndexEcho: Bi. That a problem?
DrunkenPoet: No. Shit. Sorry. No. I’m gay.
He’d only sent back a GIF from the TV show Brooklyn 99 that said “Hot damn.” And the grin on my face had made my cheeks ache.
Our conversations had immediately turned flirty and personal, and over the course of the next few months, I’d fallen completely in love with a stranger online.
Unfortunately, he’d still had five months left on his work contract, which had meant putting off any plans or pressure to meet in real life too soon.
The promise of it had been there, though. A thin, vibrating string of hope and excitement that ran through all our interactions.
IndexEcho: Poet… the minute I’m stateside, I’m coming for you.
DrunkenPoet: Promise?
IndexEcho: Nothing will keep me from finding you. Nothing.
But three weeks before he was scheduled to fly back to the States, he’d failed to answer a simple question about whether he preferred barbecue chicken or pork.
I’d been testing ideas for a new pizza recipe for my sister’s birthday dinner, and I’d tossed the question out while I’d been creating a shopping list.
After twelve hours, he still hadn’t responded.
DrunkenPoet: Index, you there? Get caught up on a long shift?
Nothing.
I’d scoured the news for any mention of incidents he could have been involved in. There’d been a mortar strike at Al Asad Air Base in Iraq, a border clash in Syria, and a hotel shooting in Dakar, Senegal, all during the same forty-eight-hour period.
I’d tried so hard not to assume it was the air base strike because that one had resulted in seven deaths and two dozen injuries.
Later, I’d prayed for him to be one of the injuries.
After sending a long string of embarrassing messages, culminating in sobbing and begging that he just tell me to fuck off if need be, but to let me know he was alive, I’d finally given up.
Well, more like Mattie had forced me into therapy over it, and I’d agreed with my therapist’s suggestion to close my message board account in an effort at closure.
Closure hadn’t come. But I’d finally picked myself up off the pyre of self-pity and done what IndexEcho had encouraged me to do. I’d had a hard conversation with Blue and Tristan Marian.
IndexEcho had been right.
My fathers did love me. And they wanted me to live my best life, no matter what it looked like. Even if it looked like buying a crumbly old roadhouse in Montana and turning it into a gourmet pizza restaurant and wine bar.
“There he is.” Mali smiled brightly from the host stand when I pulled open the door to Timber. “Alex, there’s someone waiting for you at table twelve. Said it’s about something related to the vent hood?”
My stomach dropped, expecting it was Chief Kincaid again, here to complain. But when I walked over to the table in the corner, I saw an older woman in Carhartt overalls with short hair, a tablet, and a canvas tool bag.
“Vic Norman,” she said, offering me a firm handshake. “I’m here to fix your fucked-up nozzle.”
I let out a sigh of relief and grinned wide. “Vic, I could kiss you right now.”
Her eyebrows lifted, and a dimple popped. “I charge extra for that.”
The memories of IndexEcho faded into the background of my mind, where they usually lived comfortably after these four years. And I focused instead on making sure Chief Judd Kincaid would be out of my hair as soon as possible.
So I could get on with the plan of following my dreams.