Beau #2
“It is, so do me a favor and listen. I made a lot of mistakes. There were nights I wanted to throw it all in, especially when Izzy came along and I was raising her all on my own, but I got up every day and reminded myself I loved it, even when it was hard. I didn’t have a time machine.
I couldn’t rewrite my past, so I made it my mission to earn that title after the fact. And I did.”
I exhale roughly. “I see what you’re getting at, but—”
“Charlie’s situation is much the same,” he says over me.
“She’s the only one of us who went to college, got a degree, and wanted to make her name in corporate America.
Mom died a month before she graduated, and Dad was a wreck, so she came home to manage Silver Leaf instead of taking a public relations job she’d worked damn hard for.
Charlie was CEO of this place before her twenty-fourth birthday.
She’d never be hired for a role like that anywhere else, but here?
She got the job, and then she earned it.
And she keeps proving herself every day.
The same way I do. The same way you could too. ”
“These are real nice stories,” I tell him.
“And don’t think I don’t get the moral. You’re practically beating me over the head with it.
But there’s one big difference here that you either can’t see or don’t want to see.
This isn’t my family business! You got those chances because you were born into something worthwhile.
All this?” I wave my hand around, gesturing toward the vineyards and hills and woodlands of Silver Leaf.
“It’s yours, no matter how much or how little you work for it. ”
Dylan’s eyebrow tweaks.
“No offense,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches at the corner. “None taken.”
“I appreciate you coming by,” I tell him, unused to the regret I feel after saying what I think. “But it’s getting late, and I need to get back to Ollie.”
“Just a second.” He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out an envelope, and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Photographs. Charlie had that professional photographer at Chord’s retirement party, and we’ve been sorting through the shots. Deciding what to use for promotion and what to keep for the family. There are a few great pics of Ollie, and we thought you might like copies for yourself.”
“Oh.” I glance at the envelope. “I don’t know what to say. I appreciate it. Thank you.”
Dylan extends his hand. “You’re welcome.”
I hesitate, the offer of a handshake feeling loaded with more meaning than simple thanks for a gift.
I take it slowly, scanning his face for a hint that by doing so I’ve agreed to something without realizing it.
My suspicion is confirmed by the satisfied glint in his eyes.
I’ve seen that glint before. In the eyes of his little sister.
I’m trying to work out what just happened when Dylan hits the last porch step and turns around. “You guys hungry?” he asks like it’s an afterthought.
I grimace at the reminder of the sad pack of hot dogs waiting for me and Ollie inside. “We’re fine.”
Dylan grins. “If you can hit pause on the stubborn asshole act for an hour, we’re having a family dinner up at the house. Daisy will be there, and there are two open seats for you and Ollie. You’re welcome to join us.”
My stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and Dylan’s mouth tips up. “See you there in fifteen minutes.”
“I didn’t say yes,” I tell him.
“Not what I heard,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. “I’ll tell Daisy to expect you.”
Dylan lengthens his stride, and I wonder what he’s trying to achieve. The guy hated me on sight, and no number of warm and fuzzy stories about his childhood will change the fact that his life and mine couldn’t be any more different.
I turn the envelope over, then open it and pull out a stack of glossy prints.
The first on the stack makes me smile. Ollie and Daisy on the dance floor, their faces bright with happiness.
The next is Ollie alongside Izzy, their little elbows sticking out and their lips puckered for “The Chicken Dance.” Then it’s me dancing with Daisy, her body pressed close, her head on my shoulder, her closed eyes fanning thick lashes onto her cheek, and her full lips curved upward.
The next picture looks like it was taken only a few moments later.
In this one, we’re in the same position, but we’re both laughing.
Her head is thrown back and my eyes are on her.
I couldn’t look away from her then, and I can’t look away from her now. She’s my everything.
But it’s the next picture that knocks the breath out of me.
I don’t remember the photographer taking it.
I didn’t even know he was there. It’s late into the night, long after everyone else has left.
The lighting is low. Our table’s a mess.
The garden chic dress code has been abandoned for bare feet and open collars.
Everyone’s in the frame. Chord and Violet.
Charlie. Finn and Rosie. Dylan, Poppy, and Izzy.
Daisy. Me and Ollie. Every person is laughing, and everybody looks like they belong there.
Every single one. Even my nephew. Even me.
I turn the print over and read the caption scrawled on the back. The date. The location. The occasion. And underneath that, a description I read twice more to make sure I got it right.
The Davenport Family.
My throat catches, and I clear it as I stuff the photographs back into the envelope and let myself back into the cabin. I lift Ollie’s hat from the hook and toss it onto his sketchpad.
“Come on, buddy. Put on your boots. We just got invited to dinner.”