Epilogue #2
We made our way down the front stairs to find the hall empty.
The sound of voices came from our left, where Savannah had transformed the family gathering room, usually dominated by a huge sectional and big TV, into its original intended purpose.
She’d scattered small tables here and there with trays of snacks and small bites.
There was a bar set up on one side of the room, and beside it, a galvanized steel tub stood filled with ice and the bottles of beer I’d brought from Sawyers Bend Brewing.
A cheer went up as we entered the room, and I stopped short at all the smiling faces.
“What?” I said. “I mean, Happy Thanksgiving?”
“Avery.” My brother, Tenn, stood with his arm around Scarlett. “Royal here has threatened to open your beer about ten times in the last half-hour. We told him he had to wait until you got here.” His eyes narrowed on West. “I’m not going to ask what took you so long.”
I felt heat hit my cheeks and scowled at my brother. “You can wait for a beer. It’s not even lunchtime.”
“It’s Thanksgiving. Normal drinking rules don’t count,” Royal said. Daisy leaned into his side, her smile warm, her riot of curls hot pink, perfectly suiting her dusky skin.
“They’ve threatened to text you about a million times in the last hour. We made them leave you alone. She got shot yesterday, you idiot,” Daisy said, smacking her palm against Royal’s chest. “She gets to sleep in.”
“Whatever,” Royal said. “Come on, open the beer.”
I looked over to see Ford standing next to the tub, an opener in hand. He held it out to me. “Only you can do the honors,” he said. “Come on, don’t keep us in suspense any longer.”
I glanced up at West. “I’m nervous,” I said under my breath.
“It’s going to be great,” he promised. I wanted to believe him.
I took a deep breath and reached into the tub to pull out a brown bottle dripping with ice water. I took the opener from Ford’s hand. I muttered, “Thanks.” This was it. Scents, flavors, memories swirled in my mind, lit by hope, bright and sharp and a little desperate. Please, please…
I fit the opener to the cap and flicked my wrist in a practiced move that felt suddenly like I was opening a beer for the first time. With a gasp, the cap lifted, and the scent of it hit me. So far, so good. I lifted the bottle to my nose, breathing in.
It smelled like what I’d been going for. A touch hoppy, a hint of spice, and citrus. I lifted the bottle to my mouth and took a slow, experimental sip, my eyes closing as the beer washed across my taste buds, feeling the promise I’d hoped for.
This wasn’t the Fall brew. Not exactly. It was better.
I took another sip, swishing the beer in my mouth, letting the aftertaste settle in.
It was brighter somehow. Less heavy on the finish, but it still had substance.
Not a light summer brew. It had weight, but not too much.
The hints of spice were just enough to bring depth without density.
A tinge of apple, the spark of lemon, the sweetness of orange—it was all here, but the beer took the lead.
Water. Malt. Yeast. Hops. I let my eyes slide all the way closed and took another long sip. It was perfect.
I swallowed, my eyes flashing open and locking on West’s. He plucked the bottle out of my hand and drank. When he was done, he looked a little dazed and let out a whoop.
“You did it again,” he said, stepping back from the tub of beer, pulling me with him. “You good?” West asked me.
I answered him with a wide smile. “Never been better. I did it. ”
“And then some,” West agreed. “I may have to bring Holt a bottle in jail, just to watch him cry at how much better it is than anything he’s ever made.” He leaned down and kissed me. “I knew you could do it.”
“You really did,” I agreed. “And now I do, too.”
He set the empty bottle on the table, snagged another, and held it out for Ford to open.
Then we settled in to enjoy the day. And for the most part, we did.
I may have had a few too many beers, and my arm hurt when I paid attention, but mostly I just enjoyed seeing my family—and people who might as well have been family—all together, celebrating.
The kids ran around, tearing off their ties and losing their jackets before we made it halfway through the hors d’oeuvres Savannah had set out.
Finn even came up for a bit, leaving the turkey and ham and whatever else he had going on in the kitchen to congratulate me on the beer and hang out with the family.
West’s parents blended in as if they’d always been at our Thanksgiving table.
I liked the way his mother stood with Aunt Ophelia and Nash’s mom—the youngest of the three, but a similar kind of lady all the same—gossiping and laughing together.
West’s dad huddled up with Edgar and Harvey, occasionally haranguing our generation, complaining about how willful and modern we all were.
When my father had said those things, they’d stung.
But from these three, it felt like love, and we gave them hell right back.
There was only one thing that dimmed my joy in the day—one thing I couldn’t get off my mind.
Cole Haywood. He’d been so talkative in the car, but I’d been scared out of my mind.
I wasn’t sure I remembered every detail of the answers he’d given me, but I absolutely remembered the one he hadn’t.
I’d asked him why he waited so long to kill Prentice, and it was the one question he’d completely ignored.
Was it because it wasn’t important, or because it was?
It nagged at me. I hadn’t noticed the day before, more concerned with not dying in that well and the bullet graze on my arm than with really thinking about the details. Cole was in handcuffs. West had saved me. Problem solved, right?
But was it, really? Why had he waited so long to get his revenge? If Cole had killed Prentice because of Caro and their affair, wouldn’t he have done it in the madness of grief after her death and the loss of his child? Why wait?
“What?” West said, giving me a little shake. I looked over at him. His salad plate was cleared, silverware neatly lined up at an angle, face down. “You barely touched your salad.”
“I ate too many appetizers,” I admitted. “I’m saving room for turkey and stuffing.”
“But you’re stuck in your head—I can see it. What is it?”
“Haywood,” I answered.
West gave a slow nod and took my hand under the table. “Yeah. Me too.”
“What’s bugging you?” I asked.
“When I caught him in the woods, I told him I had him for kidnapping and murder, and he said I’d never make it stick. ”
“How could you not make it stick?” I asked. “The kidnapping is pretty open-and-shut, right? I mean, I’m here saying he kidnapped me. You pulled me out of that well. He shot me.”
“Exactly,” West agreed. “But he’s a criminal attorney. He has to know we had him on the kidnapping. So, what does he think?—”
“—you couldn’t make stick?” I finished for him.
West shook his head. “I don’t know. But he hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”
“That’s odd,” I said. Cole was a criminal attorney.
He was known as one of the best around, and he knew the rest of them.
He knew how important it was to have representation and that even a renowned attorney shouldn’t represent himself.
“So, he’s in your jail?” I asked, the wheels in my head turning.
It was over, but I still wanted answers.
“He is,” West agreed. “They haven’t moved him yet.”
We stopped talking as Savannah placed a bowl of soup in front of each of us.
I’d already complained that she shouldn’t be serving the family for Thanksgiving, but she’d told me to let her do things her way, and she wouldn’t tell me how to brew beer.
I’d shut up—I knew better than to argue with Savannah.
When she left, West looked at me, and I could see the intention in his eyes.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’re going to talk to Haywood tomorrow.”
“Works for me,” I agreed.
And that was enough to let me push aside my questions for one more day.
I went to bed, sated, my stomach a little too full.
My body, other than the graze on my arm, relaxed and replete.
West stretched out beside me in my bed. I’d already started mentally reorganizing my suite to make space for him.
The closet wouldn’t be a problem—I wasn’t the clothes horse some of my sisters were, and had plenty of room for West. I had a feeling he might want to replace my tiny flat screen in the sitting room with something bigger, maybe trade out the sofa for his.
But otherwise, it wouldn’t take much to make it work.
We’d have to make time to move some of his things into storage.
If he decided he wanted to turn his place into a short-term rental, he’d probably make bank.
They were a hot commodity in Sawyers Bend, almost year-round.
We’d have to weigh that against the wear and tear on his place, but either way, we’d make it work.
I drifted off with a smile on my face and woke with that itch in the back of my head of questions that needed answers. West was already up.
“Is the brewery closed today?” he asked.
“Kind of,” I said. “The brewery is closed, but I’m going to go open the taproom. Ford said he wanted me to teach him how to run the register and everything. He’s going to fill in until I replace Cammie.”
“Not what I would have expected,” West said, considering. “But interesting.”
“Yeah, I know. I could use the help. And now that Haywood’s locked up, Ford needs to get out of the house, so it works for me.”
“Then we better get moving,” West said. “Finn is taking the day off from cooking. Let’s go talk to Haywood, then swing by Sweetheart Bakery and grab some breakfast.”
“I’m in,” I agreed.
I threw my hair in a ponytail and put on my regular uniform for a day at the brewery—a Sawyers Bend Brewing polo and jeans. We were quiet on the ride into town.
Jim was sitting at Amanda’s desk in the front of the station.