Chapter 19
River Stone
The next morning my mother insists on taking me out to brunch at The Portico, an upscale restaurant that sits on the downtown strip. It smells like fresh flowers and expensive coffee, and I hate everything about being here right now.
I tug at the tie Mother insisted I wear—a navy silk number that matches the button-down she picked out from my closet this morning like I’m still twelve years old and incapable of dressing myself.
The starched collar feels like it’s choking me, and the formal atmosphere of the restaurant only makes it worse.
Mother sits across from me in a floral dress. Her pearls catch the light from the brass chandelier overhead, and her hair is arranged in that perfect chignon she always wears to “important occasions.” Which apparently includes breakfast with her disappointment of a son.
The server sets down our plates with a flourish.
I ordered the crab Benedict because it’s what The Portico is known for—local blue crab on English muffins with hollandaise sauce and perfectly poached eggs.
Mother got the brioche French toast, though she’s barely touched it since it arrived five minutes ago.
She picks up her teacup and takes a delicate sip. Her eyes scan the restaurant over the rim, taking in the other diners with the same critical assessment she gives everything.
I cut into my Benedict, the egg yolk spilling out in that satisfying way that should make this meal enjoyable. Except I can’t enjoy anything right now. Not with the memory of how she treated Kiera last night still burning in my chest.
“The food is lovely here,” Mother says, setting down her teacup. She hasn’t actually eaten anything. Just moved pieces of French toast around her plate with her fork. “Though I must say, it’s quite provincial compared to what we’re used to in Los Angeles.”
“It’s not provincial.” I keep my voice even, but tension coils in my shoulders. “It’s local. Fresh. The chef here actually cares about sourcing quality ingredients from the island.”
“How charming.” She dabs at her lips with her napkin even though she hasn’t eaten anything. “Though I’m surprised there’s even a restaurant of this caliber on such a small island. I would have thought you’d be surviving on fast food and whatever that girl makes for you.”
That girl. Not Kiera. Not even “your cook.” Just “that girl,” like she’s interchangeable with any other person Mother deems beneath notice.
My jaw clenches. “Kiera is an incredible chef. The food she makes is better than most restaurants I’ve eaten at, including the ones you frequent.”
“Is that so?” Mother’s eyebrow arches. “Well, I suppose simple palates are easier to please.”
I set down my fork before I say something I’ll regret. The classical music playing softly overhead feels like it’s mocking me—all this civility and refinement wrapped around conversations that cut like knives.
“Why are we really here, Mother?” I ask quietly. “Because I know it’s not to enjoy provincial French toast or admire the architecture.”
She takes another sip of tea, and I can see her gathering herself. Preparing for whatever bomb she’s about to drop. I’ve seen this look before—the careful composure that precedes life-altering announcements delivered with clinical precision.
“You’re right, darling. We should discuss the real reason for my visit.” She sets down her teacup and folds her hands on the table. “I’ve been patient with you. I allowed you to come to this island, to pursue this documentary hobby, to play at being independent. But it’s time to come home.”
“This isn’t a hobby—”
“I’ve pulled some strings,” she continues, talking over me like I haven’t spoken. “It wasn’t easy, given how late in the process we are, but I have connections on Stanford’s board. You’ve been accepted into their MBA program for the fall semester.”
The words hit me like cold water.
Stanford. MBA program. Fall semester.
She planned this. She came here not to see my life or understand what I’m building, but to pack me up and drag me back to California like a child who’s had enough playtime.
“I never applied to Stanford,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“Of course you didn’t. That’s why I handled it for you.
” She picks up her fork and cuts a small piece of French toast, though she doesn’t eat it.
Just moves it to the side of her plate. “Your father and I have put up with this nonsense long enough, River. You’re twenty-three years old.
It’s time to stop pretending to be a filmmaker and start building a real career. ”
Heat floods up my neck and into my face. “Pretending?”
“Darling, please.” She sets down her fork with a soft clink. “This documentary of yours—about fishermen and small-town nostalgia—it’s sweet. Truly. But it’s not a career. It’s not something that will sustain you or bring honor to the family name.”
“Honor to the family name.” The words taste bitter. “Is that what this is about? You’re embarrassed that I’m not a lawyer or a businessman like everyone else?”
“I’m realistic about what makes a successful life.
” Her voice remains calm, but there’s steel underneath.
“And wasting your twenties on a doomed artistic pursuit is not it. Stanford will give you the credentials and connections you need. You’ll join your father’s brokerage firm, or one of the tech companies your brother has connections with. You’ll build something substantial.”
“I am building something substantial.” I lean forward, trying to keep my voice down even as fury builds in my chest. “I’m making art that matters. I’m telling stories about real people and real communities that are disappearing. That means something, Mother. Even if you can’t see it.”
She sighs, like I’m a particularly stubborn child who won’t listen to reason. “I came here myself instead of sending your father because I thought you might need a gentle hand. A reminder that there are people who care about you and want what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me, or what looks best for you?”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t be dramatic. This is a fantastic opportunity. Stanford’s MBA program is one of the most prestigious in the country. Most people would kill for this chance.”
“Then let them have it.” I push my plate away, my appetite completely gone. “I don’t want it.”
“River—”
“You came here under false pretenses.” The words come out harsh, cutting. “You said you wanted to see where I was living. To understand my life here. But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? You came to manipulate me into going back to California and living the life you’ve decided I should have.”
Mother’s lips press into a thin line. “I came to help you see reason before you throw away your future entirely.”
“My future is here!” My voice rises slightly, and I catch the glances of other diners at nearby tables. I force myself to lower my volume. “I’m happy here, Mother. For the first time in years, I’m actually happy. I have work that matters to me. I have a community. I have—”
I stop myself before I say Kiera’s name. Before I give Mother ammunition to use against the best thing that’s happened to me.
But Mother sees the hesitation. Of course she does. She’s spent her entire life reading people, finding their weaknesses, exploiting them with surgical precision.
“If you don’t come home with me,” she says quietly, “your father and I will have no choice but to cut you from the will.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and absolute.
I should feel something—panic, maybe, or fear about losing my inheritance. About being cut off from the family fortune that’s been there my whole life like a safety net I never asked for but always knew existed.
Instead, I feel nothing. Or maybe not nothing—maybe relief.
“I don’t want your money,” I say, and the truth of it settles in my chest like something solid and real. “I never did. I have my own money from Kid Logic. I bought this house. I’m living my life on my terms. Your will doesn’t control me.”
Mother’s composure cracks slightly. Just a flicker of surprise before she smooths it back into place. “Don’t be foolish, darling. That money won’t last forever—”
“It’ll last long enough.” I lean back in my chair, and for the first time since sitting down, I feel like I can breathe.
“I’m not leaving Willow Shade Island. I’m not going to Stanford.
I’m not joining Father’s firm or working in tech or doing anything else you’ve decided is acceptable for a Stone family member. ”
“River.” Her voice drops to a whisper, sharp with warning. “Keep your voice down. People are looking.”
“Let them look.” But I do lower my voice, more for the comfort of the other diners than for Mother’s sake. “I’m done living my life trying to meet your expectations. I’m done feeling like a disappointment because I chose art over business. I’m done, Mother.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the calculations happening behind her eyes. She’s trying to figure out what leverage she has left, what buttons she can push to get me back in line.
Then her expression shifts into something colder. More calculated.
“Is this about her?” she asks. “That girl from last night?”
My entire body goes tense. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, darling. It’s beneath you.” She picks up her teacup again, taking a sip like we’re discussing the weather. “I saw you on the beach last night. After I went upstairs, I looked out the window and saw the two of you down at the beach. Kissing.”
Heat floods my face, but it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger at the invasion of privacy, at the way she’s weaponizing something beautiful and turning it into ammunition.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business when it’s clouding your judgment.” She sets down the teacup with deliberate precision. “Tell me, River—are you digging in your heels about Stanford because you’re sleeping with the help?”
The accusation hits like a slap.