Page 9 of A Vintage of Regret
Riley went still, gaze locked on the distant snowcapped peaks, a couple of tears dripping down her cold cheeks. "My brother called earlier. He left a message, but I haven't listened to it or called him back yet," she managed as the tears dribbled unchecked down her neck. She sat down hard on a nearby boulder, the phone pressed tight to her ear. "He was healthy. He worked every day. He was?—"
"I know," Bryson said gently. "I keep telling myself the same thing."
Silence stretched between them. She wiped the dampness on her face as she continued to stare at the mountains. She'd always loved being outdoors. She didn't care where it was, as long as it was outside. She’d shared that passion with her father and with Bryson. They were all in love with the earth. The land. But she wanted the world. And Byson wanted the vines.
The irony wasn’t lost on her—here she was, surrounded by some of the most beautiful wilderness she’d ever seen, and all she could think about was how her father would never see another sunrise over a mountain peak. He’d taught her to appreciate the way the light played across granite and snow. She’d spent twelve years chasing the same light in foreign places, thinking there’d always be time to share new discoveries with him. Now there was nothing but silence where his voice should’ve been.
“Riley? Are you there?”
She blinked, realizing she’d been lost in her thoughts. “Yeah, sorry,” she managed.
“You okay?”
“I was just thinking about Dad. About how he used to take me hiking in Santa Cruz.” The memory hit her with an unexpected force—his patient voice explaining which peaks were which, how he’d let her set the pace even when her sort legs meant they’d barely made it a mile. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe…”
“What can I do for you?” Bryson asked.
“I need to call my brother, but before I do that, is there anything else you can tell me?”
"I honestly don't know much," Bryson said. "The medical examiner hasn't released the body yet. I think they’re deciding whether there’s a need for an autopsy."
"Dad never did like doctors much." She swiped at her cheek. "Always said that surgeons and medical examiners had to be sociopaths because it's not normal to want to cut into the human body."
Bryson chuckled. "That certainly sounds like something Sean would say."
"Has my family started on any funeral planning yet?" Riley asked.
"I think so," Bryson said. "But Grant and I still can't stand the sight of each other, so I'm not really sure. I'm happy to ask, though. That is, if you want me to."
She sighed. "I need to call him back anyway." Riley closed her eyes. "I'll book a flight back as soon as I get off the phone."
"I can pick you up at the airport if you text me your plans," Bryson offered. "And—if you don't want to stay with your family—you can stay at the winery. The guesthouse has been remodeled. Plenty of room."
"I appreciate it," she said quickly, "but I'll book a room at Stone Bridge Inn on Main Street."
"Of course," he said, though his voice sounded faintly disappointed. "Just figured I'd offer, and that offer stands if you change your mind. Just say the word."
Riley rubbed a hand over her face. Speaking to him again made her ache in places she thought had long since gone numb.
"I wasn't sure I should call you," Bryson admitted after a beat. "But… well, your brother and I had words. I knew things between the two of you were still strained, just wasn’t sure how bad it was."
"I've never gone home, and they hold that against me. I suppose I can't blame them for that," she said. The familiar burn of being the family outsider settled in her chest like an old wound. "We just can't ever get past hello without a fight happening. Thanks for calling me."
"You're welcome." His voice softened. "It was good hearing your voice again, Ry."
She flinched at the nickname. Not many people used it. Her mother hated it. Forbid the family from using it. Said it made her sound like a boy, and God forbid Riley be a tomboy, which she'd been her entire life. Her dad almost always called her Ry, and so had Bryson—he’d grown up using it. It wasn't until they'd become teenagers that he started using her full name.
"Ry?" Bryson hesitated. "Can I ask you something a little awkward and perhaps uncomfortable?"
She braced herself. In her experience, questions that came with disclaimers were never actually questions at all—they were something else entirely wrapped in politeness. "Okay," she said.
"The last few weeks or so, your dad seemed quiet and distant. We didn't have as many morning coffees or even glasses of wine. But the night before he died, he reached out and asked if we could meet in the vineyard early the next morning. He said he needed to speak to me about something important.” There was a hitch in his voice. “Was there something going on with him? Did I miss something?"
The question slipped through her like a blade.
Riley stood, heart pounding now for a different reason. She had to agree that her dad had been a little off during their last few conversations. When they had the opportunity to FaceTime, he looked tired. Worn. Or maybe worried. "I don't know. Are you concerned about something? Is there something you’re not telling me?"
"No. No. It's nothing like that. It's just that I spent a lot of time with Sean since he started working for me. He loved being out in the vineyard in the early morning, and we'd often walk through the vines, chatting about this or that. Lately, I felt like he was somewhere else. Preoccupied. And while he was still working a lot, he’d shifted his focus. Worked different hours.Came in later. I thought, because he'd left the Stone Bridge Revitalization Committee, that either he'd work more or retire altogether. But neither of those things happened. I don't know, but something just felt… off."
