Page 78 of A Vintage of Regret
Riley glanced at the brick sidewalk, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Bryson and I—we’re figuring things out. Taking it—slowish.”
“That’s vague,” Hasley said. “And vague is usually code for ‘complicated and maybe worth it’.”
“It’s… both.” Riley huffed a quiet laugh. “I will tell you that I’m still madly head over heels in love with your brother. That hasn’t changed. But we have, and that means we need to be honest.” She sighed. “Our lives are vastly different. But right now, my focus is on Grant and his problems.” She took a steadying breath. “And burying my father. After that, it’s one day at a time. However, I have decided to… come home.”
Hasley grinned. “Good. I like you for him. I always have. Even if it took years for him to figure that out.”
“Years.” Riley lifted a brow. “And a Monica.”
“We all make mistakes,” Hasley said. “No idea what he was thinking, but she wasn’t always that gross. She started off being somewhat normal. Until she wasn’t. Honestly, all we wanted was for him to be happy. We didn’t think she was it, but you weren’t here for us to remind him about the right girl for him.”
Riley’s lips curved despite herself. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Not believe. Know,” Hasley said simply.
They turned a corner into a narrower side street toward Oscar’s—and stopped short.
Riley stood beside a brick boutique, partially hidden, facing her mother and Monica. No practiced smiles now—both women’s expressions were sharp, their postures taut. Monica’s sunglasses were off, eyes narrowed. Her mother’s lips were pressed thin, her hand wrapped tight around a small envelope, bulging in the middle.
Monica said something low, her voice just loud enough for Riley to hear her frustrated tone, but not enough to make out the words. Her chin jutted toward the package. Her mother shook her head sharply, muttering something that made Monica’s mouth pinch tighter.
Riley instinctively slid her phone from her bag, thumb swiping to the camera. She raised it just as Monica extended her hand. The exchange was quick—a flick of fingers, the white envelope sliding from Monica to her mom. Riley had no idea if she caught the shot or not. She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken it.
Her mother immediately tucked the envelope into her oversized tote, glancing around with the wary tension of someone who didn’t want to be seen.
“Now that was interesting,” Hasley said.
“I can’t imagine those two being brunch buddies,” Riley murmured. “No offense, but my mom hates all things Boone, and Monica once bore that last name.”
Hasley’s brow furrowed. “They’ve been… friendlier since the divorce—at least, when it comes to town business. I’ve never seen them like that, and let’s face it, that exchange looked more like sparing than two women out for an afternoon of cocktails and shopping.”
Monica’s gaze flicked up the street, and Riley stepped back into the shadow of an awning, Hasley close behind her. Monica and Elizabeth exchanged a few last clipped words, then turned in opposite directions—Monica striding toward the main square, Elizabeth vanishing down a narrow alley toward a parking lot.
Riley stared at the screen in her hand, the image crisp and undeniable. “We’re going back to the tasting room.”
Hasley nodded, already moving. “Bryson’s going to want to see this.”
Sixteen
Bryson leaned back, wiped his mouth with his napkin before tossing it on his plate, and smiled as he stared at all the faces sitting at his parents’ massive table.
The Boone dining room was built for mornings like this. It was built for the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs, the clink of forks against ceramic. Even with the breakfast rush winding down, the big walnut table still bore the evidence — half-drained mugs scattered between plates streaked with syrup, a platter of scrambled eggs long gone cold, a pitcher of orange juice sweating onto a folded linen napkin.
The scent of bacon hung in the air, woven through with the faint perfume of the lilies his mother had arranged in a vase on the sideboard. Every so often, a burst of laughter or a sharp call floated down the hallway from upstairs, where Ashley and Hasley were engaged in the school-morning ritual of chasing down missing shoes, lost homework, and the occasional child.
The house hadn’t been filled with this kind of activity in years, and Bryson’s mother was in her glory. All these people might not be her family—these children might not be her grandchildren—but his mom opened her home and her heart, giving them a safe harbor in the middle of a storm.
Bryson sat near the head of the table, elbows braced on the polished surface, coffee cupped in both hands. Across from him, Riley sat curled in her chair, one knee pulled up, her ankle hooked on the edge of the seat. By now, her tea was probably lukewarm, but she turned the mug slowly between her palms as if absorbing its lingering heat might anchor her here a little longer.
Devon sat next to her, phone in hand, his thumb flicking over the screen with deliberate slowness—which meant he wasn’t engaged in the conversation of the room and more interested in what might appear on that damn cell.
Bryson had a good idea of what Devon was waiting for and it made Bryson want to reach across the table and snatch the damn thing right out of Devon’s fingertips. Bryson was so tired of hearing about Emery Tate and hersituation.The woman had created her own problems. There was no conspiracy theory. Nothing anyone could say would make Bryson change his mind on that.
Jessica, Grant’s daughter, was twelve years old and stubborn as hell—like her father—hadn’t moved since she finished her waffle. Arms crossed tight over her chest, she stared at the wood grain of the table like she could bore a hole through it with sheer will.
Kelly hovered beside her daughter, patient but stretched thin. “Alright, Jess. Time to get ready for school. Let’s go.”
Jessica didn’t blink. “I’m not going.”
