5. Chord
five
Chord
85 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
It takes about AN HOUR to get from San Francisco to Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard, and even though it’s been years since I last went home, I could never forget the way.
I zip through traffic, cruise past sleepy country towns, and then reach the Redwood groves, rows of vines, patchwork farmland, and rolling green hills of Sonoma. The twilit landscape is blanketed by last night’s fog, making the damp air glow. I slow down and take it all in. It’s fucking gorgeous.
The sun is creeping over the horizon when I roll past a familiar set of enormous white timber gates bracketed by low stacked stone walls, and a tingle of loss pinches the bridge of my nose. My mom painted those gates herself every spring and every fall, and even though they’re much more weathered around the edges now, I can see the paint is fresh. Not that I’m surprised. My sister, Charlie, runs the ranch now, and she’d never let those gates—or anything else—fall into disrepair.
I snort. Charlie—smart, stubborn, her-way-or-the-highway Charlotte Davenport—would shut the place down before she let it go to shit. And it’s almost come to that. It’s been eight years since our dad died, and this winter, it’ll be ten years since we said goodbye to Mom. Once they were gone, business was never the same. Our family was never the same.
Daisy turned eighteen just before Dad’s death, so we were all adults by then and living our own separate lives. Without Mom and Dad to bring us together, it got too easy to stay fractured. And even though Charlie, Finn, Dylan, Daisy, and I inherited everything, and none of us wanted to sell, we never found a way to run this place like they did.
I’ve tried over and over to invest, but Charlie won’t take my money. She doesn’t want a single cent of what hockey’s given me, and it drives me fucking nuts.
The gates are flung open, revealing a long country lane wide enough for two cars to pass, bordered by old silver-leafed olive trees. I don’t need to turn in to know the driveway is covered with dusty gravel that crunches under both boots and tires or that there’s a turning circle at the end in front of a white-clad reception house and tasting room.
But I’m not a visitor, and I don’t stop until I’ve driven farther around the perimeter of the hundred acres my family owns. I turn onto a dirt road forking off to the right, stop at a gate marked private property , and take a second to appreciate the fact that I’m finally here. I haven’t lived at Silver Leaf since I was eighteen, but I’ve never felt at home anywhere else.
I leave the car running as I get out of the car to swing open the wide metal gate. As I wind my way up the long asphalt drive to the house I built at the rear of my family’s land, it feels like nothing has changed. Not the house, a masterpiece of white wood and glass and stone hugged by a wide porch that overlooks our vineyards on one side and the river on the other. I picture the infinity pool on the far side, and my muscles relax at the thought of sinking into the water when the heat hits later in the day. Until then, I open an automated door on my five-car garage, swing the coupe into one of the free spaces, and consider my next move.
Do I go into the house first, maybe unpack and get in a quick workout, or do I let my family know I’m here?
It’s tempting to leave the hard stuff for later, but that girl—woman—from the Fury will be here mid-morning, and I need to talk to Charlie about organizing a cabin for Violet to use for the summer.
The grumble in my stomach settles things. I leave my luggage in the car, lock the garage with the press of a remote control, and start the walk around to my little brother’s restaurant.
It’s a little more than a mile—near enough for me to get there on foot, not so close that visitors might accidentally wander too close.
As I follow a dirt track framed by tumbled boulders, I pass the old dam and cast my eye over the rows of vines stretching in every direction. This deep into the vineyard, I see the strain we’re under. More fields lie fallow than they should, and more than half are bordered by broken wire-and-timber fences. I skirt closer to the vines that are green and full, take note of the open canopies, and silently approve the crop load. At least the vines we do have look like they’ll give us a good pinot noir this year.
My hike lasts about fifteen minutes before the first building comes into view. Named The Hill because it’s perched at the top of a low rise, our family restaurant looks like the rest of the buildings at Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard—the cellar door with our wine-making operations and tasting rooms, the main house where Charlie and Dylan live, the lines of cabins that make up the guest accommodations, and the private bungalow by the water. They’re all classic white wood, rough stacked stone, and oversized glass windows that take full advantage of the landscape. Even indoors, you can’t escape the effects of nature. When it came time to build my own place, I made it my mission to honor the style my parents loved so much.
I take the stone steps cut into the side of the rise two at a time and let myself into the kitchen. My brother stands with his back to me at the stove, and fuck, for a second, I feel like shit. I’m an asshole for not seeing him more often.
“What does a man have to do to get a decent breakfast around here?”
Dylan spins, and I ignore the way the kitchen staff double-take at the sight of me. Dylan stalls for a moment, but time starts again as he launches across the room and throws himself at me. I crush him to my chest before letting him go.
“What are you doing here? Wait. Let’s just…” Dylan looks around and calls over a middle-aged woman in matching chef’s whites, gives her a few rushed instructions, and then jerks his head in the direction of the private function room. I follow him as we leave behind a silent kitchen that bursts into excited whispers the second my foot is on the other side of the door.
“Food shouldn’t take long,” he says as he moves through the empty space with its vaulted ceilings and stacks of tables and chairs pushed up against the walls.
One side of the room is made up entirely of tall glass doors that open up onto a balcony looking over the vines. There’s a single long table set up on this side of the glass with a few chairs around it. Dylan walks straight to it, takes a seat, and kicks out another chair as an invitation for me to join him.
Dylan’s five years younger than me, and he was only thirteen when I was drafted to Tampa, so we didn’t always have a conventional brother relationship. But in those days, Mom and Dad were still around to bring him to games, and I came home every summer back then, so we were close enough.
He’s not as tall or broad as I am, his brown hair is a little lighter than mine, and his bright blue eyes are much warmer, but nobody would doubt that we’re related. Dylan was such a goofball as a kid, and he kind of reminded me of a puppy, but all that changed when he became a father. He was only twenty-three years old and not in a serious relationship with Izzy’s mother then or now, but raising his daughter full-time forced him to grow up damn quick.
I drop into the seat, stretch out my legs, and cross my arms over my chest. Dylan cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head.
“You sneaky son of a bitch. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
I shoot that eyebrow right back at him. “Why do you think?”
Dylan winces before passing a hand over his jaw. “Charlie.”
“Who said you can’t be smart and beautiful?”
“Fuck off. I’m smart enough to know that surprising her like this is going to be worse for you than giving her a little warning.”
“And I’m smart enough to know that this way, she didn’t have time to change the locks.”
He laughs, but it’s short and shallow. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“She would.”
He’s saved from pretending he disagrees when a server comes in bringing us breakfast. I fall on the plate the moment it hits the table.
“Slow down, bro.” Dylan watches me with horror that may actually be genuine. “That’s fine food you’re shoveling in right now. Savor it. Appreciate it.”
“Huh?” I glance at Dylan and then back at my half-demolished meal. “It’s eggs and sausage. Bit of toast. Some other stuff.” I poke at the things I don’t recognize. Whatever they are, it’s all delicious, and I scoop another forkful into my mouth.
Dylan uses his knife to give me a tour of the plate. “Poached eggs and house-made sujuk. Potato and corn fritters. Pumpkin hummus. Capsicum and chili chutney. Garlic labneh. Microherbs. Grilled sourdough baked fresh this morning.”
I follow along, wishing he’d shut up and let me eat, and he takes one look at me and rolls his eyes. “Next time I’ll get you a bib and a pail.”
“Sounds good,” I say around another mouthful of sausage. I mean sujuk .
“But seriously.” Dylan spares me a sidelong look as he cuts into his breakfast. “What are you doing here? How long are you going to stay?”
I stick my hand in my pocket, pull out Izzy’s invitation to family game night, and smack it onto the table without a word. Dylan’s brows draw down as he picks it up, but after a cursory scan, he shakes his head with a small smile and sets it down again.
“She didn’t tell me she was doing that.”
“She didn’t?” A stab of disappointment takes me by surprise. Part of me thought the invitation might be from Dylan, too—maybe even Charlie—but it seemed that my niece was operating alone. “How’d she find my address?”
“No fucking clue. That kid runs circles around me, Chord. I’m terrified of what the next ten years are going to do to me.”
I smirk. Better him than me.
“How is the little punk? I miss her.”
“She’s great. Murdered kindergarten, but we knew she would. I’m talking to her mother about the possibility of getting her tested for giftedness, but I don’t know. Something about it feels weird.”
“In what way?”
“Shouldn’t a kid get a shot at a normal childhood? Izzy is bright—like, off-the-charts smart—but she’s a lot of other things too. I don’t want her to be defined by the one thing she happens to be good at and lose touch with everything else.”
I don’t notice my fork has stalled halfway to my open mouth until Dylan looks away with a sheepish grimace. I lower my hand and frown at the way my heart starts beating harder.
“Is that what you think happened to me?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Dylan rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “Look, I didn’t mean—”
A wide set of doors at the opposite end of the room crashes open, and Dylan grins at what he sees over my shoulder. I spin in my chair and beam at the little dark-haired girl marching into the room like she owns the place. She’s got a camouflage-print t-shirt on with a bright pink tutu, and filthy tooled leather cowboy boots on her little feet.
“Daddy, I came to tell you—”
“ Chord? ”
The sharp squeal behind Izzy comes from the throat of my baby sister. I mean, she’s twenty-seven, but she’ll always be the baby, and she’s supposed to be in South America for the summer. With her long blonde waves, pink cheeks, and permanent smile, Daisy is pure sunshine, and something loosens in my chest at the unexpected sight of her.
After Daisy screeches my name, Izzy’s eyes widen as she realizes who I am, and when I drop to one knee, arms outstretched to entice her into a hug, she races into a flying leap so fast that I’m twirling her around before I’ve taken another breath.
“Uncle Chord!” Izzy squeezes my neck tight enough to cut off oxygen for a moment, then releases me and gives me a bright smile. “Did you get my invitation? Is that why you’re here? What did you think of the stickers? I saved all my best ones for you.”
“I got your invitation and that’s exactly why I’m here.” I bop her on her upturned nose. “I couldn’t say no to my best girl.”
“What does a sister have to do to get a little affection around here?” Daisy punches me in the ribs to get my attention, and I scoop her against me with my free arm. I regret it when she pinches me hard in the side. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
“Ow! You’re one to talk. Aren’t you supposed to be in Argentina or Chile or something?”
“Eh. I wasn’t feeling it, so I’m spending the summer here.”
Warm breath tickles my neck, and I twist my head to find Izzy gazing up at me, big brown eyes glued to mine before she wraps me in another hug. Her body softens with a happy sigh as she flops her head onto my shoulder, and I rest my cheek on her dark hair.
“Funny thing that,” I say to Daisy. “So am I.”