Snippet from Chapter 4…
LIAM
Don’t get involved.
Just get through the day, get back to Vancouver, get back to life.
“Dad,” I say, kneeling next to him as he holds onto the glass without drinking, condensation forming around his fingers.
He says nothing, eyes unfocused.
“Dad,” I repeat, touching his leg.
He looks at my hand, then at my eyes, searching.
“We have to go to the tasting room. Everyone’s there, waiting for you.”
He nods, then tries to stand, but stumbles forward. I catch him, then help him sit back down. I can’t let him go up there. Not like this. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit. Rest up. I’ll come check on you later?”
He nods once more, visibly relaxing. “Here, take Paul.”
He hands me the bottle containing Paul’s remains, the glass warm from his embrace, before lying down on the couch and closing his eyes. I stand, eyeing my dad. He’s clearly having a hard time, having lost a good friend, a great manager. He’s overwhelmed, and, judging by the mess in the house, he’s been too busy to do the bare minimum of cleaning.
I know he needs to rest, but I can’t help but clench my jaw as I walk out of the house toward the tasting room. He invites me here, knowing full well I can’t stand anything about Summerland, knowing I avoid it at all costs, to be there for a funeral—sorry, ‘celebration of life’— for a man I barely knew. And now I have to go lead the reception, all on my own.
Great. Just great.
I round the corner and climb up a steep incline, past some overgrown hazelnut trees, and enter the tasting room through the back. It’s unlocked. Dad must have forgotten in his rush this morning. I’m uneasy as I enter, checking out the storage room with the varietals we serve. There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss, though I haven’t really spent much time in here. Someone could have come in and robbed us blind. I rub my temple against an impending headache, and walk through the next door into the tasting room.
The building is past its prime and in need of an update, though it still has some charm. The high ceilings boast thick wood beams interposed between hanging chandeliers. Many of the bulbs are burnt out, but the huge glass patio doors provide enough light. The long bar is dull, in need of lacquer. I cross the room, my shoes echoing off the well-worn wooden floors, and open the sliding glass doors to the wide covered deck with a view of the grape vines and lake at the bottom of the valley, my family home far on the left.
Both Grandpa and Great-grandpa would roll over in their graves if they saw the state of disrepair everything is in. That is, if they had graves. Instead, their ashes are scattered through the vineyard, enriching the soil.
I turn, hands on my hips. The tables are all set up and ready for the catering I’d arranged on my drive up here. I did my best, but really, Dad should have hired someone to help him instead of burdening me with it. He’s a disorganized mess, which is so unlike him.
My eyes narrow. The place is empty. Dad and I were the last ones to leave. Where is everyone? I walk to the front door and open it to see a crowd out in the parking area.
Leaving the door open, I approach the group, squinting in the sunlight.
A short woman with curly blonde hair in jeans and an inappropriately tight white tank top is pouring beer from a pitcher into red solo cups, as if this is a frat party. Tattoos cover the entirety of her right arm. Her shirt has a logo on it, some sort of weird frog with a beard. Hoppy Hippie, what? Behind her, where there used to be a beautiful view of the valley and the nearby town, is now blocked by the eyesore of stacked train carts, a logo matching her shirt on the side. A bright banner flaps in the wind, reading: Grand Opening Today!
My anger spikes. Pitching her beer at someone’s funeral? The audacity! I step past people, getting closer. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
She flinches, nearly spilling her beer. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Who do you think you are?”
Her back straightens and she forces a smile. “I’m from the Hoppy Hippie Brew Company, across the way. Would you like a sample?” She holds up a cup.
“This is completely inappropriate. I could make a call and have your liquor license revoked for having left your property with open alcohol.”
Her face blanches as she turns away, apparently not having thought about that. I’m one step behind her, arm out, escorting her back to where she came from.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” she mutters once we’re out of earshot of everyone else. “It’s just a free sample.”
I pause. “What did you say to me?”
She doesn’t break her stride. “You heard me.”
At the edge of the highway she stops, waiting for a pause in traffic. I stand next to her to make sure she actually crosses instead of turning back around to sell her swill to my mourning guests. Her blonde hair is being whipped around by the gusts of wind caused by passing traffic. I recognize her. “You’re the idiot I nearly ran into!”
She scoffs at me over her shoulder. “You’re the asshole in the Mercedes who nearly ran me over.”
“It’s a Porsche,” I correct. “I don’t even know how someone could mistake a Porsche and a Mercedes. They look nothing alike.”
The noise of a passing semi-truck makes it hard to hear her, but I can read her lips as she calls me an entitled prick.
“You’re the one badgering people at a funeral to buy your beer.”
Her mouth drops open, brown eyes wide. “This is a funeral? I’m sorry, I didn’t—” a blaring horn cuts her off.
“What?”
“I didn’t know!” She yells again, face red. More horns are honking; we’re making the drivers nervous being so close to the road. “My brewery’s grand opening is today and I thought they were my guests, and—”
“Hurry up, there’s a break in traffic,” I interrupt. “Just get back to that pile of junk you call a brewery and stay on your side of the road.”
She scowls, then raises her chin into the air and marches across the road without so much as looking both ways. Jesus Christ, she didn’t even think to double check.
Once she gets across the busy highway she drops her stack of red solo cups, turns to face me, and chugs the remainder of her pitcher while raising her free hand in a middle finger.
I can’t help but smile at her brazen display.
What a ridiculous woman. She won’t last one season out here.
