Chapter 3 #2
They worked in silence for a while, pulling bottles and checking dates, building a list of potential auction pieces that would showcase Stone Bridge's history without depleting their most irreplaceable stock.
The ritual was soothing—brother working alongside brother, continuing a tradition that stretched back generations.
"You know what the strangest part is?" Devon said eventually. “Three months ago, if someone had told me I'd be helping a woman with a scandal-plagued background launch her career comeback using our family's wine collection, I'd have thought they were insane."
"And now?"
"Now, I think it might be the smartest business decision we've ever made. And the most terrifying personal one."
Bryson clapped him on the shoulder. "The best decisions usually are both. Just remember—she's not going anywhere. The job is real, Dad believes in the program, and she's too stubborn to let Harold Pemberton's betrayal define her career forever."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've seen the way she looks at wines, like she's seeing liquid history.
And I've seen the way she talks about authentication, like it's not just a job but a calling.
" Bryson grinned. "Plus, she turned down staying in your garage apartment and insisted on professional boundaries.
That's not the behavior of someone planning to cut and run. "
Devon’s shoulders dropped slightly as some of the tension he’d been carrying, eased. His brother had a point—Emery was here for the long haul, building something that mattered. The timing would work itself out eventually.
"So," Devon said, picking up his notebook again. "Think we've got enough bottles for a decent auction preview?"
"I think we've got enough to make every collector on the West Coast very interested in what else we might have hidden down here.
" Bryson surveyed their selection with satisfaction.
"Your girlfriend—sorry, your future girlfriend—is going to have her work cut out for her documenting the provenance on all of these. "
"She's going to love it," Devon said, and realized he was smiling despite himself. "She gets this look when she talks about research, like she's about to uncover buried treasure."
"There's that lovesick expression again."
"Shut up and help me carry these upstairs. We've got a reputation to rebuild and a romance to put on hold."
"Now you're thinking like a Boone," Bryson said, gathering bottles with the careful reverence they deserved. "Business first, feelings second, family always."
As they climbed the stone steps back to the main house, arms full of liquid history, Devon felt cautiously optimistic about the future.
Emery would have her chance to prove herself, the authentication program would succeed, and eventually—when the timing was right—maybe they'd have their chance, too.
He just hoped he could wait that long without going completely insane.
The kitchen had taken on the warm glow of the moon, lit by pendant lights hanging over the massive island where they'd gathered after dinner. Emery nursed a glass of Stone Bridge's 2018 pinot noir, feeling more relaxed than she had since arriving.
“Devon told me you’ve been all over the globe,” Emery said to Riley. “A real adventurer. Hiking, skiing, and whitewater rafting. Being a tour guide and basically going wherever the wind took you.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Riley raised her glass. “I will admit, I had a lot of fun for a few years in the middle. Near the end, it got lonely. And the beginning? Well, let’s just say I learned a lot of things the hard way and banged up my body.”
“You survived.” Brea smiled. “And you came home—to Bryson—where you belong. Now you just need to move into this house.” She waggled her perfectly manicured finger in the direction of Riley.
“You’re worse than Bryson,” Riley said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he paid his mother to say that.” Walter leaned away from Brea, but it didn’t stop her from playfully smacking his biceps.
“Well, I never,” Brea said with a smile.
Gabe chuckled.
“Learning to be a tour guide in all those activities had to have been hard,” Emery said.
“Once I got the hang of it, not so much. But early on, I made some really dumb mistakes.”
“TikTok worthy ones?” Emery asked, hoping everyone would appreciate her poking fun at herself.
“Oh, a few.” Riley nodded, offering a soft smile.
“I lied once about knowing all the ins and outs of tree jump ziplining. I called myself an expert. I figured it couldn’t be that hard.
However, I didn’t know the language, which was a problem during the training.
Not to mention, they were super short-handed, so I was paired with another guide on day two, who didn’t speak a lick of English.
We were like frick and frack out there.”
Emery leaned forward, resting her elbows on the island, riveted by Riley’s storytelling abilities. “What happened?”
“There I was," Riley said, gesturing with her wine glass.
“Hanging upside down from a zipline in the Costa Rican rainforest, and the other guide starts yelling at me in Spanish. Apparently, I was supposed to use the brake to slow me down as I approached the next tree long before I even thought about it. You know, because I was too busy enjoying the view… upside down.”
"Please tell me you didn't crash into a tree," Brea said, covering her eyes in mock horror.
"Worse. I crashed into one of our guests. A very large, irate German man who was not amused by my lack of ziplining skills." Riley grinned.
The sound of footsteps echoed as the door to the private cellar opened, and Bryson and Devon appeared carrying two small cases of wine.
“What are we discussing?” Devon asked.
“The fact that Riley’s not the most athletic, but she managed to make a career out of it,” Walter said in a teasing tone.
“She’s pretty good at scaling walls.” Bryson leaned against the counter and winked at his girlfriend. “Used to sneak into my bedroom at night when we were kids. I used to lecture her about how she could break her neck if she ever fell.”
"Says the man who once tried to surf during a lightning storm," Riley shot back.
Walter chuckled from his position at the head of the island. "Your mother made me ground you for that stunt. Do you remember, Brea?"
"I remember wanting to ground him permanently," Brea replied dryly. "And I also remember a certain someone encouraging that behavior."
"I was building character," Walter protested.
"You were building gray hairs," Brea corrected, but her smile was fond.
Emery swallowed. She loved her parents. And her sister. They were terrific people. Kind. Considerate. Loving, even. But the world flipped when her father had done… well, that insurance fraud had been a nightmare, and her family paid a huge price—two years later, and they were still paying for it.
Gabe laughed, swirling his wine. "I'm beginning to understand how this family built such a successful business. You're all completely insane."
"Sanity is overrated," Devon said, leaning against the sink. "Risk-taking is what separates the successful from the safe."
"Speaking of risk-taking," Bryson said. “Wait until you see what we found in the reserve cellar. I’ve been down there a million times, but I can’t say I’ve ever studied some of those bottles.”
“Let’s take a look.” Walter rose and pulled out the first one, giving a low whistle.
“Early on, my dad and I would pluck a bottle here and there and stick them down in the reserve cellar. Our intention was always to drink them during celebrations. Sometimes we did.” He waved the bottle. “This one was from our wedding, Brea.”
“We can’t auction that,” Emery said.
“There are two more with that label down there, and I know there’s more in the main cellar.” Devon moved closer, leaning over the island. “All we need to do is make sure we have two of everything.’
“An heir and spare.” Bryson chuckled.
“Don’t let your sisters hear you say that.” Brea arched a brow.
Each bottle they revealed made Emery's breath catch. Even in the kitchen lighting, she could see the age in the labels, the careful way sediment had settled in the glass, the patina of time that marked truly exceptional vintages.
"My God," she whispered, leaning forward to examine one particular bottle. "Is this from your grandfather's original plantings?"
"That one is," Walter said with evident pride. “Third harvest. Might have only made one hundred bottles.”
Gabe tapped his knuckles on the counter. “I wish I had my binder. There are some old records in there that your grandfather kept.”
“There were a few more down there with that label,” Devon explained, pulling out his notebook. "We thought it might be a good starting point for the authentication program—pieces with real history and provenance we can document completely."
Emery lifted the bottle with reverent hands, studying the label's condition and the wine's color through the dark glass. "This is incredible. With proper documentation and marketing, bottles like this could establish Stone Bridge as a serious player in the collector market."
"That's the idea," Walter said. "I'll need you to be thorough with the research. Collectors at that level don't just buy wine—they buy stories, history, proof of authenticity."
"I can do thorough," Emery assured him, already mentally cataloging the research she'd need to conduct. "But I'll need access to your records—harvest notes, production details, storage conditions over the years."
"Everything's documented in my home office, and Gabe has records as well. I have meetings with distributors tomorrow, so you're welcome to use the space. Just don't reorganize my filing system—Brea tried that once, and I couldn't find anything for weeks."
"I heard that," Brea called out, refilling wine glasses. "And it was an improvement."
"It was alphabetical," Walter complained. "Wine records should be organized by vintage year, not grape variety."