Chapter 6
Six
Kingston
The helicopter rises steadily, the rotors beating against the cold March air.
Elise sits beside me, her braid tucked into her coat, loose wisps flying in the draft.
The storm has cleared, but the valley below is still buried in white.
Normally, I’d cross the lake in a straight shot, quick and efficient.
Today I let the speed bleed off, following the shoreline instead.
I tell myself it’s so I can check the roads—see if the plows are keeping up, gauge whether people can get in or out of the valley.
But strangely, I think it’s also because I want to prolong this time that’s just me and her.
The roads wind below us, partially visible like black scars against the snow.
Headlights creep in long, frustrated lines.
At one curve near the cliffs, the heavy snow has caused an avalanche, and the road is completely closed.
That will take some time to clear. From up here, everything looks fragile—tiny vehicles against the immensity of the mountains.
“Roads aren’t great yet,” I murmur into the headset.
Elise presses her forehead close to the glass, eyes wide. “I’ve lived here twenty-eight years, and I’ve never seen it like this. It’s like a whole other world.”
Her voice is soft, full of awe. She’s wonderstruck by a place that’s been her backyard all her life.
I smirk. “You sound like a tourist.”
“Maybe I should’ve been one all along.” She doesn’t look at me, only out, as if trying to memorize every snow-dusted ridge and frozen field.
For a few minutes, it’s just the two of us and the hum of the rotors. When we crest over Paradise Hill, I bank wide, giving us a clear view of the winery buildings. The blackened skeleton of what used to be her and Tarryn’s cottage scars the snow. Elise goes very still.
Her hands knot together in her lap. Her breath fogs the window in front of her.
“It looks worse from up here, like the earth swallowed my whole life.” Her shoulders have gone rigid.
“I keep telling myself it was only things,” she adds, voice trembling.
“But they weren’t just things. They were pieces of her—my mom’s journals, the quilt she made me when I was young, a box of birthday cards she saved.
Gone. And I’m twenty-eight years old, living with my dad, with nothing to show for her but—” She lifts her hand to the chain at her neck.
The gold locket catches the last of the sun.
“This. A locket with a baby picture of me. That’s it.
I wear it every day. And sometimes, it feels pathetic, like I can’t grow up enough to let go.
Like if I had moved out of Paradise and made a life of my own, I wouldn’t feel so stuck. ”
Emotion rises in my throat. I remember not even being in high school when we stood at her mother’s funeral—Elise in a little black dress, holding her father’s hand like, if she let go, she’d disappear too.
“You still have her in you,” I say, my voice thick. “I remember your mom.”
Her gaze moves to me, wet and searching.
“She made my birthday cake every year,” I tell her.
“Not just cakes—masterpieces. For my thirteenth birthday, when I was all hockey all the time, she made me an edible jersey. My number across the back, two gingerbread hockey sticks, and a puck. The puck was chocolate cake filled with cream, dipped in chocolate so it looked like a real puck. Nobody wanted to cut it.”
Elise’s lips curve. “I remember that cake. I was little, but I remember sitting in the kitchen while she worked on it. She loved making cakes. Said it was the one way she could give people something lasting, even if it was gone the next day.”
I nod. “She wouldn’t even let my mom pay her.”
Elise gives a shaky laugh. “She wouldn’t.
My favorite was the last cake she ever made—for your mom.
Pink, covered in flowers. She was exhausted by the cancer treatments, so I got to help pipe the petals.
My hands cramped so bad, but she said I was a natural.
We laughed all day.” Her voice catches, and she looks back down at the ruined house.
“That’s the last time I remember her really happy. ”
I don’t know what to say. What is it like to carry grief like that? Grief that still hasn’t dulled. Actually, I suppose I do have some sense. Even now, Cara’s betrayal can take my breath away at the odd moment.
Finally, I lower us toward the helipad at Paradise Hill, the vineyard buildings rising up around us. Elise stays quiet, staring at the scarred land.
Then the skids hit the ground, the blades slowing, the engine winding down. Her father is already waiting, a hand lifted against the snow blowing around as we land.
Elise unbuckles and waves. “I’ll just pack a few things,” she says, her voice clipped, all business now.
“Don’t forget dinner,” I remind her.
She nods. “I’ll be back. Promise.”
She hops down and crosses the snow toward her father, shoulders squared, her braid swinging.
I sit in the cockpit a moment longer, watching her go.
She’s grieving, weighed down by the fire, by what she’s lost, by the life she feels stuck in at twenty-eight, still under her father’s roof.
And yet even in that grief, she shines. Her resilience.
Her refusal to fall apart in front of her dad.
The way she found a smile remembering frosting flowers with her mom.
The pull I feel toward her is undeniable, rooted in years of shared memories and in the strength she doesn’t even realize she carries.
Why am I thinking about all this? This does not at all match my pattern.
I keep women at arm’s length. Even the beautiful ones—especially the beautiful ones.
But Elise is different. I knew her before I became the person I am now, and somehow, she keeps getting past my guardrails.
When I finally make my way inside the house, the warmth of the kitchen hits me like a wave—garlic, bread, something sweet baking. It’s the same smell I grew up with. Tarryn is beside Mom, her sleeves rolled up, chopping a big pile of vegetables for salad.
“Need a hand?” I ask.
“Not from you,” Tarryn says without looking up.
Mom grins, brushes past me with a spoon, and pats my back.
I take off my coat and shoes, get myself a glass of water, and lean against the counter, casual.
“I overheard Elise earlier, talking with Simone. That guy in France offering her the exchange? He wants to get into her pants.” I aim to make it sound protective, a brother looking out for her best friend, though once again, I’m not sure why I’m giving it a second thought.
Tarryn looks up now, one eyebrow raised. “Why exactly are you worried about Elise’s pants?”
An excellent question. “I’m not. I’m worried about her,” I insist. “The guy’s slimy.”
Her gaze sharpens, and I know she sees straight through me.
“First of all, Elise is an adult. You don’t get to decide what she does.
Second, yes, he’s into her. And I love that for her.
She deserves to have someone to look at her that way.
” She stabs the knife into the cutting board for emphasis.
“Third, she’s my maid of honor. Which means she’s not running off to France without coming back here to help me plan this wedding. ”
Mom drifts by again, touching my shoulder with a knowing softness. “Sometimes, people need to leave Paradise before they realize what matters most.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I stay quiet.
After a minute, Mom and Tarryn start talking wedding plans, and they still won’t let me help, so I go in search of my brothers.
I find Ryker in the barn. The space smells of gasoline and oil, but the concrete floor includes a half-court Dad poured when we were kids. This is where we fell in love with the game. A single light dangles overhead, shadows swinging as Ryker dribbles.
“First to eleven,” he calls.
“Loser buys beers for the week,” Beckett adds as he walks in.
“Good thing I don’t lose,” I mutter, tugging on the old Toronto T-shirt I keep here.
Ryker smirks. “Cocky for a guy who’s out of practice.”
“Somebody’s got to make the money to keep you two in sneakers,” I shoot back.
The ball thumps and laughter echoes. For a while, we’re kids again. Beckett trash-talks, Ryker showboats, and I find myself leaning into the rhythm. My muscles burn, and my lungs ache, but it feels good, real.
Beckett wipes his forehead. “Mom always said this court saved us from killing each other.”
“She wasn’t wrong.” I grunt after blocking his shot.
Ryker checks the ball to me. “So. Elise. Why was she in your helicopter?”
I give them the short version—sabotage, the water main, the storm. Their laughter dies, replaced by grim faces.
“That bad?” Beckett asks.
“She’s optimistic because the wet snow blanketed the vines, insulating them,” I say. “But if she hadn’t been there, we could’ve lost half the southeast vineyard.”
Ryker scowls. “Zach.”
Maybe. But I don’t say that out loud.
We play on, though the energy has shifted. I can’t stop thinking about Elise now—her braid swinging as she walked away, shoulders squared against the weight of her grief. And about how she belongs here at Paradise Hill, even if she doesn’t fully believe it yet.
By the time Beckett’s phone buzzes, we’re all dripping sweat and grinning like idiots. He holds it up. “Twenty bucks says dinner’s ready.”
We laugh, shoulders bumping as we head back to the house. My legs ache and my shirt sticks, but I feel grounded. I want that feeling for Elise too. And for some reason, I want her to find it here, not in France.