Page 87 of A Vintage of Regret
Everything had felt out of whack since the second he’d rolled out of bed, much like that fateful day. But there was something different in the air. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Hope? The resilience of family? The willingness to do whatever it took? Whatever it was, it was there, strong and proud, and heavily rooted in the ground.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of measured footsteps behind him. Grant’s silhouette emerged from between the shadow of the old oak and the side of the barn, hands buried deep in the pockets of a jacket that looked slept in.
“I remember, even as a kid, you always liked coming out here,” Grant said when he reached him, voice low as if he didn’t want to wake the day. “Riley would race out of the house inher Wonder Woman pajamas, hoping you and your dad hadn’t walked the rows yet. My dad would just chuckle, standing on our back porch, watching her little legs take her as fast as she could run.”
“I think I loved her even at ten,” Bryson said.
Grant stopped beside him, close enough that Bryson caught the faint scent of soap overlaid with the stale tang of worry. For a while, they just stood there, staring at the undulating rows of vines that rolled out like green stitching across the earth. Somewhere down the slope, a tractor coughed awake. “My father always thought the two of you would marry, and that made my mother go into a tailspin. Erin and I would find things to do so we didn’t have to hear my mom while she tried to school yours.”
“The good old days.” Bryson noticed the moment Grant's gaze shifted from him to the rolling hills stretching out before them, the weight of their conversation momentarily forgotten.
“God, this view.” Grant let out a low whistle. “I can’t imagine you ever tire of it.”
“Nope,” Bryson replied.
Grant didn’t take his eyes off the horizon. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something stubborn. “I wanted to talk to you before I head down to the station.”
Bryson tilted his head, studying him. “About what?”
Grant rubbed the back of his neck, still staring forward. “This wire thing Sandy’s got me doing… I’ve been turning it over in my head. I’m not naïve—I know how my mother operates. I can’t predict how she’ll react, and I’m not so sure I can get her to say anything useful.”
“You’ll handle it,” Bryson said, keeping his tone steady.
Grant’s mouth tightened. “Yeah, well… there’s the chance it blows up in my face, instead. If she catches on? If she turns it around on me?” He laughed humorlessly. “Hell, she’s capable ofmaking people admit things they didn’t do. And I say that from experience.”
Bryson’s brows pulled together. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t always matter,” Grant said quietly. “Truth’s one thing. Perception’s another. And she’s damn good at shaping perception.”
“Not so much anymore,” Bryson said. “She lost her touch a few years ago.”
“But she can still do it, and that scares me.” Grant turned to face Bryson then, eyes hard with something deeper than just anxiety—it was resignation, too. “That’s why I wanted to see you out here. If this goes sideways—if I end up looking guiltier than I already do—I need your word on something.”
“You’re going to get through this. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“We don’t know that.” Grant’s expression didn’t change. “Promise me. If I’m out of the picture in any capacity, you’ll look after Riley. Keep her steady. She’s tough, but she’s got blind spots when it comes to family. She’ll try to carry things she shouldn’t. And Erin—she’s hanging on for the kids, but if I’m not here, she’s going to need someone. Kelly, too. She’ll put on a brave face, but the kids…”
The weight of Grant's request settled over Bryson like a heavy blanket. This wasn't just conversation anymore—Grant was genuinely terrified he might be arrested, convicted, torn away from everything he'd built. The man was asking Bryson to be responsible for the people he loved most, to step into a role that should never need filling by anyone else. The irony wasn't lost on him either—Grant, who'd spent years resenting Bryson's place in their lives, was now entrusting him with their care. It was both an honor and a crushing responsibility that Bryson wasn't sure he was ready for.
"Grant," Bryson said quietly, his voice buckling under the gravity of what was being asked. "You're not going anywhere. But if something does happen—and I meanif—you have my word. I'll take care of them. All of them."
“Thanks.” Some of the tightness in Grant’s shoulders loosened, but not much. “You’re not so bad, Boone.”
Bryson’s lips curved faintly. “Careful. People might start thinking we’re… friends.”
Grant huffed a short laugh. “Don’t push your luck.”
They stood in the quiet, the kind that pressed in and made every distant sound sharper—the chirp of a bird in the hedgerow, the faint metallic creak of the barn roof warming under the sun.
“I’d better get going.” When Grant turned and headed back toward the house, Bryson stayed where he was, watching the light creep across the land, feeling the promise settle like a weight across his shoulders—heavy, but one he knew he’d willingly carry.
“There’s Grant’s SUV.” Riley pointed from her perch in the back of what appeared to be a van for Stone Bridge Water Authority. Her heart thumped in her throat like a jackrabbit.
The van hummed softly, parked two houses down beneath the dappled shade of a jacaranda. Inside, the air was warm with dust and a faint bite of citrus from a hand sanitizer bottle rolling around the cup holder. Riley sat forward, elbows on knees, eyes glued to the pale stucco of her mother’s house. Erin’s thigh pressed warm against hers.
Grant’s vehicle rolled to a stop in the driveway. He slipped from the driver’s side and walked up the path like a man out fora Sunday stroll, a study in casual. Hands in pockets, shoulders loose, pace unhurried.
Erin grabbed Riley’s hand and squeezed.
