Page 122 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“Sort of. It wasn’t signed, but Cardona has to be suspicious, right? He’s not an idiot. So, with a confession—and probably a hunch that he might have to put his new bride and baby mama in jail—the sheriff decided the case was closed. He contacted the insurance company personally to let them know that Davis didn’t have anything to do with it. Criminal mischief yadda yadda. Anyway, they’re paying up.”
Eden scrubbed her hands over her face. At least one of them was a winner. Davis would get to fix his house, and then everything would go back to normal…
“You look like you’re sucking on a lemon,” Layla observed.
“I do not.”
“Huh. Coulda fooled me. Anyway, I’ll see you at the dance tonight.”
Eden wasn’t going to the dance. Heart-broken women didn’t dance. They stayed home, hugging the pillow that still smelled like their fake ex, and beat themselves up for being idiots.
49
“Show of hands. Who’s mapping the sidewalk wear?” Davis was at the high school organizing the second wave of volunteer crews while Eden maintained order in the park.
A ragtag group of winter-wear clad individuals raised mittened hands.
“Great. All we need to know is where the walkways need repairing on the north side of the park between Patchouli and Lavender streets. Take note of the closest address and document with pictures of the issue if possible.”
A half-dozen colorful hatted heads nodded. They’d had so many volunteers this year that Davis and Eden had—separately—put their heads together with Beckett Pierce to come up with a few new tasks. Including sending people out to document sidewalk cracks.
They were desperate.
Davis consulted his tablet. “Okay, that just leaves the work crew for the high school sheep shelter.” Blue Moon High saved money on landscaping by using grazing sheep on the school’s lawns. The sheep lived like kings and queens in a small barn behind the football field.
Another seven or eight hands raised. “Head on up to the barn, and Huckleberry Cullen will set you up with cleaning supplies,” Davis instructed them.
His group disbanded cheerfully, heading off to fulfill their civic duty.
He glanced at his watch, pleased that he still had some time before he needed to make his triumphant return to the park. Eden was going to be very surprised with what he had cooked up. And probably mad. But Davis had learned a thing or two in these past few weeks. And that was all her fault.
“Davis.”
He felt the familiar tensing of his shoulders at the voice he knew as well as his own.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” Davis welcomed his father with a one-armed hug and a clap on the back.
Ferguson looked… good. Healthy, fit, tan. He was dressed casually—for Ferguson—in a cashmere coat over pressed jeans and a thick wool sweater. His silver hair and thick, archless eyebrows had recently enjoyed their monthly trim.
“I flew home early with Bryson and your mother. And it looks like not a moment too soon.” He slappedThe Monthly Mooninto Davis’s chest. “You owe us an explanation.”
“I think that is the least of our problems,” Davis said wryly.
“You may think so, but if you willingly got mixed up with a woman who tried to burn down your house, not once but twice, I can’t help but question your judgment! By the way, we stopped by the winery first to leave our luggage. But your housewas burnt to the ground!” he finished on a shout.
“I’m sorry for lying to you, Dad. I didn’t want you to worry, and I thought I’d have it fixed by now. And you know as well as I do that Eden wasn’t responsible for either fire, Dad.”
“I know no such thing,” Ferguson snapped, his cold words coming out in an icy cloud. “I know that she’s trouble, and she’s distracting you from your work. I left the winery in your hands, Davis. The family is counting on you.”
The icy weight of responsibility and family expectations settled in Davis’s gut with an uncomfortable familiarity. His father always made him feel like a noisy kid getting in trouble for having too much fun. Ferguson may have spent the last thirty-five or so years in Blue Moon, but no amount of peace, love, and nosiness could mellow the man.
“I’m aware of what’s at stake, Dad.”
His father shook his head sadly. “I knew you weren’t ready to take the reins. I shouldn’t have let myself be pressured into it.”
“Don’t confuseyourinability to relinquish control withmybusiness acumen,” Davis said coolly.
“Acumen?” Ferguson’s flat eyebrows winged up his forehead. “Is that what you call slipping unapproved grapes into the vineyard? Or this ridiculous painting class idea? Who comes to a vineyard to paint? We sell wine! You need to listen to me, Davis.”
