Page 2 of Love You More

He shrugs. To be clear, Archer shrugging is the farthest thing from admitting he doesn’t know something. It’s more of an annoyed tic than anything else. “Sometimes change is good.”

“I call bullshit. You don’t change shoes. You don’t change anything.”

Another shrug. Now I know he’s holding out on me.

“What’s that mean?” I don’t mean to raise my voice, but being my older brother means Archer can frustrate me more than anyone else. And lately, he’s been working my last nerve.

“You’d know if you were a runner.”

“I’d be dead if I was a runner. It’s too damn hot to be a runner in Napa Valley. You’re just some kind of superhuman freak desert animal.”

He snickers without smiling. “That’s a lot of venom for six in the morning.”

“It’s a lot of company for six in the morning.” I shrug, and I know he’s aware that my gesture is just as loaded as his. He takes a step back.

“You’re still mad about the thing?” he asks, drawling like I’m being petulant. The “thing” is his decision to lease some land to grow zinfandel grapes when I asked him to wait a year. I have some financial messes to sort out—in short, we’ve been overspending—and he chose to ignore my request. Archer runs the winery now that our dad is unable to handle it day-to-day.

“We could’ve just bought the grapes. We didn’t need the land costs on this year’s books.”

“That’s why we pay you the big bucks as CFO. You’ll work it out.”

Except that I haven’t, and he’s added one more stress to a terrible situation. I take a step forward, my eyes moving from his steaming cup of coffee to his stoic face, and I have the urge to deck him. But then the view behind him overrides everything else. As usual.

Walking out of the kitchen to the deck off the backside of the restaurant, I watch three brown ducks glide across the water before turning my attention back to the acres of twisting branches. The property is nearly three hundred acres in total, large enough for us to grow most of the grapes we use in our cabernets, merlots, and sauvignon blancs.

I never miss a chance to stare at the vines. They’re proof of everything that’s beautiful about the universe. And the reason for all the good fortune my family has. Which means proof that I have a place in this world, even if I don’t know much else for certain.

Archer knows, which is why he follows me out there. Pacing in a circle on the porch, he stuffs one hand into the pocket of a puffer vest, which he definitely won’t need five minutes into his run. He’s wearing it over a short-sleeved tee with nylon shorts and compression tights beneath them.

“Why do you wear two pairs of pants?”

He tips his head up; eyes narrowed in annoyance. “We’ve discussed this.”

It’s true. We have. But I can’t help twisting tiny knives into his overly muscular flesh because I’m one of the few who gets away with it. Our youngest sister, PJ, being the other.

I give him a blank stare like I’m either trying to annoy him or my mind is going AWOL. He knows better than to question which one it is. That’s what having a parent with dementia will do to a family. Well, it’s one thing.

“The shorts have a pocket for my phone, and the compression pants prevent varicose veins.” He bends down again to stretch his hamstrings, fingertips grazing the deck. Damn, he’s flexible.

“You don’t have varicose veins.”

His expression morphs into an almost-smile. “Exactly.”

He’s being ridiculous. I look down at my lightweight chinos and black t-shirt, pretty certain that I’ll be sweating through the fabric in an hour or less in the upstairs office with questionable air conditioning.

I’m still waiting for him to tell me why he was out here bothering me instead of doing his daily six miles around the vineyard when we both hear the distant crunch of gravel. Someone’s car or truck has entered the property and is making its way into the visitor parking lot.

“You expecting someone?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Probably a new delivery driver.” The new ones often turn into the visitor gate instead of continuing down the road to the service entrance.

Archer chuckles, shaking his head. “That, or Dash made good on his threat to hire you a nanny. Here she is, at the ass-crack of dawn, ready to take Fiona to school.”

“That joke’s getting fucking old.” I’ve made it clear I’ll be running on fumes before I trust anyone with my daughter. But I check the time. I need to wake Fiona at eight. She likes to get to school early to play four square and tetherball. Doesn’t matter that the blacktop is hot as blazes in the wine country in early June. If there’s a playground game afoot, my seven-year-old is there for it.

Still smirking, Archer takes off running after shedding the puffer, which he hangs on one of the Adirondack chairs where visitors will recline all day long. A glass of wine in hand, they’ll stare at the view I have now and feel the sense of calm I’m chasing like a greyhound racing a mechanical rabbit I’ll never catch.

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