"What other lessons can I look forward to as a winemaker's wife?" I asked breathlessly. Grayson laughed against my skin.
"Oh, I have lots of teaching to do. That's only the very beginning." He rolled off me and kissed me once more, smiling against my mouth. I shivered slightly in the crisp air, and we sat up and pulled on our clothes. Grayson took out a thermos of coffee, Charlotte's cranberry orange muffins, and a plastic container of strawberries. We ate our picnic breakfast together, laughing and chatting, and if there was happiness greater than this, I thought, I couldn't imagine what it was.
**********
The next afternoon, the rain came down. It drummed on the window, painting the outside world in misty watercolors. I sat in Grayson's office, staring out at the oak trees and the front gates beyond, the printouts of accounting records spread out on the clean desk before me. I'd organized his office, and now everything had a place, whether it was in a file folder labeled neatly in his bottom desk drawer or in one of the stacked paper trays sitting on top of his desk. As I stood up, Sugie chuffed at my feet and yawned.
"Stay here, girl," I soothed. "I'll be right back."
I found Charlotte and Walter in the kitchen, sitting next to each other at the large dining table, a cup of tea in front of them both.
"Oh hello, dear. Would you like to join us for a cup? The temperature has really dropped today."
"Sure. But I'll get a mug. You stay there," I told Charlotte distractedly when she began to stand. I sat down at the table, holding my cup toward Charlotte as she poured from the pot already on the table. Thanking her, I put my hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into my skin.
"Are you all right?" Charlotte asked, a note of worry in her tone. "Is everything okay with you and Gray? It seems like—"
"Yes, everything's fine with us." I smiled. "Better than fine." I worried my lip. "It's something else." I looked back and forth between Charlotte and Walter, not wanting to put into words what I suspected, but knowing I had to.
"What is it?" Charlotte asked. She and Walter had seemed to become very still.
"I've been inspecting the old accounting records and it seems . . . well, it seems as if Ford Hawthorn purposefully ran this vineyard into the ground. Is that even possible?" I whispered. Charlotte and Walter glanced at each other, their expressions grim.
"You mustn't tell Grayson what you've discovered," Charlotte said. "I'm not generally in favor of withholding the truth, but . . . he's suffered enough at his father's hands and this . . . it would destroy him. Maybe someday . . . I think we'll know when the time is right, but not now. He's only just begun to heal."
I exhaled a large breath. "It's true," I choked out, a shudder running through my body. "Why? Why would he do that?"
"It was his last message to Grayson," Charlotte said, her eyes tearing up. "Walter tried to undo as much as he could—tried to preserve anything possible, but when Ford found out he was sick, and Shane and Jessica said they didn't want anything to do with this vineyard, he realized he could only leave it to Grayson and he set about destroying it. Thankfully he had less time than he thought, but he did enough damage even in the short time he lingered."
I felt ill, nausea roiling in my stomach. "He hated him that much?" My body suddenly felt chilled to the bone, despite the warm tea in my hands. I realized I was squeezing the mug and released my grip.
"He hated himself," Charlotte said, and for the first time since I'd known her, I heard heated anger in her voice. "And he channeled that into his relationship with his son. He meant to leave a worthless piece of nothing to Grayson as his final slap across his face. It was cruel and ugly and vindictive and—"
"It's a lie," Grayson's voice came from the doorway. We all startled, hot tea sloshing onto my hands as my body jerked.
"Grayson," I breathed.
"No," he said, but his voice broke as he sagged against the doorframe. Charlotte, Walter, and I all stood quickly and rushed to him.
"Gray," Charlotte said, reaching out to grasp his hand, her expression deeply pained.
"Tell me it's a lie, Charlotte," he said, his eyes beseeching her.
Her face registered deep grief, but she lowered her eyes. She couldn't lie in response to a direct question, not to Grayson. The damage had been done. Grayson turned and walked briskly out of the room, heading for the stairs.
Charlotte and Walter went to follow him, but I put my hand up. "Let me talk to him," I said. "Please."
They both nodded, Charlotte wringing her hands, looking anguished.
"If you need us, we'll be right here," Walter said. I nodded, offering a small, sad smile.
I climbed the stairs, disbelief still pommeling my heart. How was this possible? Going through the records, I'd been deeply suspicious, but I had had a hard time believing it could actually be true. Could anyone be that evil? Could anyone hate that much at the end of their life? That was the legacy he chose to leave? I couldn't wrap my mind around it. That kind of vengeance was wholly unreal to my mind. I entered the master bedroom Grayson and I shared and found him standing before the window, staring out at the rain.
"Gray," I said tentatively, moving closer. He turned to face me and the look of stark devastation on his face stopped me in my tracks. I sucked in a breath.
"I made a vow to him," he choked out. "I thought . . . and all this time . . ." He moved away from the window, pressing his back against the wall next to it. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he slid down to the floor, burrowing his head in his arms. I let out a small startled cry and rushed forward, dropping onto the carpet with him and wrapping my arms around his shaking body. And as I held him, he did what he had probably needed to do for six long years, more likely his whole life: he cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kira
Hawthorn Vineyard seemed very quiet. Grayson had stayed in our room for the rest of the day, not returning to work, lying on the bed staring at the wall. I'd come into the room several times, but he hadn't spoken to me much. I figured he just needed to process what he'd found out. Who wouldn't? He was deeply wounded, anguished, the belief system he'd held close to his heart for so long now completely obliterated. He'd been living to fulfill a singular vow—a vow based on what he now knew were lies. And the truth that lay beneath was ugly and soul-crushing. I didn't have to wonder if he felt directionless—I'd been there once, too. I just wished he'd talk to me.
I'd woken in the middle of the night and reached for my husband, but his side of the bed was empty and cold. And so now, I was walking in my small nightie through a dark, silent house, looking for him. "Grayson?" I called softly. No answer. I stood still and listened, finally hearing something very far away that sounded like breaking glass.
I followed the distant noise until I came to the door in the living room that I now knew went down to a wine cellar, although I'd never been inside. It was open just a small crack, a light shining from below. "Grayson?" I called again. When there was still no answer, I opened the door tentatively and descended the narrow, spiral staircase. The sounds grew more distinct, one loud crash startling me and causing me to pause before moving forward.
When I got to the bottom and peeked around the corner, I saw Grayson sitting on the floor, leaning back against a shelf drinking from a bottle of wine. He saw me and brought the bottle away from his lips, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth and holding the wine toward me. "Kira, try it. It's a Domaine Lefl . . . blah blah blah who cares, from France," he slurred slightly, giving me a wry smile. Then he tossed the half-drunk bottle and watched as it shattered on the cement floor amidst several other smashed bottles, their contents pooling together in a now-worthless mixture of wine, glass, and soggy bottle labels. "Oops, sorry, slipped right out of my hand. I'm not usually so accident-prone. Here, shall we try another?" He reached behind him and grabbed a different bottle off the shelf and picked up the wine opener sitting next to him on the floor. I rushed forward, kneeling down next to him.
"Grayson,
" I said, leaning forward and putting one hand on his cheek, "what are you doing?"
He stopped in his efforts to open the bottle, looking blearily up at me. "I'm sampling my father's rare wine collection," he said. "Walter did a good job protecting it from him before he could destroy it himself, but I'm really only doing what he would have done if he'd been given the chance." He paused, hurt skittering over his features before he continued. "Do you know that of all the things I sold in this house, I avoided these because I believed it would disappoint my father? When you came along and I didn't have to part with this," he waved his arm backward indicating the shelf behind him which still held several bottles, "I was so damned relieved I'd done something else that would have made my father proud." He laughed, a hollow sound filled only with pain.
Ah, so he was bent on taking what justice he could into his own hands. Only, if the look on his face was any indication, it didn't satisfy.
"So," I said, scooting closer, "how about we sell the rest of them instead of giving him the satisfaction of doing exactly what he would have done? How about we make some money off it and buy . . . a pet monkey and name it after your father? Or . . . a double-seated bicycle? We'll ride around Napa talking about what an ass your father was. Or . . . a parrot! We'll teach it to say nasty things repeatedly about Ford Hawthorn." I placed my hand on his knee. "There are better things to do than this. We'll come up with something together."
Grayson touched my naked thigh with one finger and trailed it upward, lifting the material of my nightie as he went. "You are so beautiful," he said.
I smiled a small smile. "And you are so drunk."
"In Vino Veritas," he whispered, repeating the phrase etched above the doorway I had meant to look up. His finger traced the waistband of my underwear. "In wine there is truth." Ah. He paused, his brow furrowing. "Only here, there are only lies and deceptions."
"Grayson, no . . ."
He shook his head, bringing his hand away. "Think about it, though. It really was such a perfectly devious plan—the perfect way to tell me how much he hated me, the perfect vengeance. If he had had just a little more time, I could have come home to a pile of worthless ashes." He took a loud, shuddery breath. "I thought it was a gift, and it was the exact opposite. After everything . . . I thought he finally . . . Jesus. It hurts so much, Kira," he said, his voice filled with anguish. The look on his face made me feel as if my heart would crack into tiny pieces to lie amongst the shattered bottles littering the floor.
"There's so much pain," he said on a broken whisper.
"I know," I said, moving right up against him and taking him in my arms as he leaned his head into my chest. God, I knew the pain he was feeling now. I understood it, and I ached for him. "Listen to me, Grayson." I leaned back and took his face in my hands, looking him in the eye. "There is always pain in this life. Not just for me, not just for you—for everyone. You can't avoid it. And sometimes the pain is so great, it feels as if it carves out the very essence of who you are. But it doesn't, not if you don't allow it to. It carves out a place in you, yes, but love is meant to fill that space. If you let it, pain makes more space for love within you. And the love we carry inside makes us strong when nothing else can."
His dark eyes searched mine. "Do you believe that?" he asked.
"I know that."
Grayson let out a long, shaky breath, burrowing his head into my chest again. "My Kira . . ." he murmured, "if only I could believe it, too."
"You can. In time, you will. Let that be the legacy your father leaves you. That's the perfect vengeance."
We sat that way for what seemed like a long time, me holding him until my legs beneath me began to cramp.
Grayson finally looked up at me, running his thumb over my cheekbone, and murmured, "Would it ruin the moment to tell you I want to take you upstairs and fuck you until I can't see straight?"
I laughed softly. "I'm at your service. But first, let's make some coffee and get you sobered up. You're going to feel like hell tomorrow. And we have a long day of monkey shopping to do."
Grayson let out a laugh that ended on a half groan/half sigh. "Okay," he finally said. "Okay."
**********
"Grayson's not working today?" Charlotte asked, her face a study in concern.
"I don't think so. He didn't get out of bed this morning. But he needs to sleep—he drank quite a bit last night." I'd already told Walter about the mess in the cellar and he had cleaned it up, taking inventory of the bottles Grayson hadn't smashed. Maybe the monkey was a little over the top, but I was serious about the parrot.
"Perhaps I should go up and talk to him . . ." Charlotte said.
I nodded. "Later, Charlotte, he needs to sleep. But I'm sure he'd appreciate what you have to say. He seems so," I chewed on my lip for a moment, "grief-stricken."
"I'm sure that's exactly what he is," she said. She shook her head sadly. "And he can't be happy with me, nor with Walter . . ."
"He'll come around."
Charlotte nodded, but her look was doubtful and her lack of confidence only served to make me more nervous. She seemed so distraught that I gave her a hug. "He's going to be okay," I said. But my tone lacked conviction, even to my own ears. The lost look in his eyes when I'd left the room this morning had sent a chill through my blood.
And there was the fact that I was keeping something from him, too. In the beginning, it hadn’t seemed like information that needed sharing. But then everything had happened so quickly . . . and now, it was a secret between us and I knew I needed to tell him, but I didn't know how he'd react. He was still on such emotionally unstable ground. How many secrets could he process right now? How much pain could a person handle before they broke?
It's me again, Gram. If you could send me some wisdom . . . what do I do?
Charlotte pulled me from my worried reverie. "Gray got a call this morning that his bottle labels are ready," she said. "I guess I'll go into town and pick those up for him."
"I'll take care of it. I need to get out for a little bit anyway. I feel like I'm breathing down Grayson's neck. He probably needs a little time to process everything on his own. I don't want to get in the way of that. If he does come down, will you text me?"
"Yes, of course, dear. See you soon."
I drove into town, going straight to the small print shop where Grayson had ordered labels for the wine about to be bottled. The woman at the front desk brought the box out to me and then ran my bankcard, frowning slightly at the machine. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawthorn, it says your card is declined."
"What? That can't be right," I said. There was plenty of money in that account. "Will you try it again?" She did, with the same result, looking uncomfortable.
Despite the chill that went down my spine, I shook my head. "My husband probably bought something and didn't tell me. I'll have to stop in at the bank. Men."
She chuckled softly. "It's happened to me before, too. Do you want me to try another card?"
I didn't have another card. I dug in my purse, counting out the money I had. Thankfully, I had quite a bit. I'd taken out cash to tip all the vendors at the party several weeks ago, but Grayson had given Walter the cash for that, so I hadn't used what was in my wallet. It was all still there. I counted out the money for the bill and handed it over, thanking her, and leaving the shop with the box of labels.
Placing it in the trunk, I got in my car and drove straight to the bank. The feeling of panic that had swept through me inside the print shop was now a full-blown case of buzzing nerves. My heart pounded in my chest as if it understood something terrible was about to happen. Oh God, please let this be some strange misunderstanding, a bank error, anything. Please, please . . .
I parked, took a moment to take deep, calming breaths, and walked to the bank. Thankfully, it was practically empty, and I approached a teller without having to wait. When I told her why I was there, she looked up my account and frowned at the screen. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawthorn. It appears there's been a hold put on y
our account." Oh God.
"A hold?" I squeaked. "Does it give a reason why?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. You should receive something in the mail if your account is being garnished or if there's another legal reason for the hold."
My heart was beating so rapidly, I had trouble catching my breath. "Are you able to check my husband's account?" I asked. "Just to tell me if there's been a hold placed on his as well?"
"Well . . ."
"Please," I said, "I don't want any other information. I know it's only in his name. Just if you could . . ." I drew in a sharp breath, panic overwhelming me for a moment. I brought my hand to my chest. "I'm sorry."
The older woman smiled sympathetically. "Let me just . . ." She began typing on her computer. She frowned again. "Yes, it appears the same hold has been put on his account as well."
"Thank you," I said, the contents of my stomach coming up my throat. I swallowed heavily. "I appreciate it very much."
I turned to walk away and she called after me, "I'm sure it will be cleared up, Mrs. Hawthorn."
I turned my head, but kept walking. No, no it wouldn't. Oh God. "Yes, I'm sure. Thank you."
I walked briskly to my car, my skin cold and prickly, and once I was seated behind the wheel, I pulled my phone out, dialing my father's number.
He answered on the third ring. "What have you done?"