Chapter 6 #2
"They're historical artifacts—uncomfortable ones, but history, nonetheless.
If you donate them with full context, not glorifying what happened but documenting it honestly, they become educational rather than collectibles.
" Emery leaned forward. "I could help you with that.
I still have museum contacts who understand how to present difficult history responsibly. "
“I’d appreciate that. I don’t know anything about history, and I’ve never set foot inside a museum. Olivia says, outside of wine, I’m the most uncultured person she knows.”
Emery laughed softly. “I doubt that.”
“No, really, it’s true. I look at a fine piece of art, and I think Willa could do better.” Gabe smiled. “Olivia would love to have those guns out of the house. Not only is she not a fan of firearms, but she also doesn’t like what my grandfather’s legacy does to me sometimes.”
“It doesn’t have to be all bad. I understand your grandfather was a criminal.
He did terrible things. But that doesn't mean those guns should disappear, nor should they be romanticized.
" She met his gaze steadily. "Documenting that history honestly—making it a cautionary tale rather than a trophy—that seems like the most responsible option. "
Gabe stared at her for a long moment, something like relief washing over his features. "I'd appreciate that more than you know. The idea of those guns ending up at auction turned into some morbid collector's item..." He shuddered. "That's been my nightmare."
"Then let's make sure it doesn't happen. I’ll make a call for you.”
"Thank you. Truly."
For the next ten minutes, they both returned to their work, but Gabe was still fidgeting. "Can I ask you something? About the articles?"
Emery felt her stomach tighten. "What about them?"
“Your not planning on using them as a reason to leave, are you?”
The directness of the question caught her off guard. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I've been exactly where you are right now. Convinced that everyone sees you as your worst mistake, that no amount of good work will ever be enough to overcome the whispers." Gabe rested both hands on his desk. "And I’m back in that thick of things with the reading of David’s will, only I won’t let it make me pack my bags and buy a plane ticket this time. "
“You left?”
“Nope. Never got out of the driveway.”
"What stopped you?"
"Walter asked me one question. 'Are you leaving because you want to, or because you're scared?'" Gabe smiled a big, toothy grin that reached his ears. "I couldn't answer him honestly, which told me everything I needed to know."
Tears burned at the corner of Emery’s eyes. "I am scared. Terrified, actually. That no matter what I do here, I'll always be the woman from the scandal."
"Maybe you will be, for some people, because for Winston and Callie, I’ll always be the grandson of the man who murdered their great uncle.
But for the people who matter—the Boones, the staff here, the collectors who actually care about provenance and expertise—you'll be Emery Tate, brilliant authenticator and historian.
" Gabe's voice was firm. "The question is whether you're going to let other people's limited vision determine your future. "
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's actually incredibly hard." Gabe stood, gathering the scattered ledgers. "But I'll tell you what Walter told me. The people worth keeping in your life are the ones who see past the scandal to the person underneath. And the Boones are exactly those kinds of people."
Before Emery could respond, footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Devon appeared in the doorway, his dark hair windblown and his work shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He looked between them, clearly sensing the emotional weight of the conversation.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. "But it's past five. Thought we could head back to the house together?"
Gabe glanced at his watch and whistled. "I need to get going. I'm serious about the museum thing—let's set up a time next week."
"Absolutely."
After Gabe left, Devon and Emery walked the gravel path back toward the main house.
The evening had that particular quality of late autumn light—golden and melancholy, beautiful in its impermanence.
The vineyard stretched out on either side of them, rows of vines heavy with the season's last fruit, leaves beginning their slow transformation into harvest colors.
"That looked intense in there," Devon said finally. "You okay?"
"More than okay, actually. Gabe..." Emery searched for the right words. "He understands what it's like to build an identity in the shadow of someone else's mistakes."
"The Maxwell family history."
"Yes. But also, just the weight of not knowing who you are sometimes.
" Emery stopped walking, turning to face the vineyard.
The setting sun painted everything in shades of amber and gold, transforming the ordinary into something transcendent.
"He asked me about being adopted. About what makes a family. It brought up a lot."
“About your dad?”
"It’s hard not to be able to reconcile the man who raised me with someone who might have been unethical."
Devon moved closer, his presence warm and solid beside her. "Have you considered just asking him directly?"
"He won't discuss it. Says he can’t while things are still being investigated.” She turned to face him. "How do you live with not knowing? With uncertainty about the people you love most?"
"I don't think you ever stop wondering. But maybe that's not the point." Devon held her gaze, intently. It wasn’t judgmental. Wasn’t even scrutinizing. He just looked at her like he cared. "Maybe the point is deciding who you're going to be regardless of what they did or didn't do."
Emery j in her chest—a loosening of the knot of anxiety that had been her constant companion. "Gabe said something similar."
"He’s a smart man."
"He's also convinced I'm planning to run."
Devon's expression grew serious. "Are you?"
The question hung between them, weighted with implications that went far beyond professional concerns.
"I don't know," Emery admitted. "Part of me wants to disappear, start over where no one knows about any of this. I hear Central New York’s wine country can be beautiful in its own way, nestled in all those Finger Lakes.
But another part of me is tired of running.
Tired of letting other people's cruelty determine where I go. "
"I don’t want you to leave." Devon's voice was quiet but intense. "Not just because you're brilliant at your job. But because I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
They had reached the edge of the vineyard, still hidden from view of the main house by towering oak trees. The privacy felt intimate, charged with all the things they'd been carefully not saying.
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup her face with a gentleness that made her breath catch.
"I know all the reasons this is complicated.
But I'm done pretending I don't care." He kissed her then—soft, careful, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
Instead, she melted into him, her hands fisting in his shirt as he deepened the kiss.
This wasn't the desperate passion of three months ago, or the rush of tangled limbs that couldn’t wait for release.
This was something more profound, more intentional, more terrifying in its implications.
"Uncle Devon and the new lady are kissing.”
They sprang apart as a small figure burst through the trees—a little girl with auburn hair and bright, delighted eyes.
"Willa!" Devon called after her as she raced toward the house, her voice carrying clearly.
"Uncle Devon and the new lady are kissing.”
Emery felt her face burn. "Oh God."
"It's fine," Devon said, though he looked frustrated. "That's Erin's youngest. She's eight and tells everyone everything."
"So, by dinner—"
"Everyone will know." Devon's expression was remorseful but not apologetic. "I'm sorry about the timing, but I'm not sorry I kissed you."
Emery stared at him, mind racing through implications. But underneath the panic, something else stirred. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
"We should go," she said finally. "Your mother's making pot roast, and apparently we have explaining to do."
Devon's laugh was warm. "Welcome to the Boone family. Privacy is a rare commodity."
As they walked toward the house, Emery couldn't decide if she was mortified or relieved. Either way, there was no going back now.
But for the first time since that article was published, she thought maybe she was ready to stay and find out what came next.