Chapter 21
Twenty-one
Alaric
The plane’s cabin lights come on too early, washing everything in a gray glow that makes the red-eye feel even longer.
I managed to upgrade Liz into first class so we could sit next to each other.
Now, nearly six hours later, my neck aches, my eyes burn, and Liz hasn’t said more than five words to me since we left Lihue.
She’s kept her head turned toward the window, snoozing with her earbuds in, body angled just enough that I feel the distance as clearly as if she’d moved to another row.
We were fine when the flight started. Better than fine.
Then somewhere between takeoff and cruising altitude she folded in on herself, quiet and unreachable.
Every time I try to catch her eye, she shifts, pretending to adjust the blanket or look at something on her phone.
It’s as if the closer we get to Paradise, the more she withdraws into her professional demeanor.
The flight attendant walks down the aisle, asking everyone to prepare for landing. Liz nods without looking up. Her jaw is tight. Her hands stay wrapped around the straps of her bag like she’s bracing for impact.
I clear my throat. “Are you doing okay?”
She nods. “Fine.”
I tell myself she’s tired. Jet lag. The emotional hangover of the last few days. But there’s something else, something I can feel even though she won’t say it out loud.
The wheels hit the runway with a soft thump, and Liz gathers her things before we even taxi to the gate, still turned away from me.
When the seatbelt light dings off, she stands quickly. I stand too, giving her space even though every part of me wants to close the gap that wasn’t here yesterday. She doesn’t look back as we file toward the front of the plane.
The moment feels like slipping back into the life we left behind. The same city waiting. The same people. The same troubles that kept us apart for years. And she’s already drawing the line again.
The jet bridge opens into the terminal, and the bustle of Vancouver hits us all at once. People push ahead of us, dragging carry-ons and pulling on hoodies, everyone moving fast because it’s early and no one wants to be here longer than they have to before racing to customs.
Liz walks beside me, but not with me. There’s a difference, and I feel it with every step.
We end up in two different customs lines, and I get through faster. I look over to find her, and the border agent is flirting. I can’t believe we didn’t go through together.
She walks through the sliding glass doors a moment later, pulling her bag behind her, scanning for me. “What gate is our flight home?” she asks.
“C twenty-four. Can I get you a coffee from Steaming Mugs?”
I can see her thinking it over.
“We have more than an hour. Why don’t we sit for a minute before the flight takes off? We have some things to figure out.”
She gives me a strange look, and for a moment, I’m sure she’s going to turn me down. But then she nods. “I think that’s a good idea,” she says.
We walk together, and she finds a table while I secure our drinks.
“I had a lot of fun while we were in Hawaii,” she says as I sit across from her.
“Me too,” I agree. “I want to make sure I understand what happens when we get home? What would you want this to look like? Or would you prefer to pretend it never happened?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I can feel my nerves fraying.
I shouldn’t have put that second option on the table.
Clearly, she’s already stressed. She studies me, as if she’s weighing the cost of honesty.
“My job matters to me,” she says finally.
“And I don’t want to be the reason people start talking. ”
I nod, though I wish she didn’t care about any of that.
She looks away, then back again. “At work, we’ll be professional. No gray area. Outside of work…” Her mouth tilts. “We figure it out as we go.”
I lean closer. “Does figuring it out include you coming over tonight?”
She lifts her coffee, takes a slow sip, and meets my eyes over the rim. “We’ll see.”
It’s definitely not a no, so I guess I should feel good about that.
And for a few minutes, I do. But when we prepare to board the plane, a former patient of mine says hello, and Liz immediately puts distance between us. I don’t like how that feels. I get it, but I’m not going to be happy about it. My heart lurches every time.
Our seats are once again next to each other in first class on the short ride to Paradise, and once we’re on the plane, Liz seems to relax again. She’s warmer, more present. It feels like we might actually pull this off—professional at work and together at night.
Back in Black Bear Valley’s tiny airport, we turn the corner toward the baggage carousels, and Jeannine Jennings appears. I drop Liz’s hand.
Jeannine is a surgical nurse who knows every secret in Paradise, not because she pries but because people love how kind she seems. She freezes for half a second when her eyes land on us, then beams like we just made her morning.
“Dr. Dempsey. Liz Ward. Look at you two,” she says with genuine delight. “Back in one piece. Travel can be so exhausting.”
Liz stiffens next to me.
“We’re just returning from a conference,” I say. “What about you?”
“I’ve been visiting family up on the Sunshine Coast.” She gives Liz’s arm a soft squeeze like they’re old friends.
Her eyes travel over our rumpled clothes and our matching rolling luggage.
“You poor things. You look wiped. Those conferences run you ragged. And you know what they say, what happens at conferences stays at conferences.”
She laughs like she’s telling a fantastic joke. Harmless. Sweet. But Liz shuts down so fast it’s visible. Her shoulders tighten. Her face becomes neutral. She offers a polite smile.
Jeannine tilts her head. “Where was your conference? I hope it was somewhere warm. I once had a view of a dumpster out my hotel window, but I didn’t care because it was snowing at home and the temperatures there were toasty.”
“We were very lucky. We stayed at the Grand Hyatt on the island of Kauai,” I say, forcing my voice into something easy.
Her whole face lights up. “Oh, that sounds beautiful. And together. How fun.”
“We just attended the same conference,” I say, trying to clarify when I really shouldn’t.
“Oh, of course,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “But still. A familiar face on a work trip is such a comfort. Did you get to explore a little? You must have. Those islands are impossible to resist.”
Liz opens her mouth, and then closes it again.
I step in. “A few things. Mostly after sessions.”
Liz’s eyes flick toward me in surprise. Or warning. I can’t tell.
Jeannine clasps her hands together. “Kauai’s so romantic.
Not that I’m suggesting anything. Just that the beaches are gorgeous.
The falls. The sunsets. Anyone would want to see them.
” When we don’t respond, she just keeps going.
“Well, it sounds like a lovely trip. Productive but fun. Those are always the best, the kind that bond colleagues in unexpected ways.”
Liz’s silence becomes heavy. Solid.
Jeannine never notices. Or pretends not to. “I can’t wait to hear more once we’re back at the hospital. People always love the travel stories. They bring everyone together.”
“We were there for work,” Liz says softly.
“Oh, sweetheart, of course, you were,” Jeannine says with a warm smile. “That’s exactly how I’ll tell it.”
She gives Liz another pat on the arm and heads off with a wave.
When she disappears into the crowd, Liz releases a slow breath. She adjusts her bag and widens the gap between us. Just like that, Hawaii feels farther away than the ocean we flew over to get home.
Our carousel roars to life, and Liz’s roller bag comes around quickly. She grabs it and moves toward the exit without looking back.
When my checked conference materials finally appear, I pull the bag off and head toward the exit as well. I spot Liz just as she’s climbing into a rideshare. She pauses long enough to adjust her purse strap and meet my eyes.
“Thanks for the trip,” she says. Her voice is polite and distant, as if we barely know each other. “See you at the hospital.”
Before I can answer, she ducks into the car.
I stand there with nothing but my suitcase handle to steady me, watching her go.
After a minute, I call a car and drag my suitcase toward the rideshare pickup zone, shivering against the early morning air.
When my phone buzzes with my driver’s arrival notification, I slide into the backseat, exhaustion settling over me like a weight.
The city outside the window looks washed out. Empty sidewalks. Gray sky. A few taxis lined up at the curb.
I open my messages and type because I’m not sure what else to do.
Me: Do you want to come over later? We could talk about this.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the dots to appear. Nothing. The message sits there in the bubble, unread.
The driver attempts conversation, but my voice sounds rough, tired as he pulls into traffic. It’s not long before he gives up.
I keep my phone in my hand the entire drive. Every time it vibrates, I look down expectantly. But it’s flight delays. Promotions. Spam. Everything except Liz.
By the time we turn on to my street, I know she’s not going to reply. Her silence settles into the space between my ribs and stays there. I’m already losing her again.
As the driver pulls up in front of my house, I spot Evie’s Mercedes in my driveway. The cherry on top of the sundae.
Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to four.
My front door sticks a little when I push it open, the wood swollen. I drag my suitcase inside. “Hello, Evie,” I announce, finding her at my kitchen island, wrapped in one of her expensive shawls and drinking from my mug with zero shame.
She gives me a sharp once-over. “You look terrible.”
“Red-eye flight,” I explain. I close the door behind me and fight the urge to rub my face. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you,” she says. Her tone is clipped and dramatic, the one she uses when she’s dropping a grenade into the middle of the family. “Your sisters are driving the vineyard straight into the ground.”
There it is. I set my suitcase aside and lean against the counter, bracing.
The second I set my keys down, Evie launches forward.
“Josie let the bottling crew change the rotation again,” she says, stabbing the air with her finger.
“Just let them do it without even thinking about the long-term impact on efficiency. She’s too soft.
Always has been. She lets everyone walk all over her. ”
I open my mouth, but she barrels on.
“And Sera. Don’t get me started on her. That girl has no sense of pacing. None. She’s talking about expanding the sparkling line as if money grows on trees. Impulsive. Reckless. She thinks ideas are the same as strategy.”
She pushes off the counter and starts pacing, her shawl swinging behind her.
“I told them both to slow down. I told them to listen. I’ve run that property longer than they’ve been alive.
Do you think they care? No, they nod and smile and do whatever they want anyway.
” She throws her hands up. “They don’t respect the legacy.
They don’t respect their grandfather’s work.
One wrong decision, and it all falls apart. That’s how fast it happens.”
Her voice rises. She’s not looking at me anymore.
She’s staring at the window like her reflection has personally offended her.
Then she turns, eyes narrowing like she’s reaching the point she’s been circling around.
“Maybe it’s time for Dylan and Scott to take over,” she says.
“At least, they understand discipline. Structure. Authority. They wouldn’t let sentimental nonsense ruin the estate. ”
There it is. The grenade. Pulled. Thrown. And she watches my face like she’s waiting for the explosion.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so transparent. “You want me to tell my sisters that?” I say.
She lifts her chin. “They need to hear it.”
“I disagree,” I say. “But if you feel they do, you can tell them yourself.”
Her eyes narrow as she realizes her usual tactics aren’t going to work on me. She tries again, louder this time. I’ve been on this merry-go-round before. I know what she’s up to.
If the town’s talking, if people are whispering about what she may or may not have done with Paradise Hill, she needs to redirect the attention. Stirring up family drama is her favorite smokescreen.
“I’m not getting involved,” I say. “I’m not playing messenger so you can start a fire and pretend you didn’t light the match.”
She slams the mug down. “You always take their side.”
“They’re my sisters, and you’re wrong,” I explain calmly. “And because this is about you wanting the town to talk about something other than everyone thinking you sabotaged Paradise Hill.”
Her lips pinch. She hates hearing it said plainly, hates being caught before the game even starts.
I move past her and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’m going to unpack. Stay if you want, but I’m not discussing this.”
She huffs, offended, but she doesn’t follow me. For once, she has no leverage.
In the bedroom, I finally scrub my hands over my face. The only thing louder than my grandmother’s silence is the thought of Liz not answering my text.