Page 5 of A Vintage of Regret
Bryson thought that was harsh. Sean wasn’t any older than his dad, who’d just turned sixty. Besides, Sean didn’t do heavylabor. They didn’t have him on large machinery or ladders. He didn’t work long, hard hours. He came and went as he pleased, working more in the tasting room in town, or the one on property, or giving tours.
God, people loved that man. He knew the wines, and he could tell one hell of a story.
“While I didn’t like him working out in the vineyard anymore, he did love his job at the tasting room.” Grant sat down next to his sister, looping an arm around her and squeezing her gently. He glanced up. “However, I can’t help but blame you for this, Boone.”
Before Bryson could even catch his breath to respond to Grant’s comment, a doctor strolled through the emergency doors. “I’m looking for Bryson Boone.”
“That’s me.” Bryson turned, stepping closer, his brother right at his side.
“I’m sorry to?—”
“If this is about Sean Callahan,” Grant bolted to his feet, jumping in front of Bryson and Devon, “I’m Sean’s son. Talk to me.”
“All right.” The doctor gave Bryson a slow nod before lifting his gaze to Grant.
Byson took a step back but stayed in earshot. Devon practically bolted toward the side wall.
“I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything we could do. Your father was gone when he arrived.” The doctor reached out and squeezed Grant’s forearm.
Erin gasped, shaking her head, covering her eyes, letting out a guttural sob. “No,” she whispered.
Bryson moved closer to his brother. The ache in his chest only deepened. He couldn’t believe it. Sean was gone. Bryon’s eyes welled. The finality of it hit Bryson like a brick. There would be no more morning conversations over coffee, no more quietwisdom shared while walking the rows. Sean’s infectious laugh, his amazing jokes, his unwavering optimism—all of it silenced forever.
The man had been so full of life. So full of energy and love. No matter what had come his way, he lifted his chin, put on a smile, and went about making the world a little brighter.
“What did he die of?” Grant asked with an undeniable tightness in his voice. Something Bryson wasn’t used to. At least, not from Grant.
“We don’t know,” the doctor said. “We’d need to do an autopsy.”
“My father was a private man. He wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t want people poking and prodding into him like a science experiment,” Grant waved his hands wildly before swiping at his cheeks.
“Considering the way your dad died, I’m not sure the medical examiner will sign off on that,” the doctor said.
“I understand. But I’m sure his ticker gave out,” Grant said, lowering his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Heart disease runs in our family. My grandma died at seventy-three of heart failure. Grandfather shortly after that—same thing.” He let out a short breath. “My dad’s a stubborn man. He wasn’t overly fond of doctors and had an aversion to being cut open. We’d like that to be respected.”
Bryson knew all about Sean’s idiosyncrasies but if he were in Grant’s shoes, he’d want to know what happened. However, it wasn’t his business. And people dealt with grief in strange ways.
A flash of pain smacked him right between the eyes. The pregnancy. The miscarriage. He’d barely been able to process it all. He’d handled it horribly. He’d done and said some stupid things in his life, but that had to have been the worst. Talk about regrets.
“I’ll discuss the situation with the ME,” the doctor said softly. “If you’d like a moment with your dad, we can make that happen. We’ll need about twenty minutes to prepare a viewing room.”
“My sister and I would like to see our father, thank you.” Grant shook the doctor’s hand before the doctor disappeared through the emergency room doors. Grant turned. His face hard. His eyes full of fury—tears mixed with sadness and anger—directed at Bryson. He blew out a puff of air. “My father died at your winery.” He pointed his finger at Bryson’s chest. “You gave an old man a job. A man who wasn’t fit for that kind of hard work. I blame you for his death.”
Stunned, Bryson took a step back. He’d never understood Grant. But he did understand grief. “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” was about all he could manage. “Can I call anyone for you?”
“No,” Grant said. “You and your family have done enough.”
Bryson stole a glance toward his brother, who’d taken a seat, elbows on his knees, hands on his cheeks, sorrow in his eyes. “What about Riley? Have you called her?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Grant eased back into the chair next to Erin, looping his arm around her, tugging her close as she continued to cry into her hands. “Is that all you care about? Finding your long-lost love? The one you drove out of town?”
Devon stood. “That’s not fair.”
“Could you please leave us alone?” Erin asked. “This doesn’t concern either of you.”
Bryson drew in a breath and released it slowly. “If there’s anything we can do, please, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
Neither Grant, nor Erin, responded.
