“I’ve seen your art, Faith. Your version of fucked up makes you amazing at your job, too, and obviously, from your recent success, I’m not the only one who shares that opinion. But there’s a difference between the two of us. I know I’m amazing at my job. You don’t.”
“I’m working on that,” she says. “You’ve helped. Last night helped. But right now, in this moment, I’m consumed with the same demon I’ve been consumed with since my mother died. I go back and forth between anger and gut-wrenching guilt. But never grief, and that starts the guilt all over again.”
I hand her another glass of whiskey. “I shouldn’t drink this,” she says.
“Why not? Are you driving?”
“Right,” she says. “Why? I’ll just go slower.”
“And as for your current demon,” I say when she sips from the glass, “I predict that once we get the chaos your mother created under control, you’ll find the grief. Or not. Maybe you’ll find out things about her that make that grief impossible.”
“Is that what happened with your father?”
“Yes,” I say. “It is, but I feel like I should remind you of what I just said. I came to terms with what I felt for my father many years before he died. And he wasn’t in my life, therefore there wasn’t anything to change those terms.”
“And you really feel no grief?”
“I really feel no grief,” I say without hesitation. “But you asked me if I feel alone now.”
“You said that you don’t.”
“And I don’t,” I confirm, and when I would offer nothing more to anyone else, I do with Faith. “But, on some level, I have moments where I’m aware that I have no blood ties left in this world, and that stirs an empty sensation inside me. Maybe that is feeling alone. I just don’t name it that.”
“You have no family at all?”
“My mother’s family has been gone for many years. My uncle on my father’s side died a few years back, but I hadn’t seen the man in a decade and as far as I know, neither had my father.”
“We live odd parallels,” she says. “My father and my uncle hadn’t spoken for about that long when my father died either.” She sinks back against the cushion. “And I’m feeling all the alcohol now.” She shifts to her side to face me. “I’m not drunk,” she adds. “Just kind of numb again, which is a good thing. It’s better than guilt.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Is this a sobriety test?”
“If it is, will you pass?”
“Yes,” she says. “I told you. I’m numb, not drunk. And I have fifty employees, at least part of the year.”
“And your mother’s mishandling put all of those jobs on the line. You had to protect the winery.”
“I know. Especially Kasey’s job, and another ten or so key people who have been with the winery for their entire careers.”
“And yet you still feel guilt for fighting for them?”
“I feel guilt for not finding a way to fight for my mother and them.”
“Your mother didn’t want help.”
“But she needed it,” she argues. “She was clearly an addict, both with alcohol and sex.”
“You said you hired an attorney?”
“Yes. An expensive one, too. That’s what happened to part of my inheritance.”
“Who?”
“Cameron Lemon. Do you know him?”
“In passing and by reputation. He’s good. What happened with him?”
“One of my mother’s many male friends was an attorney too, and he knew just how to nickel and dime me to death with Cameron. I ran out of money and with the winery in debt, I couldn’t even promise him I’d pay him when we won ownership. I had to back off.”
“Who was your mother’s attorney?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer I am sure I will receive.
And as expected, she says, “Nathan Marks,” her lashes, thankfully, lowering with my father’s name on her lips. “Do you know him?” she asks, looking at me.
“Yes,” I say, telling her every truth I can at this point. “I do. And your mother chose her friends wisely. He would have been a formidable opponent.”
“She got naked with my uncle. She didn’t choose wisely. She just chose often.” She downs the drink. “I can’t believe this but the whiskey effect is wearing off. Maybe I wasn’t really feeling it after all.”
I fill her glass. “Try again.”
“What if it hits me all of a sudden, and I wipe out on you?”
“I promise you that we won’t fuck,” I say, placing her hand on the glass. “Because I want you to remember every time we fuck.”
Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. “You’re really quite memorable, Mr. Rogers.” She downs the drink. “I think my mother watched that program. I’m really glad that you don’t wear button up sweaters and sing like the real Mr. Rogers on the show.”
“Last I heard I was the real Mr. Rogers.”
“Right,” she whispers, giving a tiny laugh. “You are, but without a button up sweater. Or is it button down sweater?”
“I vow to never, ever wear a button up or button down sweater.”
“It might be cute on you.”
“I don’t want to be cute,” I assure her.
“What’s wrong with cute? Women like cute.”
“Only women who have been drinking really expensive, smooth whiskey or picking out a puppy.”
“Or cat. I prefer cats. I really need to get a cat.” Her hand goes to her face. “I was wrong. I’m feeling those drinks now and I just drank more.” She sets the empty glass on the cushion between us, as if she can’t quite sit up and get it to the table. “What have I done?”
I set the glass on the table, lower myself to the cushion beside her, and roll her to face me. “I’ll catch you if you fall, sweetheart.”
Her hand falls from her face. “Will you? Or will you fall with me?”
I stroke her cheek. “What does that mean, Faith?”
“It means that if we’re both fucked up, then sometimes, two fucked up people fuck each other up more.”
“We’re all fucked up, remember? Which means that sometimes, two fucked up people make each other whole again.”
“That’s like a fairytale ending. We don’t believe that.”
“Now we have each other, don’t we?”
“Do I have you, Nick?”
“Yes, Faith, you do.”
She reaches up and strokes my cheek this time. “Ah Nick. I have to paint you again. You know that, right?” Her lashes lower and her hand falls from my face. I catch it, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I count seconds. One. Five. Ten. She sighs and seems to fall asleep. I sit there, staring at her, searching every line of her face, and I swear she grows more beautiful by the second. Her full cheeks. Her fuller lips. The confession that says she wants to trust me, even if she doesn’t quite yet.
“I don’t want to leave,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering and closing again.
“Then don’t,” I say, pleased that the first confession came when she was sober, and this one comes when she’s just drunk enough to make emotional confessions.
She doesn’t respond. She’s dozing off again, and I stand and scoop her up. She curls into me again, her body soft in my arms. “Kasey—”
“Can handle the winery,” I say, already in the house and crossing to the stairs. “If he can’t, he needs to be replaced.” I start the upward climb. She’s silent until we’re almost to the top, and then she seems to remember the conversation.
“But the collectors,” she says. “I need—”
“You don’t,” I say, entering the bedroom. “Debate me after you take a nap, preferably after Wednesday, when I can return with you.”
“You’re very convincing when you’re holding me like this. Even with your clothes on.”
I laugh. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“That’s not the alcohol talking,” she murmurs. “I mean it.”
“Even bet
ter,” I assure her, setting her on the bed, which remains unmade. She plops onto the pillow. “My head is spinning,” she says, as I take her boots off. “I really hate being out of control.”
I lean over her and press my hands to either side of her. “No. You don’t. You hate always having to be in control.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know how to read people, you especially. And now you don’t have to be in control all of the time. You have me. And you don’t know it yet, or you don’t trust me yet, but I’ll take care of you.”
“No one takes care of me but me,” she says. “That’s just how it is.”
“Was,” I amend. “That’s how it was. Like I said. Now you have me.”
“Ah, Nick,” she whispers. “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“Have you. At least, not all of you.” She traces my brow with her finger. “It’s in your eyes right now. It’s always in your eyes. The secrets I try to understand when I paint you…Things you don’t want to tell me.” Her lashes lower. “Maybe you will one day.” She inhales again and her breathing slows, evens, while my heart is racing. She knows I’m telling her a lie. She senses it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I stand up and shove fingers through my hair before walking to the door, and just as I would exit, she whispers, “Nick.”
I face her, and she’s looking at me as she says, “When you’re ready,” before shutting her eyes again. “I can wait.”
And therein lies the problem. I’m never going to be able to tell her. I’m never going to be ready to lose her. Because I need this woman. I need her like I need my next breath.
CHAPTER SIX
Nick
After leaving Faith in my bed, I end up on the balcony, where I sit down, pour the last glass of whiskey in the bottle and down it. What the hell is this woman doing to me? No woman has ever consumed me the way Faith has, and does. No woman has ever made me not just want her, but need her, like I need Faith. As I, in turn, need her trust that I do not deserve. Forced lies are killing me and most likely will kill us, a likelihood that only gets worse with each day I continue to let them become a divide between us. She senses it. She knows it. She knows me in ways people who have known me for years do not. I need to fix this. I’m damn good at fixing things. This can’t be the exception. I will make things right with Faith. I will make everything right in her world, including me.
Which is exactly why I left Faith sleeping this morning and got to work doing just that, including a long conversation with Beck. Pulling my phone from my pocket, my finger hovers over the auto-dial with his number, but I remind myself that I didn’t even send the man a copy of my father’s note until early this morning. He’s a damn good PI, but even he needs time to work. I punch Abel’s number instead, who, as of a few hours ago, became more than my friend and personal attorney. He’s now one of Faith’s attorneys as well. She just doesn’t know it yet. “Bring yourself and those documents I had you do up for me over here,” I order, when he answers.
“Have that bottle ready for me,” he replies.
He means the Glenlivet Winchester Collection: Vintage 1964 bottle valued at 25k that was gifted to me first by a client, and now by me to Abel for taking care of Faith. “It’s ready and waiting,” I say without hesitation, more than happy to give up a bottle of booze to ensure Faith knows she can trust me. Which is the role Abel is going to play in this web I’m weaving for her enemies.
“I might let you taste it when I open it,” he taunts.
“I’ll gladly share a drink of anything the day you finally get smart and stop fucking the wrong women, like your ex.”
“She’s not my only fuck these days, and even if she was, I’m fucking her. She’s not fucking me. We’re going to talk about how that plays out with you and Faith. I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hangs up and I stand up, taking the empty glass and bottle with me to the kitchen. I don’t refill that glass. I make an old fashioned pot of coffee, because I like the insulated pot right next to me while I work, and on quick pour.
I then sit down at the island, my stacks of work in front of me, my briefcase locked and to my right. I punch in the combination and open it, pulling out my father’s handwritten note to read it again, homing in on those poison words: Faith is dangerous. She was a threat. How? I grab a note pad and start writing down my thoughts:
—My father had to have been after the winery but why? Is it worth more than we think? It has to be. Actions needed:
—Get assessment done Monday.
—Beck needs to find out what might be beyond the obvious.
Moving on…next item:
—Why call Faith Dangerous? COVERED. He had to have felt she was dangerous to his plan.
—Seven to ten million wouldn’t motivate a man who was damn near a billionaire at that stage in his life. Would it? No. COVERED.
—Why pay Meredith Winter one million dollars in staggered payments? Down payment on the winery? But she couldn’t sell without Faith, is that why Faith was dangerous? She could stop the sale? Back to: Why is the winery more valuable than it appears?
—Autopsy results—WHEN?
—If someone killed my father and Faith’s mother, doesn’t that infer that my father and her mother were on the same side? Unless my father convinced Meredith Winter to be on his side. Or she convinced him to be on his side. Or they were both such players they were playing each other but either way they both ended up dead, by the same means. The same person had to have killed them. And that person was NOT Faith.
I move on to another key list, and one to discuss with Beck:
Suspects:
—Someone associated with the bank.
—Ask Faith for a meeting with Cameron Lemon, with her present so he will talk.
—Faith’s present-day attorney when she met me—he’s her father’s friend but it appears her father’s friends were usually her mother’s friends as well and in Meredith Winter’s case, that’s a problem.
—Faith’s uncle—enough said.
—Kasey, or another staff member at the winery, but Kasey would be the one who knows intimate details of the winery and family—sleeping with Meredith Winter?
—Any one of Meredith Winter’s lovers, with a focus on the long-term boyfriend right before my father which Beck has found.
—An unknown I have yet to identify or see a link to connect them to Meredith and my father.
My coffee finishes brewing and I fill a cup, bring the pot to the island, and ready it for future pours before reviewing my new list several times over. My focus on why my father would pay Meredith Winter a million dollars and in installments. Somewhere in that act is an answer to every question I have and some I probably don’t know to ask. Yet. I will.
The doorbell rings, which says the 25k bottle of booze has Abel showing some manners for once, and of course, he chooses now, while Faith is sleeping. Fully intending to soften his edges where she’s concerned, and before he meets her, I make fast tracks for the door. Abel doesn’t wait on my arrival. Clearly impatient, he’s used my back-up key, and is opening the door as I arrive. He steps inside the foyer, his typical designer suit, replaced with his weekend faded, ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that sports the Harley logo, and supports the man’s obsession with the brand and the bikes. “Take me to the wonderland of whiskey,” he says, shutting the door, and sliding his key back into his pocket. “Because I do have something to celebrate.” He runs his hand over his buzzed blond hair as he adds, “Remember that ex-Navy SEAL judge I buzzed my head to impress?” He doesn’t wait for my confirmation. “He dismissed my case, and I landed a six-figure pay check.”
I back up to give him space to pass down the hallway. “Not bad for a week’s work.”
“Not bad at all,” he agrees, heading down the hallway.
I follow him, his destination the island, or rather, long-ass bar that serves as the island, but he doesn’t stop there. He drops his briefcase on a seat, and heads to the bar.
I walk back to my seat behind the island and face the living area, keeping the stairs that Faith would have to travel to join us, in view. While Abel’s view is on my many whiskey choices. “Was the client guilty or innocent?” I ask, thrumming my pen on the shiny, white granite counter.
“He says he was innocent,” he replies, walking toward me with a bottle of Scotch in hand, and two glasses. “I have to believe a client is innocent to take a case.” He stops at the end cap by the chair his bag has now claimed and sets the bottle and glasses down. “I have to believe, man.” He opens the bottle and fills one of the glasses. “You know that.”
I narrow my gaze on him, not so sure we’re celebrating after all. “But was he innocent?” I ask, waving off the pour he’s about to give me. “I’ve had my share today.” I lift my coffee cup. “I’ll stick to this.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, his tone impartial. He really doesn’t care. That’s one of the things that I like about Abel. He is what he is and I am what I am. We are night and day in some ways, especially when it comes to women, who he tends to allow replays with that I do not. Not until Faith, I add silently and quickly refocus on Abel and our similarities. We like control. We like to win and we hit hard. And considering we’ve known each other since law school, I know he has some baggage, as Faith calls one’s history, and like me, Abel trusts almost no one. Which means he won’t be quick to trust Faith.
“And as for my client’s guilt or innocence,” he continues, snapping me back to the moment, as he downs the contents of his glass and refills it. “He was guilty as sin, but I didn’t decide that until I got him off when he smirked and said: Who says only the innocent go free?”
“Ah shit, man.”
“I know, right?” he says. “I thought I was good at reading people, but holy hell. I missed this one. But there wasn’t even a semi-good case built against him, and I can’t turn back time. Which is why I have to focus on the payday and celebrate that.”
“What was the crime?”