Page 53 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

Love Me, Love Me Knot

C.A. Miconi

Prologue

Joselyn

The Las Vegas summer sun beats down mercilessly, a cruel contrast to the somber scene at Serenity Gardens Cemetery. Always conscious of my image—in a city that’s all about image—I’m wearing a sleek black sheath, oversized sunglasses, and a large-brimmed black mesh hat. It was an instinctive choice; my years as one of the city’s top event planners have taught me well.

I stand a little apart from the mourners, a habit formed from years of orchestrating events where my presence is crucial, but never center stage. Today, though, I’m not running the show. I’m just another guest, invited by the widow of Henry Dalton, a man I admired for his business savvy, as well as his generosity and warmth.

The eulogy is over, and the casket begins its slow descent into the ground. A sharp, keening sob breaks through the murmurs of condolences. I glance toward the sound and see a young woman clutching a tissue, her shoulders shaking as she speaks to a man I recognize as Henry’s son. As I search her face, I realize she has the look of Henry about her, and I think I’ve seen her in family portraits in his office.

“I should’ve just called him,” she chokes out, her voice raw with regret. “It was alwayslater. I kept thinking there’d be time, and now…now it’s too late.”

Her brother lays a hand on her shoulder, his face tight with his own grief. She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes as if the tears offend her.

“I wasted so much time being mad at him. And now he’s gone.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath catches, and I feel their weight as I focus on breathing in and out.If this were my father’s funeral, I’d have to say the same. The realization slices through me, sharp and unforgiving. I grip my clutch tighter, as if the act might anchor me against the tide of emotions rising inside. The thought that follows is worse, darker.Is he still alive?

It’s been almost ten years since I last saw him. Since I got in my car and headed west—no destination, just away from the East Coast and far away from Pelican Point, my father, his evil boss, and the only man I ever allowed myself to love, Brennen Murphy.

Brennen.I should have trusted that my love for him could overcome all obstacles. We had such a tight bond, as tight as the Celtic knot in the logo for his family’s business. We both loved the serenity of the Pelican Point beach and the rich roots of the Murphy land. We both lost our mothers at a young age. We surrendered our virginity together, vowing to be each other’s first and last. And we both had a complex relationship with our respective fathers.

Instead of trusting Brennen to get me through the awful thing my father did, I stormed out, vowing never to look back, afraid that he would find me guilty by association. I fled into a self-imposed exile, throwing myself into getting an education,finding work, and building a new life for myself, convinced I didn’t need anybody from the old one.

When birthdays and holidays passed without so much as a call or text, I let myself believe it was Papa’s fault.He’s the parent. He could’ve reached out.The lie comforted me. Until now. The fact is, my father had no way of contacting me or even knowing if I was still alive. And Brennen—why would he try to contact me? I left without a word to him, and according to his father, I would never be good enough to take on the Murphy name.

The minister’s voice draws me back to the present, but I barely hear his words. My gaze remains fixed on the casket, now halfway covered with dirt. I picture myself standing at another grave.Papa’s. The thought leaves me hollow.What would I say? How would I feel?There would be no stories to share, no fond memories to soften the blow. Just regret. Bitter, choking regret.

The crowd begins to thin. Some head to their cars, others linger to offer hugs and whispered condolences. I remain rooted in place, unable to move. My father could be gone already. My phone buzzes in my purse, a familiar interruption. I pull it out, almost relieved for the distraction. A text from my assistant flashes across the screen:

Venue update for the Madison wedding at three p.m. Need approval.

I stare at it for a moment before slipping the phone back into my bag without answering. The Madison wedding can wait. For the first time in years, work isn’t the priority. I’ve come to a decision while standing here in the dry Las Vegas heat. It’s shaky and uncertain, but it’s real.It’s time to go home.

Maybe he doesn’t want to hear from me. Maybe he’s angry, or maybe he’s forgotten me altogether. I don’t know. But I can’t live with this gnawing uncertainty and regret.

I’ve planned flawless galas, handled spoiled celebrities, calmed panicked brides, and smoothed over every disaster thrown my way.I can do this.I have to.

Because if I don’t, one day I’ll be standing at Papa’s grave, and I’ll never forgive myself.

Brennen

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the vines. From atop Kerry, my majestic Friesian gelding, the winery stretches out in front of me in perfect, symmetrical lines, the green of the leaves vibrant against the Florida soil. The breeze carries the faint scent of the sea, mingling with the earthy undertone of the land itself, and something faintly sweet. It’s a custom scent that’s become as much a part of me as my own skin.

This is my ritual, my moment. Every year, before the fall harvest season begins, I ride to this spot at the front of the property and look out at what my father’s ancestors built and what my mother loved. What I’ve kept alive.Me—not Emma, not Ryan, and certainly not my father.

It’s peaceful now, but it wasn’t always this way. The memory of the storm that brought me here is as vivid as the setting sun.

Twenty-two years ago, her death started it all.

I shift in the saddle, the familiar creak of leather grounding me as I let the memories rise, unbidden.My mother.She’s the one who taught me the importance of this legacy. I can still see her in the way the sunlight hits the vines and her precious sunflowers, in the way the dew clings to the leaves in the early morning. Once she became a Murphy, she poured her soul intothis land, every decision she made driven by a vision of what this place could be for her children and the generations of Murphys to follow.

When they said it was suicide, I didn’t believe them. She wasn’t the kind of person to give up, and she would never leave her children behind. Ryan, my older brother, was eighteen, but I was just fifteen, and Emma, my baby sister, was only ten. When the coroner pronounced her death a suicide, no amount of shouting or pleading by my brother could change the official story. The whispers in town started almost immediately, a cloud of doubt and speculation that hung over us like a curse.

Then Ryan left. He was the golden child, the one people expected to carry on the family name. But the Navy called to him, and off he went, leaving me here to deal with everything even though I was just a teen. As an adult, I’ve made my peace with it, but at the time I felt he abandoned me and Emma.

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