A Fairbanks Affair (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance, #3)

by Katy Regnery

  Trevor

  My parents, Barbara Gibbons and Linus Schwartz, were hippies who met on a commune in Idaho in the late 1970s, married in 1982, legally changed their surname to “Starling,” and moved to Alaska, sight unseen, in 1983 with the wackadoodle idea to buy a parcel of land in Fairbanks and start the northernmost potato farm in the United States.

  Somehow, their plan went off without a hitch, and by 1995, they had three sons to add to the mix: Trevor, Basil, and Cecil, all named for my British mother’s quirky uncles, who are still alive and kicking back in England.

  As we pull up in front of their sprawling log cabin house that’s been added on to more times than I can count, I cut the engine and turn to Faye.

  “My parents are...characters.”

  “I like characters.”

  “They met on a commune.”

  “How unique.”

  “My mom’s British.”

  “One of my favorite countries.”

  “Are you fazed by anything?”

  “I try not to be, especially when it comes to business.”

  “I’m not selling,” I tell her.

  “I know,” she answers, smiling at me.

  “Infuriating,” I sigh.

  “I agree,” she says, which makes me shake my head and grin.

  “Indefatigable.”

  “Surrender is not an option,” she says in a passable English accent, unbuckling her seat belt and opening her car door.

  For years and years, my parents worked the farm mostly on their own, but now they hire a staff of six year-round employees and more during the harvest. During the wintertime, when the fields are blanketed in white, the farm itself is quiet except for the massive, bubble-covered plot of year-round earth that’s mostly tended by their employees.

  My parents aren’t expecting us today—I didn’t return my mother’s calls on Christmas Eve or Day, feeling a measure of betrayal for the way they welcomed Cez and Marlena to the farm both days—but I have brought their Christmas gifts. I pop open the trunk, and Faye joins me, peeking inside.

  “Can I help?”

  I hand her two wrapped boxes. “Sure.”

  Cradling another four boxes in my arms, I manage to elbow the button that closes the trunk and lead the way to the front porch. I knock on the door, and after a moment, my father opens it.

  “Trevor!” he exclaims, his smile wide under a bushy snow-white beard. “Barb, Trev’s here!” His eyes slip to Faye. “And he brought a girl!”

  I take a deep breath and roll my eyes. I love my father, but he is endlessly embarrassing. “Dad, this is Faye Findley, a business associate.”

  “She’s not his girlfriend!” he bellows. “She’s a business—”

  “Linus, I’m here. Stop yelling, love.”

  “—associate,” he finishes.

  “Hello darling,” says my mother, dressed in jeans and a South American–style woolen poncho. Her gray hair is wiry and wild, and she wears Birkenstock sandals with colorful striped socks that read “Love is love” in a repeat pattern. “Come in, come in. We missed you yesterday, Trevor.”

  For all that my parents are hippies-turned-farmers, my mother is still a mother, and there’s an undertone of disappointment in her voice that makes me feel guilty.

  But no. Just no. Screw that.

  “You know why I wasn’t here, Mom,” I say, following my parents down four steps and into a sunken living room dominated by a massive flagstone fireplace with a roaring fire.

  The heart of my childhood house, it’s a comfortable room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the farm, Indian rugs, overstuffed sofas that have seen better days, and the open newspapers that my parents were probably reading before we arrived. It’s lived-in and welcoming, and my parents’ very evil cat, Spud, stretches his legs on the coffee table, eyeing me and Faye lazily before closing his eyes again.

  “Spud’s still alive, huh?”

  My mother races to her “other baby” and perches on the edge of the coffee table beside him. “Spud still has a lot of good years left.”

  I place the gifts on the couch across from my mother, and Faye does the same. She’s been hovering behind me since we arrived, but now my mother’s piercing green eyes slide to her. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” says Faye, stepping forward to offer my mother her hand.

  “You are...?”

  “Mom, this is Faye Findley. She owns the largest beverage importation company in North America.”

  My mother’s eyes narrow just a touch as she holds out her hand. “Barbara Starling.”

  Faye takes her hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

  “Nice to meet you, Faye,” she answers. “Here on business?”

  “Yes,” says Faye. “I’m buying Trevor’s company.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was for sale.”

  “It’s not,” I say.

  Faye looks over her shoulder at me and smiles.

  “I see,” says my mother, and when I slide my eyes from Faye to her, I find that my mother’s expression has changed entirely. Her eyes sparkle, and her lips tilt up in a small smile as she eyes Faye with interest. Suddenly, she tilts her head to the side. “Marlena was here yesterday.”

  I sigh, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I heard.”

  “They’re having a little girl,” she shares.

  “Heard that too.”

  “How lovely for you,” says Faye, stepping back so that her shoulder brushes against my arm and she is standing directly beside me. “Your first grandchild.”

  My mother’s chin lifts just a touch as she looks at Faye, then at me, then at Faye. “Yes. We’re very excited.”

  “I’m sure,” says Faye, the back of her hand grazing the back of mine.

  I know what she’s doing, and I’m so touched by her solidarity, so surprised by her quiet support that, for the first time in months, the sting of Marlena’s pregnancy doesn’t steal my breath away. I don’t want to scream or cry or thrash at the heavens, railing on about her betrayal. I can stomach it. I can bear it. And the relief I feel is...extraordinary.

  “Marlena’s, um...healthy?” I ask.

  My mother’s eyes widen in surprise. “She is. She and the baby are both well.”

  I nod once. That’s about all the polite conversation I can handle for now, so I turn to my father. “Do any hunting yesterday, Dad?”

  “Yep. Baz came along with me for a while.”

  “Get anything?”

  “Got a deer draining in the game shed.”

  “Good for you.”

  “We missed you, son.”

  “Ping did his regular Christmas dinner. Faye came along.”

  My father looks at Faye, offering his hand to her. “I’m Linus, Faye. Trev’s old dad.”

  She reaches out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Linus.”

  “How long are you in town?”

  “A few days,” she answers.

  I realize that this is the standard answer she’s given several times now, and I wonder if she has a return ticket or not. Perhaps she hasn’t even booked a flight home yet. What surprises me is the short, quick flash of melancholy I feel thinking about her departure. Last night, I realized I needed to hasten it if I wanted her gone before Faith Crawford arrives, but right now? Standing here in my parent’s living room beside her? I hate the idea of her leaving.

  “Trevor’s showing me the distillery today, but I understand he uses potatoes grown here on your farm? For his vodka?”

  “Have you tasted it?” asks my dad, his voice brimming with pride.

  Faye chuckles. “Actually, Linus, it’s my favorite. I think it’s the best vodka on the market today.”

  My father nods in appreciation, pointing a calloused, stubby finger at the woman standing beside me. “I like you, Faye Findley!”

  My mother nods in agreement as she looks on, stroking Spud’s soft calico coat.

  Me too, I think, glancing down at her in time to catch her
deep brown eyes look up to grab mine. I like her too.

  ***

  My father gives us a short tour of the all-season garden, which is protected and climate-controlled, and my mother thanks us for visiting before we get in the car for the drive over to the North Star offices, distillery, and tasting room.

  “My parents liked you,” I tell her as we pull out of their driveway.

  “I liked them too,” she says, “though I’m sorry you didn’t get to spend Christmas with them.”

  “That was my choice,” I say. “I was welcome to join them, but I wasn’t...ready yet.”

  “That’s understandable. I’m sure you’re still hurt.”

  I take a deep breath and sigh. “Believe it or not, I’m less hurt by Marlena than by Cez. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it hurt like hell that my fiancée cheated on me with my brother, but it hurt a lot more that my brother would do that to me.”

  “I get that.”

  “She wasn’t my family, you know? She was almost my family. He was my family.”

  “Technically, he still is,” she says softly.

  I bristle against her words. “Family shouldn’t act like that.”

  “And parents shouldn’t die in plane crashes. But shit happens.”

  Surprised by the bluntness of her words, I glance over at her to find her face mostly peaceful. No tears. No self-pity. She’s stating facts, I think, not looking for sympathy.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. “About your parents.”

  “Me too.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “Do you know what I’d give for another day, another hour, with them?” Her voice is more emotional now. “I think I’d give a decade of my life for a little more time.”

  “You must have loved them very much.”

  “They weren’t perfect,” she says, “but yes, they were everything to me.” After a few minutes of silence, she says, “You still have your brother. I know he betrayed you. I know he hurt you. But...”

  “But what? Mend things? Forgive him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Believe it or not, I wish I could.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t.” I shake my head. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You have a lifetime to rebuild trust, but you can’t start rebuilding it if you refuse to be around him.” She pauses. “I’m not a perfect sister. I recently realized that I’ve been stingy with her. Keeping her safe and clothed and fed isn’t enough. She needs...love. She needs friendship. She needs family. And I’m all she has. If something happened to her? And took away the chance for me to do better? To show her how much I love her? I’d be devastated.” She takes a deep breath before continuing, and I sense she’s thinking about the loss of her parents, and I’m wondering if there was “unfinished business” between them that still weighs heavy on her heart. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m committed to doing better with Harry. Maybe we can spend more time together, have more fun together, build a friendship, be the sort of sisters who share things and support one another. I can love her better. I know I can do better.”

  The unspoken final sentence in her monologue is,

  And so can you.

  I hear the words in my head as we drive along in silence, the hum of the car’s engine filling the void.

  But our circumstances are so different! my mind insists.

  Her sister didn’t betray her.

  Her sister didn’t sleep with her fiancé and get pregnant, starting a whole new life on the scorched earth of Faye’s torched dreams.

  “I’m not sure you can compare our situations,” I say.

  “Some people would retreat here,” she says. “They’d apologize for sharing their opinion so freely, and tell you that you should do what feels right.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to do that?”

  “Because I’m not.” She gives me a grim smile. “There are different types of loss, and you’ve experienced one that’s pretty terrible. But yours—whether you choose to acknowledge it or not—is still fluid. Mine is...irreversible. Unalterable. Set in stone.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “You have both of your parents and both of your brothers still alive.”

  “And I’m furious at one of them.”

  “T, you have to make your own choices of course, but maybe—just maybe—you’ve been so consumed with anger that you haven’t looked at the situation from every angle,” she suggests. “Think of it like a flowchart. Is there any outcome wherein Cez and Marlena’s union is a ‘best case scenario’ for you?”

  I think about this for a moment, and I’m surprised by Baz’s words from two weeks ago suddenly echoing in my head:

  Are you sure you and Marlena had the healthiest relationship?

  At the time, I didn’t answer his question. I was too angry to consider it. But now I find myself thinking back to my three years with Marlena, and no, I’m not certain we had the healthiest relationship.

  Frankly, I’m not certain whatsoever.

  Marlena was constantly on my back about the hours I spent at work and was unsupportive of my ambition, even as she cheerfully spent my money.

  She worked at the hospital, yes, but she never took extra shifts or spoke about wanting to do or be more. She wasn’t passionate about her profession—it was a job, not a career—which probably made it difficult for her to understand my quasi-obsession with building North Star.

  And when she wasn’t at the hospital, she didn’t necessarily want to spend time with me; she liked having “girl time” with her friends, which included manicures, pedicures, chick flicks, and wine.

  I would’ve watched a movie with her now and then, but our preferences were so different. I would choose a documentary or drama that would have her asleep in minutes, while she would choose something silly and shallow that had me rolling my eyes internally.

  And while I would have appreciated a companion for hiking, camping, and fishing trips in the summertime, she wasn’t interested in spending time outdoors. She was a self-professed “homebody,” though from what I recall, that didn’t include cooking or cleaning or keeping a home. It mostly just seemed to include watching TV, taking long baths, and ordering takeout in said “home.”

  The sex was good, I think.

  But...was it?

  It was in the beginning.

  But as the years rolled on, she wasn’t as interested. I was always up for it, and she generally wasn’t. It always seemed like she had her period or a headache or had a troubling shift at work that she needed to “process” or that she wanted to “watch TV in peace.”

  Toward the end, when sex was off the table, I would have been happy just to cuddle with her on the sofa and watch the northern lights, but she thought that was “boring.”

  Maybe—though it didn’t occur to me at the time and stings to admit now—it was me she found boring. And maybe, though it would have brought our entire relationship crumbling down around us, I found her boring too. And a little shallow. And superficial. And lazy. And—

  Is there any outcome wherein Cez and Marlena’s union is a “best case scenario” for you?

  “Maybe,” I whisper, more to myself than to Faye.

  I pull into the parking area in front of my distillery and park in my reserved parking space.

  Maybe.

  ***

  Faye

  There is something about the shiny metal boilers, mashes, columns, and stills in any distillery operation that feels exciting to me. Almost...arousing.

  Weird? Maybe.

  But I don’t care. I can’t help it.

  Of note, Trevor Starling’s hardware is unbelievably gorgeous.

  He opted for two 250-gallon copper batch still systems with twelve-inch stainless steel stripping stills and continuous vodka columns.

  As I walk into the distilling room, I—literally—sigh in pleasure at the sight.

  “Ohhh...wow,” I breathe.

  “You like?” he asks, h
is smile so insanely and unfairly beautiful beside a shiny copper still, I can’t decide where to focus my attention.

  “I...love,” I say softly.

  From the outside, the distillery looks rustic—like an old farmer’s barn taken over by a hipper, newer business...which is one hundred percent accurate. From the compass painted in metallic silver-blue on the concrete floor to the bottling machine in the far corner, this place is both old-fashioned and high end.

  And if I’m being honest, it’s my idea of heaven.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen a million distilleries around the world,” he says, and I might be wrong, but I think he’s angling for a compliment, which I’m happy to give.

  “I visited Tito’s in Austin recently, and don’t get me wrong—I love their product, but what they lack in visual aesthetics is everything you’ve captured here.”

  “They’re hardly ‘handcrafted’ anymore,” he points out. “Do they still have that little pot still at the original distillery site?”

  “They do. With a tasting room. That’s the one I’m talking about. It lacks the charm of yours.”

  “Did you visit the facility they opened in 2007? The one with ten stills that makes almost four million cases a year now?”

  “Yes, I’ve visited it. But I’d never compare it to yours. That’s a factory. You own a craft distillery.”

  “Was it pretty cool, though?”

  “For what it is, sure.” I look around at his modest operation. “Do you aspire to that sort of growth?”

  “Not even close,” he tells me. “But there’s a place in Massachusetts called Berkshire Mountain Distillers, and I’m keen to be on par with them someday. I’d like to do with North Star vodka what they’ve done with Ethereal gin.”

  I know the owners of Berkshire very well and have great respect for their product and the way they run their business. It’s yet another sign of Trevor’s excellent business sense that he’d like to emulate their success.

  “They’re in nineteen states now,” I say.

  “Of course you know that,” he says, shaking his head lightly as he grins at me. “You’re...amazing, Faye.”

  I feel the blush heat my cheeks, but I don’t look away from him. “So are you.”

  The way he’s looking at me, with a fierce focus and intensity, makes my heart beat faster, and I realize that my attraction to him, combined with the kismet of our similar interests, is causing me to...to...what? Develop a crush on him? Start having feelings for him?