Page 5 of Let It Breathe
Jed laughed. “Sir,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I can’t get over that. Yeah, the bike tours have gotten pretty big. We’ll have three dozen people out with us at the height of summer.”
“No kidding?”
“Nope. The winery’s booming. June’s still managing the business end, of course, and Eric’s still making great wine for us. Larissa’s doing marketing, and we’ve got Reese running the vineyard full-time now.” He grinned. “She’s got plans to make Sunridge the next big thing in Oregon wine country.”
“And she’s succeeding?”
Jed nodded with fondness and leaned back in his seat. “Ever known Reese not to succeed at something she put her mind to?”
“No, sir,” Clay said, though he knew damn well Reese would disagree. After all, her marriage to Eric hadn’t gone according to plan.
A marriage you never should have let happen, dumbass.
Clay cleared his throat, forcing his brain not to venture down that path. “How’s Grandpa Albert doing?” he asked, hoping like hell the old man was still alive.
“He goes by Axl now.”
“Axl?”
“It’s his street name. He got it in prison a few years ago.”
“Prison?”
Jed shrugged. “He only did a few weeks. Got caught trafficking drugs, but they let him off easy since he was just selling counterfeit Viagra to a rival biker gang.”
“Isn’t he in his late seventies?”
“Just turned eighty last week, but that hasn’t slowed him down much. Actually, would you mind keeping an eye out for him and flagging him down when he gets here?”
“Uh—sure.”
“Thanks,” Jed said, standing up and clapping Clay on the shoulder. “I need to chat with the chef about the catering for a wine event in a few weeks. You’ll recognize Axl when you see him.”
“No problem.”
Jed hurried away, and Clay directed his attention to the front of the restaurant. The instant he turned, the door burst open to reveal an old man in aviator sunglasses and a black leather jacket. Spotting Clay, Grandpa Albert gave a start of surprise, then swaggered over to the table and eyeballed him.
“Well, well, well,” he said, dropping into the seat beside Clay and running a hand through his wispy white hair. “If it isn’t the guy who face-planted in my granddaughter’s wedding cake.”
“Hello, sir.”
“And got arrested for pissing in the ashtray at Finnigan’s.”
Clay squirmed in his seat. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“And plowed down a row of Reese’s thirty-year-old Zin vines on a riding mower.”
“You’re really looking good, sir.”
Albert pulled off the aviator sunglasses—bifocals, Clay realized—and looked at him. “I always liked you.”
Clay hadn’t seen that coming. He swallowed, wondering when the lump had formed in his throat. “Thank you. I always liked you, too.”
“Of course you did. Everyone does. So where the hell you been? I thought you and Eric and Reese were the Three Musketeers for life, and then you up and left.”
Clay cleared his throat. “I had some things to straighten out.”
“Damn right you did. Where’d you go for rehab, Bellmont Health System?”
