Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
CADEN
“How could you not tell me?” I demand as Noah pulls up to the house.
He followed me after I stormed out of the Screw and said he would drive me home. I wanted to punch something. I still do, in fact. “Luke Richards? Luke fucking Richards?”
“It wasn’t my business to tell,” Noah says.
“Don’t get all sanctimonious on me.”
“You left, Caden,” Noah says. He’s not angry, but more resigned. It makes me madder. “There are consequences to that.”
Consequences indeed. Being so close to Isla again was a complete shock to my system. The scent of her still fills my nose—icing sugar and warm bread. The years that have passed only made her more beautiful than I remember. Her thick chestnut hair, the pink curves of her lips, her smooth tanned skin. Her eyes were even greener, like my memory couldn’t do them justice.
My body craved her. Like sense memory. I wanted to wrap her up in my arms, bury my face in her hair, melt at her feet and promise to never leave her side again.
But she’s not mine to make promises to.
I can’t wrap my head around Isla marrying Luke. I remember him as a tool, a classic Way kid who partied his way through school, only graduating thanks to a generous donation from his father. Luke was one of those guys who arrogantly thought he had earned what he got, rather than having been born lucky. He was just going to do whatever his dad told him to.
I want to run again. I want to go back to Catarina Azul where life is simple. Where Sebastian has shown me how sustainable wineries are really run, putting me to work among the vines, making me earn my place there with blood, sweat, and tears. Where the scent of Senora González’s locro calls me home after a long day of hard labor. Where I don’t have to think so damned much or face what I’ve lost.
“I’ll call you later,” I mutter to Noah, getting out of the car and slamming the door harder than necessary.
I head into the house, unsure of where I want to go. I stand in the foyer for a moment, breathing in the familiar smells, allowing my former home to wash over me. I head down the hall and hear voices coming from the kitchen.
Daisy and Von are chatting quietly, Von sitting at the island with her laptop open and Daisy fixing herself a coffee. They both fall silent when I walk in, which makes me assume they were talking about me. I pull the cold mask tighter across my face.
“What?” I snarl.
Von frowns. “Jesus, Caden. Did you go feral in Argentina?”
I’m too prickly, itching for a fight. “Fuck off, Von.”
“Hey,” Daisy says. “Come on now.”
Von narrows her eyes. She’s always been good at reading people. “Did something happen while you were out getting drinks with Dudley Do-Right?”
“No,” I say, realizing too late how false my protest sounds. The kitchen, always so light and airy, feels too small and confined. Without another word, I stalk toward the French doors that lead to the stone terrace, hurrying down the wide steps then skirting the pool and storming out onto the back lawn. I walk straight to my mother’s garden; the minute I pass between the two massive rhododendrons that line the entrance, I crouch down and put my head in my hands. It still smells the same in here—honeysuckle and wildflowers, with the hint of pine. Mom curated this place so carefully. I remember showing it to Isla, as we were sneaking away from the party.
I wish I could see it in the daylight , she’d said. And I’d promised she would.
I promised her so many things that night. And I broke every single one.
I hear the soft padding of feet and smell a fresh citrusy scent as Daisy sits beside me.
“Are you okay?”
My instinct is to tell her to leave me alone, but when I look into her eyes, I see Mom. I sit down hard on the grass and sigh. “No,” I admit.
“Was Von right? Did something happen at the Screw?”
“Yes.” I dig my knuckles into my eyes. “I saw someone I used to…” I shake my head. “I found out something that…” I can’t even form the words.
Daisy clears her throat delicately. “Is this about Isla Davenport getting married?”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“You were with her. That morning. We know she was your, um, alibi.” Daisy flushes, probably a little embarrassed to be talking to her big brother about his personal life.
“Does everyone know?”
Daisy shakes her head. “Just the family. And the police. They were keeping everything tight lipped, making sure there were no leaks to the media. There were reporters everywhere, talking to everyone, trying to ferret out whatever information they could get. Once the sheriff confirmed Isla’s story, they could at least release to the press that you had an ironclad alibi. That was a relief. There were a lot of articles about you in the beginning. Dad was furious.”
I’m stunned. It just didn’t occur to me—rumors, reporters, leaks, lies. My family having to deal with all that plus the grief over losing Mom.
“I’m so sorry, Daisy,” I say quietly.
She gives a half shrug. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Guilt forms a knot in my throat.
“So…” She bites her lip. “Did you really like Isla, then?”
I stare at a bee crawling across a Black-eyed Susan. “Yeah,” I say, so softly I don’t know if she hears me.
Daisy plucks a blade of grass and ties it into a knot. “So much is different since that day,” she says. “You aren’t the only Everton who cares about the town, Cade. And once you left, suddenly the two people in the family who cared the most were gone. I tried to step in. That was what Mom would have wanted. She loved Magnolia Bay—I think she loved it more than Everton Estate.”
“She did,” I agree. Mom always taught me the importance of balance, reminding me that Everton needed the town as much as the town needed the winery. Dad acted like the locals should be grateful for all the business we brought, all the tourism that kept the town going. Mom cared about the people.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Daisy says. “Running the tasting room and doing events. Al takes care of PR. But Von has checked out—she’s not part of the estate anymore. And neither is Finn, not that he was ever interested in it much, with his sights set on politics. I’m trying but…” Daisy shakes her head. “I’m not you. Or Mom.”
I feel a sudden rush of gratitude toward my youngest sister. “Thank you, Daisy,” I say. “Really. From where I’m standing, you’re doing a great job. Mom would be so proud of you.” I pause. “I’m proud of you too.”
Daisy flushes but looks pleased. “What else could I have done? This town is part of our family. Right?”
The knot in my throat tightens. “Right,” I say.
“You need to see Dad, Caden. He doesn’t stay out here as much anymore. He’s always in the city, at the Upper East Side apartment or at the office. He’s different now. Harder. Colder.”
I snort. “How is that even possible?”
“You know how much he loved her,” Daisy says sadly.
I do. More than he ever seemed to love his children.
There’s a pounding at my temple. I stare at a patch of purple coneflowers, swaying in the light breeze. The sunlight is turning a rich golden color as the sun approaches its descent.
“I’ll go see him at the office tomorrow,” I say, getting to my feet and helping Daisy up.
Right now, all I want to do is collapse onto my bed and sleep.
My father will have to wait.
The next morning, I wake up feeling like a boulder is sitting on my chest.
Isla is engaged. And I have to see my father today. My head is still throbbing. I feel bone tired, like I’ve worked a twelve-hour shift shoveling out tanks at Catarina Azul.
I also need to make a plan for my own investigation. I need the number of Dad’s PI. That’s the best place to start.
My chest pinches as my thoughts drift to Isla again. Seeing her, right there in front of me, so alive and vibrant, so real…it’s like every line of defense I’ve tried to build for the past five years came crashing down. I felt exposed. And then I saw that fucking rock on her finger.
I should just keep clear of her for the rest of my time here. But the thought of her so close, only a handful of miles away, is like a delicate agony. Does she still live in that little apartment over Magnolia’s Petals? Sleep in the same bed we slept in together?
My chest constricts as I think of her sharing that bed with Luke now. Or maybe they have their own place. If they’re getting married, surely they’re living together. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
I need coffee.
I get up, slip into a pair of track pants, and head to the kitchen.
Finn sits at the long marble island, in a perfectly starched shirt, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a laptop open in front of him.
I head to the espresso machine on the counter. Finn makes an exaggerated glance at his watch.
“You’re up early,” he says dryly. “Does that winery in Argentina let you get away with such tardiness?”
I gesture around at the empty kitchen. “Are we in Argentina?”
I told Al and Noah a bit about Catarina Azul yesterday before Isla showed up at the Screw. Alistair must have told Finn.
“I suppose not,” Finn says, and turns back to his laptop. There’s an uncomfortable silence as I make my coffee and watch my brother. He was always the most serious of the five of us. Quietly ambitious. Mom used to call him her little future president.
“What are you working on?” I ask. “More permits?”
Finn’s chest puffs out in a self-important way. “Eric Kim seems to think he can double the size of his booth without incurring extra cost.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Let Eric have a bigger booth.” Eric runs Perks, the local coffee shop, and he and his wife, Pamela, are always trying to add some flair, whether it’s talking about expanding or making a new seasonal drink to promote.
“It’s not regulation,” Finn protests.
“What would Mom say?” I ask him.
That seems to bring my brother up short. For a moment, his eyes glaze over and he turns his head away from me.
“Fine,” he says, and types something into the computer.
I can’t help but smile. There’s a good man inside Finn, underneath all that ambition. Mom always saw it.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.”
“Your room faces the garden,” I begin. Finn’s expression turns wary.
“Yes,” he says.
“Did you…hear or see anything that morning?”
“I already told the police everything.”
“But that’s why I’m here,” I say. “To go over it all again.”
“Go over it with someone else. I don’t want to talk about that day.”
I sit at the stool next to him. “I know it’s hard,” I say. “I don’t like thinking about that morning either. But…please, Finn. They’re going to just let this guy get away with it if I don’t find something by the end of the summer. I need all the help I can get.”
My brother thinks for a moment, then closes his laptop. “I thought it was a car backfiring,” he says quietly.
We sit in the silence of what that means. I feel a strange itch behind my eyes and when I look at Finn again, he’s blinking very fast. He heard it. He heard the shot that killed Mom.
“I—I’m sorry,” I murmur. The enormity of what I’m doing is sinking in. It was easy to be self-righteous down in Argentina, to feel the superiority of this self-imposed mission. It’s another thing entirely to see the grief in my brother’s eyes, and to know that he was right here when Mom was killed. They all were. I was the only one who wasn’t around.
Finn shudders once, then opens the laptop, typing with renewed focus. “Is that all?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I say, standing. “That’s all.”
I won’t push him any further.
I take my cup and leave my brother to his own devices. I head back to my room to shower and change, then walk outside to find Alex. He’s wiping down the windshield of the town car, the sleeves of his white button down rolled up. It’s nearing noon and the day is turning out to be a hot one.
“Hey Alex,” I say. “Can you take me to the helipad? It’s time to make the pilgrimage to kiss the ring.”
Alex chuckles. “I was thinking you might be needing a ride today. The helicopter is waiting for you.” The quickest way to get from Magnolia Bay to the city is flying. There’s a helipad at the Seaport and another at 34 th Street on the East River. I’ll go to that one—it’s closer to the office. He opens the back door for me. “A little late to be rising, isn’t it?”
“What is it with everyone policing my morning routine?” I grumble.
Alex shrugs and hops in the driver’s seat. “It is unusual for you.”
“I’m different now.”
Alex glances at my attire in the rearview mirror. “This is true.”
I’m wearing another pair of old jeans and faded gray tee. I don’t care what I look like. I don’t care if my father judges me. I’m not the heir to Everton anymore.
Alex takes me to the helipad, a few miles outside town, and soon, I’m landing at the pier on 34 th where there’s another town car waiting for me. We drive through the city streets, skyscrapers towering above me, the sidewalks bustling with people, yellow cabs honking. It’s a startling change from the idyllic views of Catarina Azul, or even the pleasant streets of Magnolia Bay. I used to come into the city all the time. For meetings with Dad, for dinner events, for parties or concerts or shows. It feels like another lifetime.
I suppose in some ways, it was.
The Everton offices are in a sleek black building on 56 th Street. I enter the cool lobby and take the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. It’s all so familiar: the black leather couches, the floor to ceiling windows, the muted carpeting. Golden letters reading Everton Estate front one wall. The receptionist must have been warned of my arrival, because she’s new—I don’t recognize her, but she knows who I am.
“Right this way, Mr. Everton,” she says, escorting me even though it’s unnecessary. I remember coming into this office when I was just a kid, bringing Dad a home packed lunch he didn’t need and likely didn’t eat. Mom would let me sit in his chair while he was in meetings.
“This will be your office someday, Cade,” she’d say.
The memory sours in my stomach. Everything is floor to ceiling glass, but Dad’s office has these pristine white blinds that offer privacy. I stop outside the polished wooden door with a plaque reading Russell Everton, CEO.
I take a deep breath and knock.
“Come.” My father’s voice is muffled through the wood.
He doesn’t control your life anymore , I remind myself.
I open the door.
Dad is sitting at his desk with a portfolio open in front of him and a sleek black laptop off to the side. He wears his usual expertly tailored suit and a navy tie. There’s a lot more gray in his salt-and-pepper hair, and the lines around his eyes are starker. He still has that regal bearing, though, the wide set of his shoulders, the jut of his square chin, that haughty pride that declares he’s an Everton.
He looks up at me and I see some emotion flicker in his eyes but it’s too brief to read. He closes the portfolio with a dull thud.
For a moment, we just stare at each other in silence. I can’t help the way my pulse kicks up a notch. This man had power over me for so long.
“So,” he says, his deep voice evoking a hundred childhood memories. “You’ve come back.”
I nod tersely then close the door behind me. I stride over to the window that overlooks 56 th Street. There are two ergonomic chairs in front of his desk but I don’t feel like sitting.
I won’t be here long. I’m paying my penance and then it’s back to Magnolia Bay.
“Where have you been?” my father demands.
It’s the same question Isla posed.
“Working,” I say simply.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Dad.”
My father frowns, his brow furrowing. His eyes glitter darkly, like onyx. “You will not speak to me that way.”
“Or else what?” I challenge him. “You’ll take away my inheritance?”
My father’s frown deepens. “Don’t be glib.”
“I’m not,” I say. “You were the one who told me to start taking my life seriously. Do you remember? Do you remember that talk we had before the party? When you insisted that I marry and pop out some kids before I would be allowed to inherit the estate?” The memory brings back a wave of anger.
“Of course I remember,” Dad says impatiently. “Rehashing the past does not interest me. The only thing that matters now is that you’re back. I’ll have Alistair send out a press release. Announce to the shareholders that?—”
“Stop it,” I snap. “You’re not listening. I’m not back , Dad. I’m not staying.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father says with a wave of his hand. “Of course you’re staying. You are my oldest son and Everton needs?—”
I stride over to the desk and plant my hands on it, looming above him. “You need to listen to me now, Dad. I’m never going to run Everton. I don’t want my inheritance. I haven’t even touched your money since the first year I was in Argentina. I support myself now.” I see a flash of something that might be approval on Dad’s face. “I only came back so that Mom’s case wouldn’t get shoved in basement and forgotten.”
My father’s mouth twists into a sneer. “So now you have decided to care about the death of your mother? You didn’t seem to take that into account when you left.”
I flinch. “You gave me no choice.”
“Please. Are you not tired of blaming me for everything? Take some responsibility for yourself. Be a man.”
My jaw clenches. I loathe that phrase.
“You don’t get to control my life anymore, Dad,” I warn him. “I’m free. I’m done.” A thought occurs to me. “What is Von doing working at a law firm? You told me you’d name her heir if I failed to live up to your expectations.”
My father’s eyes trace down to my jeans and T-shirt. “Failed indeed,” he says dryly.
I hate how much it still hurts. All those miles, all those years, and he still has the power to cut me down.
I strengthen my resolve. He’s dodging the question. “Why not name Von the heir to Everton?” I say again.
“Surely since you have no interest in running the estate, you can no longer care about the decisions I make regarding who inherits it.” Dad crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, leveling me with his onyx gaze. “I knew you’d come back.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“I thought you didn’t care what I believe,” Dad replies.
He’s right—I don’t. He never confided in me before, never treated me as anything except the future CEO. Not a son. Why would I expect anything to be different?
“Whatever, Dad,” I say, stalking toward the door.
“Caden, wait.” I turn and see my father’s face has changed. Some of the coldness has left his eyes. He seems to be struggling with his words. “I…your mother would be glad to have you back.”
I stare at him blankly. Is he trying to use Mom’s memory to manipulate me? I wouldn’t put it past him. But I won’t let him draw me back into his web. I won’t let him put puppet strings on me again.
“I’m not back,” I remind him.
Then I storm out of the office.