Grayson's Vow

by Mia Sheridan

  "Charlotte," I called. She halted at the wide archway that separated the living room from the foyer, looking back at me. "Have the police been by? Or called?"

  "No," she said, and turned and walked toward the kitchen. I wondered why she wasn't curious about why I'd asked that question. Perhaps she just couldn't take on one more issue right now. Neither could I, and yet, apparently, fate had other plans for me.

  I downed the two pills Charlotte had left, and then went upstairs and showered, letting the hot spray soothe my sore muscles. After I dressed, I went into the guest bedroom across the hall to look out at the grapevines beyond. The equipment and the men were still there. Fools! It was all a waste of time.

  I went and flopped down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan, the one I'd stared at in wonder so many nights after Kira and I had made love. Stop. Don't think of her—not right now. Was she waking up with Cooper this morning? Were they having breakfast in bed? Tortured by my own thoughts, I went to get the second bottle of Scotch. I'd drink so much I'd pickle my brain and kill all the brain cells that held memory of her.

  Charlotte was in the living room, folding the blanket I'd half slept under the night before. Glancing out the window, I muttered, "They're all wasting their time. I despise this place. Even if I had a way to make it successful, I wouldn't bother now. I'd rather tear it apart like my father did. There's only misery to be found here—misery, lies, and bad memories."

  "If that's what you believe, then I guess it's true."

  I narrowed my eyes. "I do believe it. I know it."

  "Okay."

  I pressed my lips together, angry that Charlotte could still aggravate me with only a few words.

  Apparently she wasn't done. "Walter's out there, too, you know," she said as I bent to the liquor cabinet. "I just hope his back doesn't give out. And of course, he has trouble seeing well now, too. I hope he's plucking the right grapes . . ." I halted, rolling my eyes.

  "Walter's the picture of health," I said.

  She shrugged. "I didn't mean to disturb you. You go right back to drinking yourself into oblivion. Maybe give the men a little wave now and again if you think about it. I'm sure it will boost their spirits as they do hard manual labor for less than minimum wage in the hot sun all day."

  "Jesus," I mumbled, "it's not even that hot." I was fully aware she was attempting to guilt-trip me. The truth was, maybe a day of hard labor would be a better way to clear my mind than alcohol. And at least it wouldn't leave me feeling as if there was a ten-ton boulder sitting on my head.

  "If it means not listening to you a second longer, I'll go out there and work my fingers to the bone," I grumbled.

  Charlotte shrugged, but I saw her lips curve up into a smile before she turned away.

  Damn her.

  **********

  When I came in that evening, dirty and sweat-soaked, every muscle in my body ached. Apparently, Harley had contacted every ex-con he knew in the northern hemisphere and they were all working at my vineyard. I didn't know if it would amount to anything, but the sick feeling I'd had in my stomach when I thought of the fruit I'd cared for so carefully rotting and dropping to the ground, had abated. At the very least, it would be in barrels, and I'd be able to start bottling the wine. And when I sold this vineyard, I'd get a higher price if it were a working winery and not one that was back on its way to ruin. I'd divorce Kira, make a little money off the sale of Hawthorn Vineyard, and go somewhere and do . . . something. But what? What did I know apart from winemaking? Precious little. The business degree I'd earned long ago in college was a waste now. Plus, no one wanted to hire a felon. Misery threatened. The thoughts that had taken a backseat in my mind as I'd worked all day were back again to torture me.

  I took a quick shower and started to head downstairs, pausing in front of the room Kira had stayed in before she'd moved into what I still thought of as our room. Pain squeezed my heart as I looked around the empty space. I opened the closet, but she hadn't left anything behind. Pulling the top drawer of the dresser open, I discovered two forgotten nightshirts. Shamefully, I brought them to my nose and inhaled, breathing in the lingering scent of her, sweet and delicate. I held back the tormented groan that rose in my throat and placed them back where they'd been. That's when I spotted what looked like a small ring box. I picked it up and opened it slowly, inhaling a deep gulp of air when I saw a platinum men's wedding band. I pulled it from the dark blue velvet and held it up to the light.

  My Dragon. My Love.

  The words inscribed inside the ring felt like a blow to my already aching heart. I stood there for what felt like a long time, confusion swirling through me. Finally, I put the ring back in the box and placed it in the drawer, heading downstairs to greet Harley, Virgil, and José who Charlotte had asked to stay for dinner. They were just arriving, all looking dirty, tired, but somehow happy. Guilt piled on top of my heartache. Despite all their work, in the end, I wouldn't be able to offer them much. They'd have to find a job somewhere else.

  Fist-bumping Harley, I thanked him again.

  "Man, you didn't think I'd stop looking out for you just because we're on the outside now, did you?" He smiled, massaging his tanned, beefy arms. I was sure he was as sore as me, maybe more. He'd been working since sunrise.

  "I don't deserve it, Harley," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

  "Maybe, maybe not. That's not for me to judge. I only know who my friends are, and I help my friends. Owe you my life—owe Kira my life, too. Anything either of you ask, and I'm all in."

  I cleared my throat, emotion suddenly surprising me. I was just so damned tired.

  "My woman feels the same, too. You got me?"

  "Uh . . ."

  Harley chuckled. "Priscilla's one hell of a woman." He grinned.

  Virgil lumbered in, interrupting us. "Hey Virgil," I said. Sugie was behind him.

  "Hi, Mr. Hawthorn, sir." He smiled happily. "Picking grapes, making wine."

  I smiled back. "Thank you, Virgil." I reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "You're a good man."

  "José," I greeted when he, too, came through the door. "Let's eat."

  As we headed toward the kitchen, Walter was coming down the stairs. He didn't look well, and the fact that he’d worked all day for me caused a wave of guilt to consume me. Christ, he was twice my age. I frowned as he grabbed for the railing, bringing one hand to his chest. "Walter?" I asked.

  He made a choking sound and pitched forward. I lunged for him, breaking his fall with my body. I heard Charlotte cry out behind me and struggled to sit upright with Walter's weight on top of me.

  "Turn him over," I heard Harley instruct and Walter's weight was quickly lifted off me.

  Everything seemed to slow, voices coming from underwater, the sound of my heart thumping loudly in my ears. I heard José on the phone with 911 as I kneeled over Walter. He was gasping for air, his hand still over his heart as Charlotte and I kneeled over him. "Help's coming," I croaked, my chest filled with fear.

  Charlotte was crying silently as she rubbed his hair. He seemed to be trying to say something, first to her and then to me, but no words were emerging, only gasps and grunts for air. Finally, he reached for my hand, squeezing it tightly in his as he choked out, "Like . . . my . . . own son."

  My heart squeezed so tightly in my chest that I gasped for air myself.

  "Don't talk," Charlotte said. "And don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare, you stubborn old goat."

  Walter let out one final gasp and collapsed, only to lie still and silent. Panic prickled my skin. My breath came out in sharp exhales. I heard one word being repeated again and again. "No, no, no." I finally realized it was my own terrified voice pleading the word like a desperate prayer.

  **********

  The hospital room was dim and silent, the early glow of dawn filtering through the blinds, the steady beat of Walter's heart being sung by the heart monitor next to where he lay. I sat hunched over in a chair next to his bed, my elbows on my knees, m
y head in my hands. Charlotte had gone home several hours ago to rest and feed Sugie. She'd wanted to spend the night, but there wasn't an extra bed anywhere in the hospital and it wasn't likely Walter would wake during the night, even though he was now stable. So I'd volunteered to stay, telling her my back was younger, and I'd call her if he woke before she arrived in the morning.

  Bringing one hand to the back of my neck, I massaged the tight muscles.

  "I hope you don't mind me saying," I snapped my head up at Walter's voice, "that you look like hell, sir."

  I released a breath. "When has what I minded ever made a bit of difference with you, Walter?" I asked, attempting to conceal the grin that wanted to break free.

  "Never," he admitted.

  I stood up and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table next to his bed and helped him hold the cup as he took several long drinks. Laying his head back on the pillow, he regarded me. I sat back down on the chair and pulled it a bit closer to his bed. Pulling out my phone, I said, "It's just like you to pull dramatics like you did last night. I'll let Charlotte know—"

  "Wait just a few minutes," Walter said, his voice serious as he held his hand up. I paused and then put my phone away. "I didn't go to all that dramatic trouble to have you walk out of here without hearing me out."

  I gave him a small, wry smile, but nodded my head. "Okay. Fine then."

  For a moment, Walter didn't say anything. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. "When I was lying at the bottom of the stairs, you know what I kept thinking?" I shook my head. "I kept thinking, please don't let me leave this world without telling that boy how I feel about him."

  "Walter—" I said, running my hand through my hair, emotion rising in my chest. I'd never discussed feelings with Walter.

  "We had a son," he said, clearing his throat as his voice broke subtly on the word son.

  I tilted my head. "What? You never said—"

  "No, it's difficult for us to speak of Henry. We lost him when he was just a baby. Charlotte, she . . . grieved terribly, as did I."

  "I'm sorry, Walter," I said hoarsely. He nodded. I’d seen that sadness in his eyes before today. I’d seen that face every time my father had dished out his punishments—most of them cold and all of them hurtful. All this time, Walter had cared so deeply about how I'd been treated, and I’d never known of his and Charlotte’s loss.

  "We couldn't have more children after that. Being there, in the home where we'd had him, became unbearable. And so," he took a deep breath, "we decided to come here, to America, to begin a new life. We started working for your family and we found a bit of happiness again. And then, one day, a knock came at the door and there you were. Despite the way Ford and Jessica Hawthorn reacted, to Charlotte and me, to us, you were our gift, and you have been every day since. Not a day has gone by when we haven't been proud of you. I want you to know that."

  "Walter—" My voice broke.

  "We couldn't always be there, and we couldn't always intervene, because we feared your father would send us away and we'd be no good to you at all, but we did all we could to let you know . . . that you weren't alone—not then, and not now. Not ever. We only withheld the true motive of your father’s bequest because we love you and tried to bear that terrible burden for you as long as we could. We didn't do it out of dishonesty. We did it out of love. I hope you can come to understand."

  I sat back in the chair, allowing his words to flow through my heart. Of course I'd always known—Walter and Charlotte were more my parents than my actual father and stepmother had ever been. But . . . what if Walter and Charlotte were wrong and he wasn't? "What if he was right about me, Walter?" I choked, voicing my deepest, darkest fear.

  "Your father?"

  "Yes," I whispered harshly. "All of them."

  "Is that what you think? That Charlotte and I were wrong about you, but Ford Hawthorn was right? Your mother? Jessica?"

  "I . . ." I pictured Walter in his old-fashioned black swimsuit teaching me to swim, saw him leading me through the maze as we counted steps and learned turns, saw Charlotte wringing her hands when she knew I was hurting, thought about all the wise advice she'd imparted to me through the years, all the love she'd readily given.

  "Perhaps," Walter said, "you're also asking because you wonder which category your wife belongs in.”

  Walter had always known everything, before I ever told him. I don’t know why I thought this situation would be any different. "I . . . yes. I just, I don’t know if I can trust her."

  He regarded me for several moments. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose you never actually have to find out if you never truly take the risk. I suppose you could haunt the halls of Hawthorn Vineyard like a ghost, clanking around in chains of your own making and scaring little children at the windows."

  I let out a small laugh that ended on a sigh.

  "Do you know why I call you sir? Why I've always called you sir?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  "As a reminder that you're worthy of respect, and you always have been."

  "Thank you, Walter," I said, choked with gratitude for his presence in my life.

  "What does your heart tell you?"

  I looked down, thinking about the ring I’d found in the drawer. My Dragon. My Love. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I love you, she’d said, and yet I’d thrown her out. Despair and doubt swirled in my gut. I’d called her a conniving schemer, made accusations that didn't even seem rational anymore, not given her any chance to explain more fully than she had. And yet, if I was willing to believe her, that seeing me in the bank that day was really just a stroke of fate, could I really blame her for not coming into my office that first day and telling me her father had been responsible for my overly harsh sentence? Hadn’t I started out mistrusting her, too? Hadn’t we both decided our relationship would only be temporary? And if I truly listened to my heart as Walter was suggesting, didn't it tell me it would be just like Kira to see sharing money with me as a way to make up for the injustice her father had done in my case? As if that had been her fault at all.

  From the moment I'd met her, she'd fought me tooth and nail. Not to bring me down, though—to elevate. To restore in me a semblance of hope, of joy. The party, her costume, all telling me she believed in me, that she wanted me restored in the eyes of others and in the eyes of myself. She had seen my worth, and she had told me in a hundred different ways.

  Oh Jesus. What I knew to be the truth flowed through my veins like hot molten guilt, eating away at my insides. I’d been a mess that day, willing to believe everyone I trusted had or would eventually betray me. Seeing her with Cooper and then hearing her confession had been the confirmation of that fear. In some sick sense, I’d wanted to believe the worst of her. Kira was like a brightly shining light, and I had been living in cold darkness for so very, very long. It felt as if my soul had been peeking out, desperate to feel the warmth of her love, and yet so afraid of the agony of withdrawing back into darkness again when she inevitably left and took the sunshine with her. So instead, at the first doubt, I'd turned away from her before she could turn away from me. I'd been unwilling to believe she loved me, even when she'd said it and even though she'd demonstrated her love for me again and again. Yes, I had been ridiculously irrational . . . cold and cruel, sinking so low as to use her deepest insecurities against her. She was a beautiful, tender, twenty-two-year-old girl, and I'd watched as her spirit had broken right in front of me—that bright light I loved so much had grown dim before my eyes. Torment spiked through me. I’d thrown her out without a cent to her name. God, for all I knew, my wife had been sleeping in her damn car. No wonder she’d gone to Cooper. What other choice would she have had? Shame and self-hatred gripped me with an intensity that almost left me breathless.

  When the time had actually come for me to make a choice, to trust her or to push her away, I had pushed her away.

  Surrender, my boy.

  Only, in the end, I hadn't been
able to. Not fully. I had failed her. I had failed myself.

  And then a realization came to me that did steal my breath. She could very well be carrying my child. We’d made love twice with no protection whatsoever. "I pushed her away," I said miserably. "I said cruel, heartless things to her. Even if I . . . she’ll never forgive me. I don't even know if I can forgive myself. There's no hope."

  Walter, the man who had acted as my hero again and again, regarded me silently for several moments before he closed his tired-looking eyes. I went to stand, to leave the room so he could sleep, when his voice came from behind me. "I think you'll find, that where there is real love, there is always real hope."

  **********

  I got home later that afternoon, the men Harley had rounded up still hard at work in the vineyards. I went down and greeted them all, intending to update Harley on Walter's prognosis. It looked good. He'd need a stent put in, but his doctor assured us the surgery was straightforward, and that Walter would most likely be home in just a few days. But when I asked about Harley, one of the guys told me he'd shown up for a short while and then left saying he'd be around later in the day.

  I went back to the house to shower and join them at the winemaking facility where José was overseeing the equipment usage. I was bone weary, but there was no way I was going to leave the men out there to work without me. I could sleep later. And maybe, while I was working, something would come to me regarding a way to win my wife back. Because Lord knew, I had no idea what to do right now other than falling to my knees and begging for her forgiveness.

  After showering, I went down to the kitchen and started brewing a pot of coffee. I flicked on the television while I waited and froze when I saw Cooper Stratton's face on the screen. Grabbing the remote off the counter, I fumbled with it as I attempted to turn up the volume. The newscaster was mid-sentence once I'd finally succeeded.