Page 51 of A Vintage of Regret
Riley’s fingers curled around the edges of a book, the spine warm from the afternoon sun filtering through the screened porch. Beyond it, the Boone vineyard stretched toward the tree line, rows of vines dense and proud, as if nothing in the world could unearth their roots.
But Riley couldn’t shake the sensation that doom lurked in the shadows. That her family hung in the delicate balance between grief and mending the traumas of the past. She slipped the letter from her father, which Bryson had printed, from the pages of her book, and unfolded it, staring at the words on the pages. Her dad’s neat handwriting stared back, haunting, tormenting her as if he’d reached out from the grave.
Her dad, even though he hadn’t wanted her to leave at the tender age of eighteen, had driven her to the airport. He’d handed her a card, stuffed with a lovely note, filled with encouragement and love, along with a check for a thousand dollars. He’d told her that there was more if she ever needed it. To never hesitate to call if she got into financial trouble or just needed an ear. He’d always be there.
And his parting words had been that he loved her, and she’d always have a safe place to return when she was ready.
There was a huge part of her that regretted she’d never taken the risk to come home, if even for a visit. What had she been so afraid of? Her family? Bryson? Could they really hurt her anymore?
The truth was she’d been a coward in so many ways.
She could jump from a perfectly good airplane without a second thought. She had no problem flinging herself across time and space on a zipline. Or dangling upside down from a tree without worrying if the rope would hold. She enjoyed teetering between having one foot on a clearly-marked path to a death wish and the other one planted firmly in the dirt of real life. It was a weird way to live, and she knew it. But it had been her life for twelve years. And she’d truly loved every second of it. It filled her heart in ways Stone Bridge hadn’t.
She’d done and seen so much of the world. She’d experienced more than most.
A concept her father seemed to have understood and accepted.
Sean Callahan had been bound to Stone Bridge out of love and obligation to his family. But also because of a connection to something bigger. He loved this winery—this land—and taking what he’d called his dream job ten years ago had made him come alive in ways that she hadn’t expected. She loved that for him because for years, she’d watched him be everything to everyone else, and yet, never quite be good enough.
Except when it came to her. He’d always been the best in her eyes.
But unlike her father, she couldn’t stay in a town that had betrayed her.
However, being at the Boone residence gave her a sense of belonging again. A thought that both brought her comfort and a tinge of resentment.
Relying on Bryson again stirred things deep in her core she hadn’t wanted to face. Things that she’d known had always been there—buried so deep she could pretend they held no power over her anymore.
But they did.
Stone Bridge was still her home. She’d left a tiny piece of herself behind, and it was as if by being here again, she’d collected it, making herself whole.
Laughter broke the stillness, drawing her gaze to the far edge of the back lawn. Bryson and Deven raced each other down a dirt path between the last row of vines and the edge of the grass. Deven surged ahead, but Bryson lunged at him with a sideways tackle, sending both men tumbling into the grass in a flurry of flailing limbs and breathless laughter.
For a moment, it was just like high school. Summer heat. Bare arms. Boys chasing each other like dogs off-leash. She felt the ache of it in her chest. A tickle of a giggle stirred in her throat as Bryson pressed on his brother’s back, before jumping to his feet and taking off again—Devon calling Bryson a few choice words in his wake.
It amazed her how easily they went from being in an argument over something like hiring Emery Tate to acting like best friends.
“Ah, my boys are still idiots,” came a voice from behind her.
Riley turned just as Brea stepped through the sliding glass door, all elegance in a pale green sundress and strappy wedges that didn’t belong anywhere near a vineyard. Her hair was swept up into some kind of soft knot that probably took twenty minutes and six pins to pull off he casual style. Riley smiled despite herself. “You look amazing.”
Brea gave a theatrical sigh and collapsed into the chair beside her. “Technically, I’m underdressed, under perfumed, carrying way too few dollar signs dangling from my ears, neck, and wrists,and over this entire ordeal. But thank you because that was exactly the look I was going for.”
“And where are we headed this evening?”
Brea cocked a brow. “Monica’s party.” She groaned. “If I hear the words ‘artisan’ or ‘bespoke’ one more time, I’m going to throw myself into the fountain. Yes, the one she had craned in from Tuscany because the decor at the country club wasn’t… quite right. That woman is ridiculous.”
Riley laughed. “That can’t be real.”
“Oh, it is. There’s a plaque. With a quote. In Latin.” Brea waved her hand. “Pardon my French, dear. But that girl is a fucking disaster wrapped in a spray tan and a fake personality. I’m not sure she’s ever going to understand that it doesn’t matter how many designer labels she drapes herself in or how many high-end bags she owns. At the end of the day, dog shit is still gonna smell like dog shit no matter how much expensive perfume she sprays on it.”
Brea leaned forward. “I can’t stand that little bitch, but I smile, I pretend, and I try not to toss sand.” She gestured loosely at her outfit. “Again, it’s why I’m dressed in clothing barely worth noting. It’ll make Monica clench in all places she doesn’t want to. She’ll believe I’m poking fun at her party because I didn’t break out the crown jewels and let her borrow them.”
“Sounds like a little mockery is going on.”
“I know. I shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself these days.” Brea stretched her legs out, examining her painted toenails with a little frown. “I should’ve gone with coral. Monica hates that color. Says it’s not bold enough. I’ll give her bold. But too late now, and no, I’m not bitter. Not one bit. But since both of us can agree we don’t like her, I can be honest about it.”
Riley absently turned the book over. “You don’t have to go.”
