Chapter 8
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard I’m afraid it will crumble beneath me. I rest my forehead on the top of the wheel and let out a breath. Mouse. The audacity to call me that nickname with that stupid, beautiful grin on his gorgeous face.
The worst part is it made me smile. I’m almost sure he saw it, too. Damn him. I guess I started it by flirting with him. I couldn’t help myself. Kellan and I never joke or play. It’s always rough sex and business. It’s different with Donovan, and it terrifies me.
My breath hitched when he touched my face and wiped my tears. I had forgotten what it was like to be touched so gently, so delicately, like I might break beneath his hands.
And he just had to age like fine wine. Couldn’t he have gotten a beer gut and stained teeth? Instead, he had grown out of his baby face and right into a chiseled jaw covered with irresistible stubble—not yet a full beard, but a little more than a shadow. His muscles were more formed, firmer, bigger. I felt it when my hands touched his rock-hard chest. Heat floods between my legs just thinking about it.
That sexy, dimple-forming grin still makes me buckle at the knees. I remember making him smile that night, tracing my tongue up and down his sun-kissed olive skin.
“Audrey, stop it,” I grit to myself, looking in the rear-view mirror. “He humped and dumped you and made you out to be a fucking fool. Get. It. Together.” There’s my sad attempt at a pep talk. I sigh. “I’m so fucked.”
But then a playful smirk appears on my lips when I think about my knee to his balls. He deserved it.
I sit up straight and look out to the wrap-around front porch at the house I grew up in. I’ve been so consumed with Donovan that it hasn’t hit me until now.
I’m finally home.
Three pine green Adirondack chairs sit, facing the view—one for Pop, one for Gran, and one for me. Sweet memories flood my brain of the three of us sitting together, drinking tea and telling stories. Mostly Gran telling the stories. She was the best storyteller. Pop and I would sit here, listening to her all night like she hung the moon.
Home has a rustic wine-country visage with aged vines snaking up the earth-toned stones on the facade—a touch of nature to make this massive estate approachable.
I especially love the Juliet balcony off to the side, where I used to sit and read books until the moon was my only company.
This house was far too large for just Gran and Pop, but they had plans to fill it with lots of children and grandchildren. Sadly, my gran went through a tough journey of infertility and lost more babies than anyone should in their lifetime. My chest gets heavy with the thought of Gran’s miracle baby, my father, who turned out to be an utter disappointment. I wonder if he even knows Gran died.
I step out of the car and grab my carry-on from the trunk. The scent of eucalyptus and olive trees overtakes my nostrils. Rolling green hills as far as the eyes can see paint the background of my childhood. The front door opening shakes me from my nostalgic revery, flooding me with warmth and sunshine.
I drop everything and run up the front porch steps like when I was five years old, crashing straight into my grandfather’s arms.
“Oof! Well, hey there, kid. Oh, I missed you so much,” he murmurs. His Carhart jacket smells like cinnamon and Earl Grey tea. I’m unable to hold in the tears that stream down my face. I hold on to him like I’ll die if I don’t.
“Hey, Pop. God, I missed you so much. I love you so much.”
We squeeze each other tighter, and I notice he is more frail than before. My pop is getting older, and I missed so many years being away. He holds onto me and moves his hands to cup my face. He kisses my forehead and pulls me in for another bear hug.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he hums.
We hold each other for what feels like hours until I finally let go, turning down the steps to grab my belongings from the ground.
“Come on, Audrey. I got an early dinner for us.”
I walk inside and take a deep breath in. It still smells like Gran. I do a full turn, taking in all the pictures on the walls and the warm tones of this house. Even though this house holds painful memories, it’s also where I spent the most time with my grandparents. They raised me, protected me, nurtured me.
“What do you think?” Pop puts his hands on his hips, following my eyes as I look around me.
“It’s the same. Nothing has changed. I missed it so much,” I coo, running my fingers along a framed picture of Gran at the entryway table. This house is a stark contrast to Kellan’s New York penthouse. My grandparents made this a real home for me.
I survey the entry way, drinking in every detail I took for granted back then. The grand staircase with the charming wood finishes. The crown molding that adds a sense of character. The enormous wood beams that adorn the vaulted ceiling, filling my adolescent mind with wonder. But most precious of all are the paintings by Gran and my mother that scatter along the walls.
My mother was a gifted artist. I remember being a little kid, pretending that I was in a museum of my mom’s work, admiring everything she made like I was a famous art collector.
My eyes land on a picture resting on the fireplace. Mom. She’s pregnant with me, her hands making a heart on my belly as she looks down and smiles. I touch the edges of the frame, wondering if she’d be disappointed at how my life had turned out.
“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” he interjects. Bringing my gaze to his. “You are the spitting image of your mother,” he says softly.
I flinch at his words. They carry a painful weight behind them. There isn’t a single picture of my father in this house, my grandfather’s only son.
My grandparents always raved about how lucky my father was to find my mother. They loved her fiercely, as if she were their own daughter. My father loved her with every fiber of his being. A sharp pang of envy rips through me, wondering why I was never enough to deserve the love I craved from my father. Gran and Pop did their best to mend what was lost with their son when my mother died. The day she died, my father died with her. I suppose a part of me did too. And the start of his alcohol abuse became a heavy weight on my grandparents’ shoulders for years to come.
His grief drove him mad as his drunken tirades escalated from verbal lashings to attempted arson. My father sealed his own fate the night he drunkenly decided to set the King Family Vineyard on fire. Why? I guess that’s a secret between him and the case of whiskey he drank that night. But I’ve always thought he figured if his life was already burned to the ground, he might as well burn everything else, too. The Kings didn’t deserve the trauma my father put them through. He was unhinged in his drunken stupor, targeting Donovan’s family for contributing to our winery. A place that reminded him so much of my mother, a place where they had built a life together.
And just like everything Ted Winthrop touches, his attempt to burn down their vineyard failed, too. Pop caught him just as the first vine started to catch and called the authorities. But the real damage was done. Pop cut him off and exiled him right then and there. The night Ted left was the best night of my life.
My father used to tell me I was the spitting image of my mother and that he hated me for it. I can still smell the whiskey and wine on his breath as he pinned me down, bruising my wrists and screaming in my face. Kellan’s rage smells more like cognac. Same anger, different flavor.
My grandfather notices my discomfort with his words—unintentional, of course—but he changes the subject, anyway.
“Let’s eat and catch up, kiddo. Come on.”
He gestures me into the large, open kitchen and pulls out a barstool from the island. My eyes devour the delicious spread of sandwiches. I pause on the bottle of Violet’s Vintage, taking in every inch of the label.
“So the town gets to try this wine tomorrow at Sip Savor?” I point at the bottle in front of me.
“Oh! You must’ve stopped by earlier. It’s great, isn’t it?” Pop beams. “A pre-celebration for Gran. This town has been so supportive. I wish she were here to see it,” he whispers, sadness flashes in his eyes.
“I do too,” I reply empathetically. “It’s amazing, Pop. Truly. It’ll be great,” I say softly, my smile reaching my eyes, thinking about everyone coming together for my gran tomorrow.
The smallest of flutters bubble in my stomach at the thought of seeing Donovan again, but I push them back down as fast as they come.
My stomach grumbles, and Pop’s eyes widen at the sound.
“I’ve been talking your ear off, kid. Dig in! So, tell me, how’s New York?” he asks, placing a sandwich on his plate.
I grab a turkey avocado sandwich and grab the open bottle of wine. Knowing Pop, this has been breathing for half an hour. Just perfect. I point it in his direction, and he quickly nods as I pour us a glass.
“New York is fine. Kellan is fine,” I say flatly, because I am an awful liar and he knows it. I don’t want to talk about Kellan while I’m here. My pop can get anything out of me and I know he’ll ask, so this is my attempt to shut it down. I don’t have the mental capacity to have Gran, Kellan, and Donovan on my mind right now.
He cocks up an eyebrow. “Just fine? Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He puts his hands up in surrender and doesn’t probe further.
I swirl the deep red wine in my glass and stick my nose halfway down, taking a generous sniff. There’s a gleam in Pop’s eye, ready for my review of a wine that he and Gran worked so hard on. A wine that represents her life, her legacy, their love. God, was I lucky enough to witness their love.
“On the nose, I’m getting ripe blackberries, dark cherry, and a hint of plum.” I take another sniff. “Mmm, I’m also getting some undertones of tobacco and slate. Like a wet rock?” His laugh is hearty, full of life.
“You’ve got a great nose, kid.” Pop smiles at me.
I give it one more swirl and take a sip. “Okay, wow, this is absolutely perfect, Pop.”
“Isn’t it? Your Gran loved it. She said it was our very best.”
My heart breaks at the thought that Gran isn’t sitting here tasting wine and eating sandwiches with us. She’d give me her notes on the wine, and we’d compare flavor profiles. She’d urge me to keep eating, “Put some meat on your bones!” Her laugh would echo throughout this kitchen, probably at some corny joke from Pop. She loved his corny jokes. She and I have that in common.
“Why 2018? What’s so special about that year?” I say while chewing, not my best manners. I hold the bottle and observe the label. Right above the date is a sketching of Gran’s beloved cottage.
Gran had always wanted a place to escape to, to paint, read books, and journal. So, Pop remodeled the old cottage that had been sitting vacant on the property since the 1950s. It was old then, an original building on our forty-acre plot back when the winery was established in 1910 by my great grandfather. The cottage was a twenty-fifth anniversary gift to Gran. She always said it was the sweetest thing he’d ever done.
“2018 was the year we returned to business with the Kings.”
I stop chewing and swallow the rest of my sandwich, gulping it down. Since when did my family stop working with the Kings? Was I really so out of touch that I didn’t care to know this about my family? I take a sip of wine and keep my eyes steady on the glass.
“I-I didn’t know that, Pop. I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Regret takes over my body. I’m overcome with a sadness that I can’t shake away. I thought I was protecting them by keeping my distance, shielding them from my pain. Now I can see the pain that I’ve caused by being absent. I know nothing about my home, my family.
I should’ve known that my grandfather and Donovan’s family went back into business. It makes sense now why Donovan was carrying Winthrop Wine cases earlier. Why didn’t I know this? Because I didn’t care enough to ask or call enough to care. The shittiest granddaughter award goes to me.
He waves me off and shakes his head. “You’ve been busy with your life in New York,” Pop says with a soft smile, but I don’t miss the veiled worry in his eye. “It’s not your fault.”
“Who were the Kings working with before then?” I query, arching my eyebrow. Pop takes a deep breath before taking another swig of wine.
“The Taylor Family.”
My eyes get wide as I blow out a strained breath. My heart feels like it’s sitting deep within my stomach.
The Taylors? What the fuck?
I notice my mouth agape, and I shut it closed before probing Pop for more information.
“What happened with the Taylors?” I ask, at a loss. Clearly, I have no pulse with news in Oakwood Valley or the wine world. Between Kellan’s short leash and my social media aversion, if something happens back home, I’m the last to know about it.
Pop takes another sip before speaking.
“Turns out Duke Taylor had substantial investments in various sectors outside the wine business. He got arrested for insider trading and tipping. The man was found guilty on all charges when it went to court. He’s been in prison since…well, since we bottled this wine from the barrel,” he says matter-of-factly, raising his glass to the light to admire its color.
My mouth drops at this news. If Duke Taylor is in prison, what happened to Jess? We never liked each other, but I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I know all too well what having a destructive dad is like.
“As part of the legal proceedings, the court ordered a seizure of Duke’s assets, including the Taylor Winery and Vineyard.”
My hand flies to my mouth as I gasp out loud. “Oh my god!”
“Their vineyard went to auction after his prison sentence. Twenty years. The list of charges was endless and a lot of money was involved. That’s all I know.”
I’m shaken to my core. This is massive news. My mind races as I take in this information. Duke Taylor is in jail. Jess is who knows where. Donovan is carrying crates of our wine. And why the hell did Caleb King cut ties with my family in the first place?
“I have so many questions, but first, who took the vineyard?” I ask.
“Once it went to auction, it took several years to get everything in order because of how large the case was. A wealthy wine family from Holly Hill put a bid on it during the pandemic and won.”
This is so much information. I’m trying to eat, drink, and process at the same time, but it’s overwhelming. My mind keeps flickering back to Jess and her whereabouts, like a game of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego.
“What happened to Jess Taylor?”
Pop shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips.
“No idea, kid. Last I heard, Jess and her mother fled California after Duke’s sentencing,” he replies, cutting the crust off his sandwich. Just like Gran used to do for him.
Wow, that’s not how I imagined her life going. I guess others could say the same for me, too. I was living a lie, and no one knew. Jess and I aren’t all that different in the end.
This still doesn’t add up with Caleb, though. I can’t help but wonder, what does Donovan think of all this? And more than that, why do I care about what Donovan thinks?
Focus, Audrey.
“Pop, I don’t understand why Caleb cut ties in the first place. Did he ever explain outside of wanting to shift directions?” I prod, burning for answers.
None of this makes sense. My brain can’t put the pieces together, like the synapses aren’t synapsing. I rub my temples and take another sip of wine. Yeah, more wine should do it. Bottoms up.
“Caleb and I have always had respect for each other. It was a business decision, and I respected it. The winery was doing okay after we parted with the Kings,” he reassures me, taking a sip before moving on. “We got to work with other great vineyards in neighboring towns and made good wine in those years,” he beams, clearly proud of the work he puts in as a winemaker. He’s trying to make light of this for me, but it all feels too heavy for me to carry.
“I’m sorry, Pop. I didn’t mean for the Spanish Inquisition. I’ve been gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you and Gran. And now she’s gone, and I never got to say goodbye.” My voice cracks as my eyes well up, staring into my wine glass—the only piece of Gran I have left. Pop scoots closer to me, draping his arm around my shoulder.
“Your Gran and I were fine. We knew you had dreams to chase in New York. Sure, you could’ve called more, but we could’ve too. It’s on us too.”
His eyes look sorry, and I pull him in for another hug because I need it.
“Well, I’m here now for you. And Gran.” I raise my glass for a toast. Pop does the same, our glasses clinking together.
“I know you are,” he sniffs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Now, I have something for you. Wait here.”
I give him a quizzical look as I take another bite of my sandwich. I swivel in my barstool, watching him enter another room and come out with his hands behind his back.
“What you got there, Pop? No gifts.” I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin and place my hands on my lap.
“Your Gran wanted you to have this.” He reaches for my hand and opens my palm, placing a silver key with a lavender silk ribbon tied to it. I lift it up, examining it to see if I recognize it, but I don’t.
“A key? A key for what?”
And then it hits me. My eyes widen as I bring my hand to my chest, cradling the key to my heart.
“Wait, Gran’s cottage?”
He nods, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. “She wanted you to have it. If you want, you can stay there while you’re here and make it your own. And if you ever decide to move back home, the cottage is all yours,” he says with a wink.
My heart is bursting at the seams. My own escape. Gran gifted me her most favorite place in the world. My eyes shimmer with wetness as I press the key to my chest, squeezing it tight.
“Thank you, Pop. This is the best gift. Thank you, Gran,” I say, looking up to the sky.
“You can drive up in your rental car. We added on a garage a couple years ago,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.
I’m so happy I could float. I’ve always loved Gran’s cottage. She used to take me there when I was sad and let me paint with her and bake cookies. God, I miss her.
Pop and I talk over a bottle of wine and sandwiches, losing track of time. We laugh and cry over stories about gran; it feels so good to be in his presence.
I can feel Gran here too, smiling down on us and watching over us. Pop tells me that Gran wanted her ashes spread at Beleza Point, an hour and a half north of the valley. She grew up camping there as a kid, he explains. I remember camping there too. It must’ve meant a lot to her, being able to share her favorite places with us.
“So we spread her ashes on Sunday?” I ask while tidying up the kitchen.
Pop answers with a simple hum as he corks the bottle of wine we didn’t finish. A small smile tugs at my lips, and I walk straight into his arms. I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes—I see my Gran.
He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Night, kid. I’m so glad you’re home.”
I rise to my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. “Me too, Pop.”
I grab the key from the counter, buzzing with excitement. Alright Gran, let’s see your place. A quick wave to Pop and I’m out the door with my suitcase in hand.
Back at the car, I toss my luggage into the trunk. I’m about to slip into the driver’s seat when I spy a note on the windshield. I grab it, unfolding it along the edge.
Mouse,
Here’s your napkin for your spilled coffee.
-D
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I whisper, shaking my head and laughing. I go to crumple the napkin and toss it in the backseat when my hands stop me. I stare at the words written, running my fingers across them. My gaze softens as I think about Donovan scribbling this note with a mischievous grin. Instead, I neatly fold the napkin and slip it into the pocket of my leggings.
My eyes trail to the now cold macchiato sitting in the cup holder. I bite my lip, thinking about the way Donovan stared at my tits where the spilled coffee dripped. He’s not so slick. I clocked him right away.
Oakwood Valley is a small town, and I’m here for five days. The chances of me avoiding Donovan are slim to none. For the last ten years, I’ve been building my wall brick by brick to shut out any residual feelings for the boy who broke my heart. But now here he is, effortlessly dismantling what I’ve worked so hard to build until I have nowhere left to hide.
I’m not sure how much longer I can hold up. One more look from those ocean blues and I am completely done for.