Page 1 of A Vintage of Regret
One
The morning mist still clung to the vines like a secret not ready to be told.
Tendrils of fog snaked toward Bryson Boone as he stepped off the ATV and walked the last few yards into the rows of Syrah grapes, boots crunching softly over the dewy ground, a cold cup of coffee in one hand. In his haste to hurry out the door, he hadn’t bothered to pour it into one of those fancy mugs that kept it hot. In the other hand, his cell with the pruning schedule open. He scanned the trellises with a practiced eye. It was early, but this morning seemed quieter than usual.
The vineyard was never loud, not really, but there was usually a hum. Birds rustling. Clippers snipping. Maybe a low whistle from Sean, always a tune Bryson couldn’t name. Today, there was nothing. Just the mist and the smell of dirt and growing things. Bryson swiped the screen on his cell, pulling up the text from Sean, making sure he’d gotten the time right. Perhaps Sean had overslept. It wasn’t like Sean to be late, but it happened.
Bryson took a moment, like he always did, to soak in the morning. To soak in his family’s growing legacy. His grandfather had started this winery on a whim and a dream. It hadn’t beenmuch back then. His granddad had barely gotten the vines to take root, but it was a start. It had been his father who turned it into a business.
And now, it was Bryson’s turn to make it into a household name. He was still working on that. So many things had changed in the wine-making business. Seltzers, low-calorie wines, and his all-time favorite peeve… all-natural wines, which were utter nonsense. His father had worked hard to create a fully organic vineyard, and in today’s world, most people didn’t understand what that meant, and Bryson had grown tired of explaining it.
Though, his generation barely kicked back and enjoyed a good glass of vino these days. It was all about these damn vodka-infused drinks. Or even wine in a can. Made it nearly impossible for him to grow because he couldn’t compete with the big names, and he honestly didn’t want to.
Sure, he wanted to stand out—be seen over the clutter. But no way in hell would he ever become a mass-produced factory. He liked to feel the earth under his feet. Smell the flavors in the air as the grapes ripened in anticipation of each harvest. It had been his dream since he’d sat on his father’s shoulders when he’d been a child and stared over the vineyard at the beauty of it all.
He scanned the rows of vines as the sun peeked over the horizon. He’d always loved the mornings. Full of promise, the dawning of a new day had always drawn him outside. There’d only been one time in his life when his early sunrise routine had been tainted.
He sighed as old memories crept into his brain. When they’d been little, he and Riley would race through this very patch of land, giggling, chasing each other, until they were breathless. When they’d become teenagers, they’d come out here for stolen kisses.
And then she’d walked away… taking a piece of him with her.
But that seemed like a lifetime ago. A haunting tale he couldn’t forget—but didn’t want to remember. For the last twelve years, no matter how hard he tried to shake her from his daily thoughts, he couldn’t. And today was no different. She was a quiet, yet constant thought. Someone he could never regret, yet he regretted everything about how things ended.
However, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He’d tried to move on with his life, but he’d failed miserably.
This winery—this town—was a living tribute to what he’d lost—and what he’d never find again. Though he tried not to dwell on the past, seeing Sean every day made it impossible to banish it from his mind entirely.
It wasn’t odd that her father had retired from his long-standing career as an electrician for the local power company one day, and the next, he’d come knocking on Bryson’s door in search of a job. Sean had grown up around the vines—worked them as a teenager. And Bryson had learned a lot from the man. From a young age, Bryson had always looked up to him and even though Sean worked for Bryson, the older man had been a mentor, a close friend, and a father figure. Even when Riley had taken off and broken Bryson’s heart.
Though, Bryson had to take some ownership of that heartache. It hadn’t all been her fault. Nor had it been all his.
He tucked away those thoughts in that box, like he did every day, and moved on about the business of living. Or maybe it was existing. What else could he do? Riley was gone. A faint murmur of regret whispered through the vines.
He stuffed his cell in his pocket, as well as his memories, and went looking for Sean. He had no idea what the man wanted to discuss, but whatever it was, it seemed important.
Sean was a reliable man. Solid. The kind of man who worked hard, made everyone laugh, and always had a story in his back pocket. The kind you were lucky to have on your crew. For eightyears, he’d walked these rows like he owned the place—not with ego, but with care. However, something had changed in him during the last couple of months. He’d grown distant and almost secretive. That bothered Bryson, and he wanted to make sure the old man was okay. Things in the Callahan family were always a little bit off. Not Riley, or Sean—but the rest of them—well, years of history had taught Bryson to keep his distance.
Back then, Bryson had been too young—too immature—to put a finger on it. Hell, he still didn’t know exactly what it was. But he did have a better understanding of the dynamics. He knew that Elizabeth, Riley’s mother, had always wanted more.
More money. More respect. More everything. Certainly, more than Sean’s modest blue-collar paycheck brought in. She’d had an affair, and she and Sean divorced when Riley was fourteen. It had been a difficult time in her life, and her mother’s infidelity was one of the things that had sparked their big family feud.
Bryson checked his phone and frowned. Not only was it past the early meeting time Sean had requested, but it was also well past the time he’d normally walked the vines—a ritual Sean had started from the day he’d begun at The Stone Bridge Winery. Dread dragged its fingernails across the nape of Bryson’s neck, and he started searching the rows— slowly at first, then his steps became urgent. Near the edge of Block Seven, he spotted the hat first—sun-faded straw, lying crooked in the dirt. Then he saw Sean.
“Sean?” Bryson dropped his coffee and jogged the last few steps. “Hey—Sean, you okay?”
The older man slumped awkwardly against a support post, one gloved hand still curled near his chest, the other limp in the grass. His face was pale. His chest wasn’t moving.
Bryson dropped to his knees and grabbed Sean’s wrist. No pulse. Bryson’s breath lodged in his throat like tar. Fumbling for his phone, he hit nine-one-one.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Bryson Boone. I’m at Stone Bridge Winery—west vineyard. I think one of my crew, Sean Callahan—he’s—he’s not breathing. He’s not responsive.”
“Sir, does he have a pulse?”
With his breath caught in his throat, Bryson firmly pressed his fingers against Sean’s neck to check again. He waited for a few seconds. Nothing. He pressed harder. Still… nothing. “No.”
“I’m dispatching emergency medical services now. I need you to begin CPR immediately. Can you do that?”
