Page 8 of Wallflower
I nibble my lip and try to imagine a version of the man I met today without all the ice and edges. I can’t see it, and the possibility of being his friend is even more ludicrous. I’ve never been able to relax in social situations, and aside from the fact the San Francisco Fury signs both our paychecks—his with a lot more zeroes than mine—I have nothing in common with Chord Davenport. There’s a higher chance of seeing one of my dresses on a red carpet than there is of a man like him taking an interest in a girl like me, but I can tell Dad likes the idea.
“I really doubt it, Dad, but I suppose you never know.”
“When do you go?”
I wince. “I have to be in Aster Springs at ten a.m. tomorrow.”
His face falls, and he rubs one finger under his nose the way he does when he’s feeling overwhelmed. But then he brightens so quickly that his enthusiasm can only be for my benefit.
He gets to his feet and claps his hands together. “If you have to go, tomorrow is as good a day as any. I’ll clear away the dishes so you can pack.”
Before he can collect our empty bowls, I jump to my feet and throw my arms around his middle. I’m tall, but Dad’s taller, and I press my cheek against his chest.
Dad wraps his arms around me and rests his cheek on my head with a sigh. “This is a great adventure,” he murmurs into my hair. “And you’ll only be gone a few months. Everything will work out fine. After all, how much can possibly happen in just one summer?”
five
Chord
85 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
It takes about ANHOUR to get from San Francisco to Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard, and even though it’s been years since I last went home, I could never forget the way.
I zip through traffic, cruise past sleepy country towns, and then reach the Redwood groves, rows of vines, patchwork farmland, and rolling green hills of Sonoma. The twilit landscape is blanketed by last night’s fog, making the damp air glow. I slow down and take it all in. It’s fucking gorgeous.
The sun is creeping over the horizon when I roll past a familiar set of enormous white timber gates bracketed by low stacked stone walls, and a tingle of loss pinches the bridge of my nose. My mom painted those gates herself every spring and every fall, and even though they’re much more weathered around the edges now, I can see the paint is fresh. Not that I’m surprised. My sister, Charlie, runs the ranch now, and she’d never let those gates—or anything else—fall into disrepair.
I snort. Charlie—smart, stubborn, her-way-or-the-highway Charlotte Davenport—would shut the place down before she let it go to shit. And it’s almost come to that. It’s been eight years since our dad died, and this winter, it’ll be ten years since we said goodbye to Mom. Once they were gone, business was never the same. Our family was never the same.
Daisy turned eighteen just before Dad’s death, so we were all adults by then and living our own separate lives. Without Mom and Dad to bring us together, it got too easy to stay fractured. And even though Charlie, Finn, Dylan, Daisy, and I inherited everything, and none of us wanted to sell, we never found a way to run this place like they did.
I’ve tried over and over to invest, but Charlie won’t take my money. She doesn’t want a single cent of what hockey’s given me, and it drives me fucking nuts.
The gates are flung open, revealing a long country lane wide enough for two cars to pass, bordered by old silver-leafed olive trees. I don’t need to turn in to know the driveway is covered with dusty gravel that crunches under both boots and tires or that there’s a turning circle at the end in front of a white-clad reception house and tasting room.
But I’m not a visitor, and I don’t stop until I’ve driven farther around the perimeter of the hundred acres my family owns. I turn onto a dirt road forking off to the right, stop at a gate markedprivate property, and take a second to appreciate the fact that I’m finally here. I haven’t lived at Silver Leaf since I was eighteen, but I’ve never felt at home anywhere else.
I leave the car running as I get out of the car to swing open the wide metal gate. As I wind my way up the long asphalt drive to the house I built at the rear of my family’s land, it feels like nothing has changed. Not the house, a masterpiece of white wood and glass and stone hugged by a wide porch that overlooks our vineyards on one side and the river on the other. I picturethe infinity pool on the far side, and my muscles relax at the thought of sinking into the water when the heat hits later in the day. Until then, I open an automated door on my five-car garage, swing the coupe into one of the free spaces, and consider my next move.
Do I go into the house first, maybe unpack and get in a quick workout, or do I let my family know I’m here?
It’s tempting to leave the hard stuff for later, but that girl—woman—from the Fury will be here mid-morning, and I need to talk to Charlie about organizing a cabin for Violet to use for the summer.
The grumble in my stomach settles things. I leave my luggage in the car, lock the garage with the press of a remote control, and start the walk around to my little brother’s restaurant.
It’s a little more than a mile—near enough for me to get there on foot, not so close that visitors might accidentally wander too close.
As I follow a dirt track framed by tumbled boulders, I pass the old dam and cast my eye over the rows of vines stretching in every direction. This deep into the vineyard, I see the strain we’re under. More fields lie fallow than they should, and more than half are bordered by broken wire-and-timber fences. I skirt closer to the vines that are green and full, take note of the open canopies, and silently approve the crop load. At least the vines we do have look like they’ll give us a good pinot noir this year.
My hike lasts about fifteen minutes before the first building comes into view. Named The Hill because it’s perched at the top of a low rise, our family restaurant looks like the rest of the buildings at Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard—the cellar door with our wine-making operations and tasting rooms, the main house where Charlie and Dylan live, the lines of cabins that make up the guest accommodations, and the private bungalow by the water. They’re all classic white wood, rough stacked stone,and oversized glass windows that take full advantage of the landscape. Even indoors, you can’t escape the effects of nature. When it came time to build my own place, I made it my mission to honor the style my parents loved so much.
I take the stone steps cut into the side of the rise two at a time and let myself into the kitchen. My brother stands with his back to me at the stove, and fuck, for a second, I feel like shit. I’m an asshole for not seeing him more often.
“What does a man have to do to get a decent breakfast around here?”
Dylan spins, and I ignore the way the kitchen staff double-take at the sight of me. Dylan stalls for a moment, but time starts again as he launches across the room and throws himself at me. I crush him to my chest before letting him go.
“What are you doing here? Wait. Let’s just…” Dylan looks around and calls over a middle-aged woman in matching chef’s whites, gives her a few rushed instructions, and then jerks his head in the direction of the private function room. I follow him as we leave behind a silent kitchen that bursts into excited whispers the second my foot is on the other side of the door.
