CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Raina
He was up to something. He had to be.
Some way, somehow, Jagger McEvoy devised a plan to get under my skin in order to sabotage the winery’s land acquisition proposal. There was no other explanation for his sudden interest in me.
He wanted me to let down my guard, let him in, and trust him. Then, when I least expected it, he’d stab me in the back with a cactus, and steal our proposal so he could snatch Bonn Remmen’s land right out from under us.
I conveyed as much to my cousins, who all laughed in my face as the four of us sat in Gabrielle’s living room on New Year’s Eve, drinking wine and eating a massive tray of loaded nachos.
Nachos were Gabrielle’s go-to for parties. She always made them, and they were always a huge hit. The kids were off playing video games in the rec room, having filled their bellies with nachos and other appetizers the rest of us moms brought. That left the four of us.
“I think you’re insane,” Naomi said, taking a sip of her merlot. “I don’t see the McEvoys being that conniving.”
“The McEvoys? No,” I agreed. “Jagger McEvoy in particular? Absolutely.”
They all scoffed and shook their heads. Since the day I filled Naomi and Gabrielle in on what “went down” at the B&B, I had also brought Danica up to speed, as it wasn’t fair she was the only one not able to relentlessly tease me.
“Maybe,” Gabrielle said, daintily dipping the corner of her nacho chip into a puddle of salsa, “now, I’m just spitballing here, but maybe Jagger McEvoy is interested in you … for you. Have you considered that?”
“No,” I said bluntly. “There’s too much history. Too much deep-seated animosity.”
“Which makes for delicious chemistry,” Naomi added. “Besides, they’re not the only ones after Bonn Remmen’s land. Sure, their property neighbors Bonn’s, but the distillery is after it. So is the cidery, and several others. The McEvoys aren’t our only competition.”
“But he’s the most ruthless,” I countered, leaning forward and grabbing the tongs from the table to grab more nachos. I made sure to snag a section with extra cheese.
Earlier in the year, an Island Elder named Bonn Remmen passed away.
Like all the other Island Elders, Bonn was a pillar of the community.
He also acquired his land decades upon decades ago, simply by squatting on it.
The island was founded by hippies and draft dodgers, all looking to carve out their own way of living, and not adhere to all the government regulations.
And while San Camanez was never a sovereign nation or anything like that, there were some looser laws here when it came to land acquisition.
Land had to first be offered to family, it could be passed down from one generation to another with no penalty, taxation, or transfer fees.
If the deceased had no family, they could intrust the land to a council and the land could be gifted.
Only after all those other options had been exhausted could the land be sold.
And only privately. No real estate agents were allowed listings on the island.
Our aunt Dolores wasn’t an OG Island Elder, but she was gifted the land from an Elder who had no heirs.
We often speculated whether she and the Elder who passed were lovers, but nobody could ever confirm it.
Then she gifted it to us when she passed.
Bonn Remmen had no living heirs and entrusted the gifting of the land title to the rest of the Island Elders Council.
They decided that all those interested in the land needed to put forth a proposal.
Then they narrowed down written proposals to a handful, and we were supposed to present in-person earlier in the month, but that got delayed for various reasons.
Now we were waiting for some snowbird Elders to return from Mexico before we could present.
“I don’t understand why they even want or need the land,” Gabrielle said, shaking her head. We all wore matching pajamas—a gift from Gabrielle last Christmas—they were silky, black, and had tiny little green Christmas trees and red presents on them.
“The same could be said for us,” Danica argued.
“We have more land than the McEvoys—by several acres. It’s really the distillery that is lacking in land.
The McEvoys, the cidery, and all of us live and work on the same property.
The distillery doesn’t have that. Their houses are at all four corners of the island, and their warehouse and tasting room are in the middle. They need more land.”
Gabrielle gave Danica a shocked look. “Is this your way of telling us you think we should pull our proposal?”
Danica rolled her eyes. “No. Bonn’s land is primo for grape growing. It gets so much sun, has a perfect slope, and we could expand the special events portion of the business. It doesn’t matter that it’s on the opposite side of the island from us. We’d make it work.”
Having seemed to calm down, Gabrielle took a sip of her wine and nodded. “Good. I agree.”
Naomi and I shared smirks.
“Let me just throw out a hypothetical here,” Gabrielle said. “Let’s say Jagger has no ulterior motives when it comes to burying the hatchet and showing interest in you. Is that such a bad thing? Are you not interested in him that way?”
My instinct was to say no. That I had ghosted him years ago for a reason. And I needed to listen to my gut. But my mouth couldn’t form the words.
“I’m guessing by your silence that you’re not altogether opposed to the idea of Jagger showing interest in you. Or burying the hatchet,” Danica said, lifting her dark-blonde brows. She shrugged. “I mean, fair enough, the man is very nice to look at.”
“And he did make you come twice,” Naomi added, which instantly sent heat to my cheeks. “We can’t forget that part. He knows his way around—”
“Maybe you should have some more nachos, Nay,” I said loudly, drowning her out.
Naomi snickered, but then grabbed more nachos when she realized it was a good idea.
“Countdown is on,” Danica said, checking her phone. “Should we gather the baby vintners? We’ve got five minutes to midnight.”
Standing up, Gabrielle put her middle and index finger in her mouth and let out one hell of a whistle. “Five minutes to midnight,” she called out before heading to the fridge to grab the sparkling wine.
Danica and I brought out the champagne flutes—enough for everyone—while Naomi found the countdown on the television, then brought out the noise makers.
With ninety seconds to go, the kids joined us—all of them in their matching cousin pajamas, which consisted of six identical green and yellow dinosaur onesies.
Even Damon, who was generally too cool for stuff like that, jumped on board to match his cousins.
Gabrielle poured all the glasses, and we each grabbed one. We were a family of winemakers, of course the children even got the real stuff.
Marco found me, and I wrapped an arm around him. “Here’s hoping the new year brings all kinds of wonderful things your way, kiddo,” I said, kissing him on the side of the head.
He rolled his eyes, but smiled.
“All right,” Naomi said, “Ten …”
“Nine,” we all chanted. “Eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one! Happy New Year!”
The kazoo-type noise makers filled the air as we all sipped our sparkling Moscato and hugged.
It wasn’t a big celebration, or a fancy one, but it was ours, and it was special.
After so many years of oppression, fear, and brainwashing, my cousins and I—with our children—were finally free.
And best of all, we were happy and so were our kids.
We were all thriving. Since arriving on the island, I hadn’t wished for anything on my birthday candles or shooting stars, because I thought that would be greedy.
My wish had already been granted. My son and I were safe and free.
But now, as I smiled and laughed and hugged my family, a new wish slowly crept into my heart.
A wish for … companionship. For a partner.
For love outside that of my family. Maybe that would come this year?
Or maybe like my other wish, I had to wait a while. Either way, I was hopeful.
I was also really curious to know how a particular man with a beard and glasses spent his New Year’s Eve, and whether or not he had kissed anybody. A part of me really hoped he hadn’t.
As if Mother Nature was telling us this was going to be a wonderful year, January 1 brought with it a bright and shiny sun, blue sky, and an exhilarating nip in the air.
Luckily, last night it didn’t freeze, but the roads and trails were wet.
I itched to get out for a run to burn off some of the calories I consumed in the last several days.
I made sure Marco was fed, and content playing video games with his cousins.
Then I drove to the head of my favorite trail, put in my headphones, tugged the knit cap over my ears with my gloves on, and headed out.
I hated exercise. The idea of it repulsed me.
I also hated doing it. All I thought about with every single stride was that I was one step closer to this god-awful torture being done.
But running was a necessity for me. It kept me sane.
It also kept me fit. I liked my carbs, I liked my wine, and I loved my chocolate.
If I didn’t run, I wouldn’t be able to walk.
Lost in thought and mouthing the words to “Work Bitch” by the incomparable Britney Spears, I nearly ran face-first into the titanium chest of one Jagger McEvoy.
Because, of course, I fucking did.
Luckily, his reflexes were faster than mine, and he managed to dodge me. There was no collision, and I only felt slightly embarrassed, not positively mortified.
He stopped, his chest heaving, and he yanked out one earbud. “Elsa! Happy New Year.”
I pulled out one earbud as well. “I should be annoyed to find you once again where I am, but we’ve run into each other on this trail before. So …”