Alaric
Six
Mikey’s is alive with Friday-night noise.
Laughter mixes with clinking glasses and the low strum of a guitar sliding through the speakers.
Snow melts off boots by the door and puddles on the worn wood floor.
I hadn’t planned on stopping. The idea was to go home, microwave something sad, and fall asleep in front of the game.
But I ran into my sister Ginny and Ryker, her husband, as I was walking out, and somehow, that turned into a beer in my hand and a booth in the corner.
Ryker leans back, one arm stretched across the seat. Ginny sits across from him, cheeks pink from the cold, smiling into her drink. They make it look effortless, being part of something.
“You look like someone told you year-end reports are making a comeback,” Ryker says. “Is that scowl permanent now or just your resting face?”
I take a slow sip, mostly to buy time. “Some of us work real jobs. You just play with toddlers and call it medicine.”
He laughs. “That’s Dr. Toddler to you.”
Ginny snorts into her wine. “Oh, don’t start that again. You two are like kids on a playground.”
“Pretty sure kids have more fun,” I say. “I spent half the week buried under compliance reports. Red tape everywhere. Bureaucracy’s a lot like an ex. Keeps coming back to remind you of your mistakes.”
Ginny almost chokes on her drink. Ryker slaps the table, laughing. “That’s one way to put it. Sounds like you and the hospital’s new assistant director are on great terms.”
“Admin and I have an understanding,” I say. “They keep sending emails, and I keep ignoring them.”
“You need to lighten up,” Ginny tells me. “Come over tomorrow. Everyone will be at our place to watch the hockey game. Join us. We’ll order wings, yell at the TV, and pretend we don’t have jobs.”
I let the invitation hang. There’s an easy warmth between them I’m not sure I remember how to fit into, and also, that’s Paradise territory. I tell myself I don’t care what Evie thinks of my life, but I also avoid picking fights when I can. “I’ll think about it,” I say, which means I won’t.
Ryker grins. “Translation is he’ll sit at home working on patient charts.”
“Someone’s got to keep the world turning.”
Ginny taps her finger against my hand. “You know, for a guy who tells other people how to live, you’re terrible at doing it yourself.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She laughs again, and for a moment, I almost forget the week, the weight, the way this town still looks at my family like we’re the villains in someone else’s story.
The noise of the bar throbs around me, warm and alive.
I let it. But when Ryker signals the server for another round, I check my watch.
He excuses himself to grab the drinks, leaving me and Ginny alone. She swirls what’s left of her wine and studies me. “Have you heard from our dear grandmother lately?”
I let out a short laugh. “Entirely too often. She’s on edge about something, more than usual.”
Ginny arches a brow. “That narrows it down.”
“She mentioned that Dylan and Scott are working at the vineyard. Do you know what they’re doing? I didn’t want to unpack that box with her. Not that she’d give me a straight answer, anyway.”
Ginny groans. “God help us. If those two are learning the ropes, they’ll hang themselves with them.”
“Evie’s been hinting that she might not see Sera or Josie as the ones to take over when she steps down.”
Ginny snorts. “She’ll step down when they put her in a pine box and not a second before. If Dylan or Scott ever ran Black Bear, it’d be over in a month. The feud with the Paradises would become a five-alarm fire. And they’d probably end up in jail.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Disastrous doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Ryker returns with fresh drinks, sliding a pint toward me and setting another glass of wine in front of Ginny. “You two look serious. Who died?”
“Just talking about our family,” Ginny says. “Specifically the part that’s still trying to outlive us all.”
Ryker chuckles. “Ah, Evelyn Dempsey. Still terrifying?”
I pick up the glass, the condensation cold against my palm. “More than ever.”
He sits down, lowering his voice. “Is she talking about the investigation?”
I look over at him. “What investigation?”
“The one into her supposed involvement with the Paradise vineyard sabotage.”
“You mean the Zach stuff?”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “That, plus a dozen other things, including the fire before Christmas. I heard the police are poking around again.”
My head snaps back. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was,” Ryker says. “We’re leaving that to Tarryn and my dad, but still. Has she said anything?”
I shake my head. “Not to me. She’s nervous about something, but she’s not talking about it.”
Ryker studies me. “You think that’s because she’s behind it?”
That sends a rock to my gut. I set my drink down, watching the foam settle. “I don’t speculate about my patients or my family,” I say carefully. “But I do know when someone’s losing sleep.”
Ginny frowns. “Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s worried. Whether it’s guilt or pride or just fear of losing control, I can’t say. But something’s eating at her.”
Ryker nods. “Then maybe someone needs to watch her a little more closely.”
“Someone always is,” I say, forcing a small smile. “We just try not to let her notice.”
Ginny laughs under her breath. “Good luck with that.”
Ryker clinks his glass against mine. “To surviving family politics.”
I lift mine. “Barely.” And then I stand, leaving my half-full glass behind. “I need to get home. If I don’t work out first thing in the morning, I start falling asleep mid afternoon.”
“Come over tomorrow night,” Ginny insists. “The Vancouver Bears are heading toward playoffs, and Jacob Wheeler’s playing.”
Jacob is from Paradise, and all of Black Bear Valley follows his success.
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
Ryker rolls his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”
“Consistent,” I say, tossing a few bills on the table.
Outside, snow spills through the streetlights. Behind me, their laughter trails out the door. It’s easier to keep walking than admit I wish I’d stayed. Maybe that’s why I keep my distance. Any kind of relationship seems complicated to me. With Evie, even silence feels like a negotiation I’m losing.
I remember how our dad used to tense up whenever his mother called.
Now, I get it. She fired him and both of his siblings from the vineyard and cut them off completely.
She now focuses on her grandchildren. Dad moved up north years ago, runs a smaller vineyard operation, and is in a much better place with his second wife and their business. I’m glad he got out.
I take the long way home, down the hill past the darkened storefronts and the bakery that I imagine still smells faintly of sugar and yeast. It’s quiet in a way that leaves too much room for thinking.
I reach the overlook near Black Bear Lake, and the town lights shimmer below. I park and look out over town, trying not to think about how small it all seems from up here. But my mind goes exactly where I don’t want it to.
Liz Ward. Every time I hear her name, something in me tightens.
She’s not supposed to matter anymore. Four years should be enough to dull anything.
But all it takes is someone saying Ms. Ward in a clipped, professional tone, and I’m right back there, watching her close the door, calm as ever, while everything in me cracked.
Maybe that’s what really gets me. No matter how long I’ve been home, I can’t escape the shadows. The Dempsey name hangs over me like storm clouds. Everyone smiles, but I see it in their eyes. The feud. The whispers. My grandmother’s voice behind every headline.
She’s too frail to run the vineyard, not that she’d ever admit it. Yet she still runs the narrative. She calls me relentlessly, and probably most of my siblings too. And it isn’t affection. She calls to maintain control. Her contact isn’t nurturing. It’s surveillance, manipulation, and grooming.
She’s the reason I became a psychologist. But I’d never tell her that.
Maybe it’s easier to play the grumpy recluse than admit I can’t walk away.
Because walking away means leaving my sisters to deal with her alone.
And being present means getting pulled back into the dinners, the gossip, the expectations—the name I’m supposed to defend even when I don’t believe in it anymore.
I stay until my fingers are frozen and then I get back in the car and head home.
Snow is falling heavier by the time I turn onto my street.
Headlights sweep across my driveway, and for a second, I think they’re mine until I see the silver Mercedes sedan idling at the curb, engine purring.
A woman stands in the porch light, coat buttoned to her throat, posture straight as a ruler.
Of course, she’s here.
Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to four.
I park and climb out of the truck, my breath misting in the cold. “Evening, Evie.”
My grandmother turns, hair dusted with snow. “You don’t answer your phone.”
“That’s usually a clue,” I say, pushing past her toward the door.
She follows, uninvited, the same way she always has. By the time I hang up my coat, she’s in the kitchen, flicking the light on, scanning the place like she’s evaluating an acquisition.
Evelyn arches a brow. “You missed our family dinner tonight. You didn’t even send your sister a message.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what? Avoiding responsibility?” Her tone sharpens. “Do you have any idea how it looks when you don’t show up? The Paradises are whispering again about that fire, the water rights, the shipments, and a dozen other things.”
“Same gossip, different year,” I say. “They’ll move on.”
“You’re a Dempsey,” she snaps. “You don’t vanish when people start talking about your family.”
“Our integrity’s not something you fix with a photo op,” I say.
Her smile turns thin. “You think this independence makes you principled. It makes you na?ve. Everything you are exists because I built it.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“Then act like it,” she says. “Show up. Remind them who we are.”
I shake my head. “You can defend the name without me.”
She steps closer. “Without you?” Her voice dips low, dangerous. “You think you can stand apart from this family, but you’re still wearing the name. You walk into that hospital, and they see me. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m not getting involved,” I say, quiet but firm. “You can keep fighting your battles without dragging me into them.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ll regret this,” she says. “When it all collapses, you’ll wish you’d chosen the winning side.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her heels click, coat flaring as she walks out.
The door shuts behind her, but her perfume lingers, sharp and suffocating.
I stare for a long time at the patch of melted snow on the floor where she stood. My body feels heavy, not from guilt, just fatigue. She’s exhausting, manipulative, impossible, and somehow, still the center of gravity we all keep orbiting, even when we swear we’re done.
The heater clicks on, and I pour what’s left of the whiskey in my cabinet into a glass and flop into a chair at the table. Outside, the snow keeps falling, and the world looks clean, like maybe I could keep it that way if I just stay out of her reach.
I tell myself I don’t need anyone, that solitude’s easier. Predictable. But the truth of the matter won’t fade. I’m here to keep the others safe from her.
I take a slow drink, watching the amber light fade from the surface of the liquid, and let the quiet settle.
Maybe freedom’s just another kind of servitude.