Page 67 of A Vintage of Regret
The Boone house had long since gone still, that late-night hush where every sound seemed to carry farther than it should. As a boy, Bryson loved the vastness of this place. He and his siblings used to pretend it was a hotel. They’d set up a check-in counter, and Devon was always the businessman, Hasley the princess, Ashley the famous actress. And Bryson was the owner of the world-famous hotel where everyone clamored for a room.
Those were the days.
Tonight, he found no comfort in the heart of his home.
Down the hall, Riley’s soft, even breathing drifted to him from the guest wing. Bryson had walked her up earlier, lingering in the doorway until she was under the covers, the glassiness in her eyes dulled enough to let sleep take her. Now, hours later, he was in the study with a fire low in the grate, shadows haunting the corners like ghosts.
The Boone study had always been his father’s domain—rich walnut shelves, deep leather chairs, and the scents of old paper and wood polish hanging in the air. Bryson sat behind the low table, working the cork from a bottle of their 2014 Pinot Noir Reserve, the pop loud in the silence. It was the kind of wine hisfather pulled from the shelf when days were long, and nights brought the kind of dense fog that couldn’t be seen through. He poured the ruby liquid into two wide-bowled glasses, catching the firelight.
Across from him, Grant slouched into one of the big chairs, looking as though the weight of several weeks had been piled on top of him, brick by brick. His shirt was wrinkled and his hair pushed into uneven ridges.
Bryson handed him a glass. “Here. You look like you need it.”
Grant took it, rolling the stem between his fingers before taking a sip. He closed his eyes briefly. “You know, I’ve always liked this stuff. Even back in high school. I used to pretend I hated it because… well, Mom.”
Bryson leaned back into his chair. “Your mother enjoys decent wine, and she also seems to enjoy telling people our wine is swill and Winston Callaway’s wine is the best wine in all of Napa Valley.” Bryson lifted his glass, swirled it, watching the legs hold the side, pride swelling in his chest at his family's legacy. “Callaway Winery makes a decent blend. I won’t deny that. However, I do believe ours is better.
Grant snorted.
“Of course, I’m biased.”
“My mom taught us to hate anything with Boone on the label. But it was subtle at first. Underhanded digs. Sideways complements. It wasn’t until you strolled onto that football field, that she insisted you stole my starting spot. Neither one of us was going to the NFL, but you were better. I knew that. However, I’d been built up just enough, and was too young, to know any better. I was also jealous.” Grant gave a wry half-smile. “Mom, she developed this script for us, and I played my part perfectly. Riley refused. She and my mom were at odds over almost everything, but the tipping point had been our mother’s affair with Parker.” Grant lifted his glass and sipped. “Sometimes,Kelly and I drink this at home. If my mother knew, she’d probably disown me.”
“Elizabeth won’t even take Riley’s calls right now.”
“I don’t understand that one.” Grant leaned back. “But I suspect it has something to do with Ry staying here. My mother has always been so envious of Brea. They both grew up in the same part of town. Both had very little as children.” Grant lifted his gaze and smiled. It was the first one he’d sported in days. “My mother-in-law, who was in the same grade as both Brea and my mom, once told me that my mom was all about your dad. Had a huge crush on him and did everything she could think of to get his attention. But nothing worked, so she started dating his best friend to get close. Thought that might work.”
“What?” Bryson stared at Grant. He leaned forward. “My mom has always said that Elizabeth was interested in beingimportant,but she never mentioned that she’d made advances toward my dad.”
Grant shrugged. “It was a long time ago. But Victoria has no reason to lie. And my mom? Well, she doesn’t like to lose. So, I bet if someone asked her, she’d say something to the tune of she’d never been interested in Walter. That he’d been after her.”
Bryson chuckled. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”
“No need to apologize,” Grant said. “It took me until I fell in love with the most wonderful human in the world to truly see my mom. But I do love her. For me, she wasn’t the worst mother in the world. But it pains me how she put us in roles. I was the golden child—her favorite. Erin was the one she could mold into her little worker bee. The child who couldn’t stand up to her.”
“You couldn’t either,” Bryson said.
“Oh, I could. But I chose not to.” He lifted a finger. “Once Riley was born, it was like the battlelines had been drawn. Me, Erin, and my mom, against Riley and my dad. It was the most fucked up family dynamic I’ve ever seen. But I was only four. Ididn’t know what it all meant. I just felt it. And when Riley left, I held onto that hurt like a badge of honor I wore with pride. I get that it’s gross, and I’m working like hell to fix it. But it’s hard with all this shit hanging over my head.”
“Why didn’t you talk to Riley when you got back from the station tonight?”
Grant’s gaze stayed fixed on the wine in his glass. “Because I didn’t have it in me to explain. She was already looking at me like she didn’t know whether to hug me or slap me. Like she’s stuck between this weird space where I’m innocent and guilty all at the same time. And I don’t blame her for that. If you only look at the facts, I look guilty. I just didn’t have it in me to go through it all with them.”
Bryson set down his glass. “All she wants to do is support you. But she’s scared. And confused. She doesn’t understand why anyone would want to kill your father.”
Grant’s eyes flicked up to his, and something in them made Bryson’s gut tighten.
“Here’s what the outside world doesn’t know. And I have no idea if Sandy will release this information or not. So, you shouldn’t tell anyone.” Grant's hand tightened around his wine glass, his gaze dropping. “They believe my father was poisoned. There were things both the ME and the doctor in the ER questioned, so it was only a matter of time before they went ahead and did the autopsy. The question is how someone could give my dad a substance that could kill him, and Sandy believes she knows that answer. She believes it was in his morning coffee.” Grant sipped his wine, taking a moment to swallow, as if he were frightened of what was in the wine, the glass trembling faintly in his hand. “I’m the one who gave him the coffee.”
Bryson went still. The fire popped softly. “What?”
“I handed him the very thing that killed him.” Grant’s voice was hoarse. “I might as well have poured it down his throat myself.”
Bryson’s fingers curled against the arm of his chair. “Where did you get the coffee?”
Grant lowered his head, tears dropping from his eyes like a leaky faucet. “From my mother.” He set his glass on the coaster, rested his elbows on his knees, and cradled his cheeks.
The silence stretched. The fire’s glow flickered against the gold in Bryson’s glass, but his mind was already racing ahead—Elizabeth’s name was a snake uncoiling in the middle of the room.
