Chapter 7
Seven
St. Mary's Catholic Church sat at the heart of Stone Bridge like a granite sentinel, its bell tower visible from nearly every corner of town.
Devon had attended countless services here over the years—christenings, weddings, his grandfather's funeral—but today felt different.
Heavier. The parking lot overflowed with vehicles—a testament to David Callaway's standing in the community—and the afternoon sun beat down with an intensity that made his black suit feel like a form of punishment.
"Christ, it's hot," Bryson muttered, tugging at his collar as they crossed the asphalt. "You'd think October would have the decency to cool down."
"Weather doesn't care about our comfort." Devon scanned the crowd gathering on the church steps. Half the valley had turned out—vintners, restaurant owners, shop proprietors. Even competitors who'd publicly sparred with David over the years had shown up to pay respects.
That was the thing about small towns. Death temporarily suspended rivalries.
"There's Winston," Bryson said, nodding toward the front where Winston Callaway stood greeting arrivals with the practiced grace of someone who'd been groomed for public appearances since childhood.
Tall, impeccably dressed despite the heat, he wore grief like a well-tailored garment—present but controlled.
Beside him, Callie looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine.
Her black dress probably cost more than most people's monthly mortgage, and her designer sunglasses hid whatever emotions she might be feeling.
Monica clung to Winston's other side, her freshly colored blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight.
Her expression was appropriately solemn.
"The grieving family and their pet viper," Bryson said.
Devon elbowed him. "Be respectful. Whatever else they are, they just lost their father."
"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like Monica."
They joined the receiving line, moving slowly toward the family.
Devon caught sight of Gabe and Olivia near the church entrance.
Gabe wore a dark suit that looked uncomfortable on his normally casual frame.
Olivia stood beside him in a simple black dress, her hand resting protectively on her stomach despite the recent miscarriage.
She was petite, barely reaching Gabe's shoulder, with dark hair pulled back in a bun that emphasized the delicate bone structure of her face.
Even from a distance, Devon could see the grief etched in her features—not for David, but for the loss she'd recently endured.
"Boone brothers," Winston said, as they reached him, extending his hand first to Bryson, then to Devon. His grip was firm, professional, utterly devoid of warmth. "Thank you for serving as pallbearers. It means a lot to all of us, but specifically our mother.”
"Our honor," Devon said, meaning it. Whatever complicated business existed between their families, David had been a decent man, and their mother a sweet woman.
"How's your mom holding up?" Bryson asked.
"As well as can be expected. The suddenness of it has been difficult." Winston's polished veneer cracked slightly. "One minute, we're discussing harvest projections, the next..."
He trailed off, and for a moment Devon glimpsed genuine pain beneath the careful composure.
"If there's anything we can do," Devon offered.
"Actually, there is." Winston's expression shifted, hardened almost imperceptibly. "I'd appreciate it if we could have a word after the service. About business matters."
Before Devon could respond, Callie stepped forward. Up close, her perfume was overwhelming—expensive and cloying, like flowers left too long in a closed room.
"Devon." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I heard you've been busy lately. Hiring new staff. Making... interesting choices."
The emphasis on “interesting” carried the kind of weight that implied something Devon didn’t appreciate and demanded a response, even if it meant another elbow to the ribs by his little brother.
"We hired an exceptional authenticator," Devon said carefully. "Someone with credentials that speak for themselves."
"Do they?" Callie's sunglasses prevented him from reading her expression fully, but her voice dripped with false sweetness. "Because from what I've read, her credentials include public humiliation and questionable ethics. But I suppose that's Stone Bridge's problem now, not ours."
Bryson tensed beside him, but Devon kept his expression neutral. "Emery’s brilliant at her job. The scandal at Terroir and Gavel was Harold's doing, not hers."
"If you say so." Callie dared to shrug. "But I have to wonder about the wisdom of mixing business with pleasure. Doesn't that usually end badly?"
"Callie," Winston said sharply. "This isn't the time."
She shrugged, already turning to greet the next mourners. Monica leaned closer to Winston, whispering something that made his jaw tighten.
"That was pleasant," Bryson muttered as they moved toward the church entrance.
"I want to believe she’s hurting, and that’s the only reason she tossed that in my face." Devon’s stomach churned. “But she was too smug about it.”
Bryson paused at the door. "The question is why she cares enough to bring it up at her father's funeral."
If this had been three months ago, Devon would’ve known the answer—jealousy. But this didn’t feel like a woman scorned.
Inside, the church's air conditioning provided blessed relief. Stained glass windows cast colored light across polished pews, creating patterns that shifted as clouds moved overhead. The smell of lilies and incense hung heavy, mixing with the subtle scent of old wood and candle wax.
"Devon. Bryson.” Riley appeared from a side pew, looking elegant in a simple black dress.
Beside her, Erin offered a subdued wave.
Both women had their hair pulled back, their faces reflecting the particular gravity of a funeral for someone who'd been a fixture in their lives despite complicated family dynamics.
"How's it looking out there?" Riley asked quietly.
"Tense," Devon said. "Callie decided to take a shot at Emery."
Riley's eyes twitched, like they always did when anyone said something that offended her. "At her father's funeral? Seriously?"
"Winston shut her down, but the damage was done." Devon scanned the filling church. “I take it you couldn’t talk Emery into coming?”
“Nope,” Riley whispered. "Said it didn't feel appropriate given everything happening."
"Smart woman," Erin added. "This crowd would've eaten her alive."
Disappointment settled in Devon’s chest. He understood Emery's reasoning, but part of him had hoped she'd show up anyway. Prove she wasn't going to hide.
"There's Mom, Dad, Ashley, and Hasley,” Bryson said, nodding toward the front where Walter and Brea Boone had eased into a pew on the left side. Brea wore an elegant black suit, her graying hair swept up in a French twist, while Walter looked distinguished in his dark suit, his expression grave.
The girls made their way forward, taking a seat in the pew behind their parents while Devon and Bryson hung at the back of the church.
Mason appeared moments later with the quiet competence of someone who'd learned to navigate small-town social dynamics despite being an outsider. "Sandy's working," he explained in a low voice. "Someone had to be on duty during the funeral. Half the valley is here."
The organ began playing, and the congregation rose. Devon and Bryson joined the other pallbearers—Winston's golf buddy, two cousins Devon vaguely recognized, and Mason. The casket was surprisingly heavy, the weight of it a physical reminder of mortality's finality.
They settled it at the front of the church, and Father Michael began the service.
Devon's mind wandered during the readings and prayers.
He found himself cataloging who'd shown up—which competitors, which business associates, which town dignitaries. David Callaway had been well-respected, if not universally loved, in spite of his father’s criminal activity.
The turnout reflected that complicated legacy.
It wasn't until communion that things got interesting.
Devon watched Gabe and Olivia move toward the altar, Olivia's hand firmly clasped in Gabe's. She moved carefully, as if afraid her body might betray her again. When they returned to their pew, Winston's gaze followed them with an intensity that seemed out of place.
"Did you see that?" Bryson whispered.
"Winston staring at Gabe? Yeah."
"Winston doesn’t generally even acknowledge Gabe with a sideways glance. It’s almost like he’s invisible."
“That will changed everything.” Unease prickled at the back of Devon’s neck.
The service concluded, and the congregation filed out for the burial.
The cemetery lay adjacent to the church, shaded by oak trees that had stood for generations.
Gravestones marked the valley's history—pioneers who'd first planted vines, families who'd built the wine industry, children who'd never had the chance to grow old.
They lowered David Callaway into the ground that had held Callaways for a hundred and fifty years.
After the final prayers, the gathering fractured into small groups. Some headed to their cars, others lingered to offer condolences. Devon noticed Monica break away from Winston, her expression predatory as she approached their family cluster.
"Well, well," she said, her voice carrying just enough to draw attention. "The Boone family, out in force. How touching."
"Monica." Brea's voice was ice. "This isn't the time."
"Isn't it? I was just wondering where Devon's girlfriend is.
Too ashamed to show her face after that article?
" Monica's smile had that same venomous twist it had the day she showed up on Bryson’s arm as if she’d won the damn freaking lottery.
"Or is she off having another public meltdown?
I heard she made quite the scene at your tasting room. "