Page 12
“No,” I reply.
“I questioned the expense, but Sofia asked whether I wanted our clients drinking premium Cabernet beneath fluorescent lights.” Reid’s mouth curves with the memory. “I made the mistake of suggesting the candles were unnecessary.”
“A tactical error,” I observe.
“I recognized that after she removed my name from the dessert list.” Reid turns to the next page. “I approved the candles.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. Reid has known me too long to comment, which is another reason I trust him. “A wise decision.”
The familiar rhythm of work helps place the past behind the doors where I keep it. We approve revised shipping contracts and review the guest list for Saturday. Most names belong to distributors and clients I have met before. One Seattle bank has purchased an invitation through a corporate partner.
I circle the blank spaces. “Get the names before Saturday.”
“Tessa is handling it.” Reid gathers the completed reports into a neat stack. “We meet with hospitality at ten, production at eleven, and the chef at noon. Sofia says your approval is required, though we both know she has chosen the menu.”
“She told me the same,” I say.
“You should act surprised when she presents it as your decision.” Reid leans back and widens his eyes in an exaggerated display of astonishment. “Perhaps gasp when you see the dessert.”
“She would know I was mocking her,” I reply.
“She would, but I would enjoy watching you try.” Reid grins as he rises, then his expression softens when he pauses beside the table. “Call Elena tonight.”
“I will,” I promise.
He searches my face, perhaps deciding whether my answer is sufficient. “Misha would be proud of what you built here.”
The words enter a place I don’t permit many people to reach. I look through the windows behind him, across the winery roofs and the golden vineyard beyond. Workers move between the rows while the morning sun burns away the remaining mist. Everything below us carries my family’s name, but Misha is woven through it too. Without him, I would never have entered the life that kept me away. Without his death, I might never have understood how completely that life could consume me.
“He would complain that I make terrible wine and drink the most expensive bottle,” I say.
Reid smiles. “He would take two bottles.”
“Three, if Elena wasn’t watching,” I correct him.
“There he is,” Reid says, and the gentleness beneath the words tells me he’s not speaking about Misha.
I give him a look that sends most employees back to work. Reid has known me too long for it to succeed, but he leaves without another comment and closes the office door behind him.
The room becomes still after his departure. On my desk, the day waits in contracts, messages, and decisions. Through the windows, harvest continues with no concern for memory. The grapes are ready when they’re ready, and waiting because today is difficult would waste a year of work.
That truth is one reason I’ve always understood vines better than grief.
I pick up my phone and find Elena Gusev’s number. It’s too early to call, so I create a reminder for seven, then turn the screen face down beside the reports. There are flowers in her house because her son is dead, and there’s an empire outside my window because I lived.
No financial report can make those facts balance.
I can’t change the past, and I stopped expecting it to show me mercy years ago. All I can do is call Elena tonight, walk the vines again tomorrow, and keep building the life Misha never had the chance to live. Remembering him has never been the difficult part. Living with the fact that I survived is.
3
CASSIE
By the time Seattle rises around us in towers of glass and glowing windows, my shoulders ache from gripping the steering wheel, and Murphy has expressed his opinion of interstate travel in every language available to an angry cat. Rain freckles the windshield, and evening traffic crawls beneath streetlights that turn the pavement gold. Connor has been out of contact for over a day, whether I arrive at seven fifteen or midnight, but my brain refuses to accept that time can’t fix this.
Birdie twists toward the back seat, where Murphy fills a carrier designed for an animal half his size. “We’re almost there,” she tells him in the soothing voice people use with babies and unstable men holding weapons. “Then you can pee, eat, and begin planning our deaths in comfort.”
Murphy answers with a low, miserable howl. I glance at him in the mirror and tighten my fingers around the wheel. “He’s going to hold this against me until Christmas.”
