Page 80 of A Vintage of Regret
“Sarah, Patrica, Quinn,” Bryson said. “Shall I go on?”
“Stop it.” His father’s voice was deep, steady, impossible to ignore. “You boys are acting like toddlers. This wouldn’t be the first time we considered someone with a questionable past. And might I remind you, that one is working out.”
“Mommy! Mommy!” Willa’s voice came from somewhere down the hall. “I can’t find my favorite hair tie. I need my favorite hair tie.”
“I know I should teach her that any hair tie will do, but pick my battles, right?” Erin was gone before anyone could answer.
“I should go help Elsa in the kitchen.” His mother kissed his dad’s cheek. “There are leftovers in the fridge for lunch.”
“Thanks, Ma.” Devon snagged his cell and was out the door—to call Emery, no less. Freaking wonderful. But that was a problem for future Bryson.
“Let’s take this to the study. Harlan and Declan, the private investigator, will be here any minute, and I’d rather not talk over cold eggs,” his dad said. “This conversation deals with Grant’s case, but if Harlan doesn’t mind if Bryson and Riley are there, then neither do I.”
“I doubt he will.” Grant nodded. “I’ve discussed with him how I’d rather this family is in the know. Too many secrets, lies, and half-truths have torn us apart.”
“All right then. Let’s go.” Walter waved his hand.
Bryson snagged a tray of mugs and the pot of fresh coffee that Elsa had brought in near the end of breakfast and followed the crowd down the hallway toward the study, glancing at the pictures on the wall, noting the mix of Boone-Callahan history.
Pictures of his great-grandparents with Riley’s. And then there was his dad with Sean. But what struck him was how many there were of him, Grant, Riley, and even Erin. It was as if they were already part of the house. Their shared history had taken a weird detour, but now it had been righted.
Bryson set the tray on the coffee table and glanced around, watching the group slip into leather chairs, grateful Riley had chosen one big enough for him to join her. He sat on the arm, and she curled up in the center.
Walter poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Grant.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug, stared at the surface like it might offer an escape, then pushed it back. “I haven’t been able to drink this since Monday.” The unspoken part hung heavy in the air.
No one rushed to fill the silence.
Bryson thought about that for a moment, letting his memory stretch over the last few days. It was odd that he hadn’t noticed it. Though he did find it strange that Grant had chosen diet soda at breakfast. But one of Bryson’s sisters drank diet soda like it was her lifeline to sanity.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Brea reappeared, ushering in Harlan and Declan West.
“Good morning, gentleman,” Bryson’s father said. “Please, help yourself to some coffee.” He waved his hand.
“Walter. Everyone.” Harlan looked as precise as always — suit pressed sharp enough to cut. A leather folio under one arm. “Some of you already know Declan, the private investigator I like to use. One of the best in the business.”
Declan, lean and sharp-eyed, moved with quiet purpose, scanning the room like he was taking mental photographs before sitting down. “You must be Grant.”
“That would be me.” Grant waved his hand.
Declan opened a notebook, his tone calm, measured. “I like to get straight to the point. So, mind if we dig right in without all the formalities?”
“Please. I feel like I’ve been in limbo for years, not days.” Grant sighed.
“All right. While I believe this is good news for Grant, it’s not necessarily good news for the family.” Declan shuffled a few pieces of paper around.
“What the hell does that mean?” Riley asked.
“Let him talk,” Harlan said, his tone soft.
“Parker and Elizabeth are asset-rich but cash-poor. Between Parker’s cancer treatments, the trials, and Elizabeth’s spending habits, they were in the red a year ago.”
Bryson saw Riley’s shoulders tense, her eyes narrowing just slightly—a reaction most people would miss, but Bryson knew her better than most. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means, they’re struggling,” his father said. “They have things, but not the means to pay for them, or live the way they are.”
“My mother made it sound like the money she invested in the Ponzi scheme didn’t affect them too badly,” Grant added, his fists at his side. “I told her if she needed help, I was there, but she brushed it off as if it were nothing. Pocket change, she called it.”
