Page 65 of Lucky Strike

“Thanks.” He glances at me. “I appreciate it.”

“I’ve been praying for all of you,” I say softly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” He juts out his chin the way Liam does when he’s determined. “I’m not the one being poked and prodded and tested every five minutes so, you know. Not much to complain about.”

It's never easy to see someone you love battling an illness like heart disease. I wish I could hold his hand, but I can’t, so I take Liam’s instead. We continue along the winding path, listening to the wind in the leaves and the different types of birdsong. Eventually the wind starts to pick up and the sky begins to darken, so we head back to the car.

“Can we get ice cream, pleeeeease?” begs Liam as his dad buckles him into his car seat.

“Not really an ice cream kinda day, but I guess,” mumbles Conlan, glancing at the heavy clouds rolling in.

Liam kicks his feet. “Every day’s an ice cream day!”

By the time we get home, raindrops speckle the windshield. Shelby and Bacon bark joyously, dancing around us as we enter the house, only to cower when the first peal of thunder rumbles across the sky. I peel off Liam’s sticky, chocolatey t-shirt and set him in the shower while Conlan orders pizza.

“We have pizza in the freezer,” I chide. “I feel bad making people come out in this crazy weather.”

“We’re not eating that cardboard shit when we can have Mama Mia’s,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t worry—I tip well. I’ll make it worth their while.”

“You said shit!” Liam cries gleefully from the bathroom.

What startedas an afternoon squall mellows into a cozy rainfall that stretches into the evening. After dinner, Conlan reads a bedtime story to Liam while I clean up the kitchen.

“I’m going down to the cellar,” he announces, startling me as he enters the kitchen. “Do you want more rosé?”

I glance at the vase of peonies. The past few days have fast-forwarded us into a closeness that I remember all too well and it’s hard to put on the brakes. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

We lounge in the living room with our wine, listening to the rain as the dogs snooze at our feet. Terry and Mitch turned in a little while ago, muffled TV sounds coming from their rooms, so it’s just us.

“Only thing missing from this scenario is a fire,” says Conlan, pointing his glass at the fireplace.

“Have you ever built one here?”

“Nah. We always come during the summer, when it’s hot.”

“It’s not so hot tonight,” I muse, glancing at the window. Rain streams down the glass, blurring the outside world.

“You want a fire?” he asks, sitting up.

“No.” I take a long draw of wine. “Is this from Sloane’s winery, too?”

“They all are. She knows I won’t buy it for myself—I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow, thinking of the past couple of nights. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I drink it if it’s around.” He gives me a crooked grin. “And Mom makes sure everyone’s house is well stocked. You’ll probably get a bottle or two at Christmas, watch.”

"Can I ask you something?"

He sips his wine. “You ask that a lot lately."

"When did you know that your family was into the stuff it's into?"

He laughs dryly. "I don't know. When you grow up like that, everything just seems normal."

"Did you always know you'd take over?"

"My dad started really sharing stuff with me when I was fifteen. He'd let me sit in on some of the meetings with the family, his inner circle—my grandparents, my godparents, my uncles. It was exciting, having a seat at the table. I'd known these guys my whole life, youknow? I loved and respected them. Trusted them. It didn't seem strange." His eyes find mine. "Still doesn't, though I'm sure you see it differently."

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