Page 71 of Code Name: Atticus
The front door opened before we reached it, and Leslie Finch emerged, looking much as I remembered—same sharp cheekbones as her son, silver hair that had been darker years ago, wearing jeans and a pottery-stained apron.
“Brenna!” She pulled me into a hug before I could offer her the flowers. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”
“Hi, Leslie. Thank you for having me.”
“You’ve always been welcome here. I’m just glad Mason finally talked you into visiting.” She winked at her son, who actually blushed. “By the way, your father’s in the barrel room. Go help him with something.”
“Mom—”
“Go. Brenna and I need to catch up properly.”
Atticus shot me an apologetic look before heading toward the stone building to the right of the house. Leslie linked her arm through mine and led me inside.
“Coffee? Tea? Wine?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
She bustled around the kitchen in a way that reminded me of my mom. “I have to admit, when Mason called yesterday, sayinghe was bringing you, I nearly dropped the phone. In a good way, of course.”
“It’s, um, new.”
Leslie studied me with those penetrating eyes. “Yes, and no. Your mom and I predicted you’d end up together when the boys graduated.”
Before I could process that revelation, male voices approached from outside. Atticus entered with his father.
“Brenna! So good to see you.” He pulled me into an embrace. “About time, I might add.”
“Dad—” Atticus started.
“What? It’s true.”
“Where is everybody?” a voice called from the doorway. Nicole walked in, taller than I remembered, with Atticus’ coloring.
“Brenna!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. “God, it’s been years.” Joslyn was right behind her, and after we embraced, they introduced their husbands.
“Who’s hungry?” Leslie asked, pulling things out of the refrigerator and assigning tasks to everyone. I was responsible for the salad dressing.
“The trick is the mustard,” she said as I whisked the ingredients the recipe called for, then added a dollop to my mixture. “It helps everything emulsify. Like a good relationship—you need something to bind the different elements together.”
“Mom, please don’t turn salad dressing into a metaphor,” Nicole called from across the kitchen.
“Everything’s a metaphor if you’re creative enough,” Leslie shot back.
After lunch, Atticus’father led us to the barrel room. He stopped at one and ran his hand along its curve. “Six-year-old Cabernet. It was our best year.”
“What made it special?” I asked.
He glanced at his son. “It was the year Mason came home safe from his last deployment. Every bottle from that harvest tastes like gratitude.”
Atticus shifted uncomfortably at the emotion in his dad’s voice. When he squeezed his son’s shoulder, it brought tears to my eyes, remembering how my parents and I had worried about Luke every time he deployed, then celebrated when he came home safely.
We returned outside and walked through vineyards, planted in neat rows. M stopped periodically, motioning to vines heavy with fruit. “Almost ready for harvest,” he said, eyeing Atticus in a way that made me wonder if he wished his son had chosen to work here rather than remain in the intelligence field.
I glanced over and noticed him check his phone and scowl like he had several times before. Each time he did it and I asked what was wrong, he told me nothing. Finally, I ran out of patience. “Okay, that’s it,” I said, pulling him several feet away from his family. “What’s going on?”
“It isn’t worth ruining our day over. I promise.”
The plea in his voice made me let it go, but unease settled in my stomach.
