Let It Breathe

by Tawna Fenske

  He had to admit he was proud neither visit had added anything to his prior police record. For the first time in his life, he was innocent.

  Well, pretty much.

  The same could not be said for Sheila.

  “So let me make sure I’ve got all this,” said Police Detective Austin Evans, tapping his pen against the desk. Evans had agreed to meet with them an hour ago after Sheila insisted she wanted to talk to the police immediately. Clay had tried to talk her out of it, but Sheila was adamant.

  “I just want this over with,” she said for the hundredth time as she mopped her eyes with a tissue.

  “We’re working on that, ma’am,” said Detective Evans. He flipped back a few pages of his notebook and frowned. “You’re confessing to destroying a wine barrel and its contents, setting a trash can on fire in a winery barn, stealing all the corkscrews, and deliberately failing to correct a typo on a wine label?”

  “I also ran a red light on the way here,” Sheila sniffed. “I was nervous.”

  Clay squeezed her hand, not sure whether to hate her for what she’d done or admire her for trying to do the right thing now. Though he’d tried to convince her to wait until Eric and a lawyer could be present, Sheila hadn’t been willing. Once she decided to confess, there was no stopping her.

  Beside him, Sheila looked up and sniffed. “When does it get easier, Clay?”

  “When does what get easier?”

  “This screwing up so badly and trying to make it right—how long will I feel like hell?”

  Clay shook his head, not sure how to answer. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

  The detective cleared his throat. “So, ma’am, as I told you before, you’re welcome to have an attorney present—”

  “No,” Sheila said. “I did this, I want to face the consequences.”

  Clay tightened his grip on her hand. “I wish you’d let me call someone—Eric or a lawyer or—”

  “I let you call Reese,” Sheila interrupted. “That’s who I want to talk to first. I need to apologize, to try to make this right. Until I’ve talked to her, I don’t want anyone else hearing about it.”

  Clay nodded. The whole story would get out soon enough, probably before the day was over. For a few hours at least, he could let her feel like she had some control.

  When she’d started confessing at the bar, he’d known right away it was bad. She wasn’t drinking anything stronger than root beer, but the words still came flooding out of her. He’d wanted to call Eric, to ask her to wait until she was calm before rushing to the police.

  But Sheila wanted to come clean, and she wasn’t willing to wait.

  Clay felt his cell phone vibrate against his hip and he glanced down at the number.

  “It’s Eric,” he said. “Look, Sheila—he’s going to know sooner or later. You sure you don’t want to talk to him now?”

  “Not yet. That’s going to be the worst part, and I’m not ready yet. I just need to talk to Reese first.”

  Clay nodded and hit the ignore button on his phone. “Fair enough.”

  Detective Evans cleared his throat again. “So, ma’am, just to be clear, this was all an attempt to get your husband—Mr. Eric Mortenson—to leave his position as winemaker at Sunridge Vineyards and move with you to New York to be closer to your family?”

  Sheila looked down at her lap and began shredding a soggy tissue. “I guess. It started innocently. When I saw him get upset about the winery having a termite problem, I got the idea to poke a few holes in the barrel so he’d think his work was compromised. Things just spiraled from there when I saw he wasn’t budging, and—”

  She broke down in sobs again, and Clay felt his heart twist. God, he knew all too well how it felt to screw up this badly. To know he’d done something horrible and destructive to people he cared about.

  There was a shrill beep from the desk phone in front of the cop.

  “Detective Evans?” called a female voice. “There’s a Reese Clark here for you. You asked me to call when she arrived?”

  “Right, I’ll be right out to get her. Just give me a sec.”

  He hit a button on the phone and stood up, eyeing Clay and Sheila. “I’ll be right back. You two stay here.”

  Clay nodded and gave Sheila’s hand another squeeze as the detective moved past them into the hallway.

  Sheila looked up at him, eyes still shimmering with tears. “I blamed you, you know.”

  “For what?”

  “For being the reason he wouldn’t even consider moving. He was so excited when he heard you were coming back. So proud of you and the fact that you got your life back together. Did he tell you that?”

  Clay blinked and looked away. “Not in so many words.”

  “That sounds like Eric. All dirty jokes and grunts and not a lot of sentimental talk. You thought the only thing he cared about with you is whether you’d end up with Reese?”

  Clay looked back at her, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”

  “I know my husband. He’s protective of you both. He thought you’d be a bad combination. Personally, I thought you were perfect for each other.”

  Clay shook his head. “I think I already proved that wrong. Things are kind of a disaster right now.”

  Sheila shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I do. I screwed up, and it’s too late to fix things.”

  “No it’s not.” She clenched the soggy tissue in her fist, her eyes taking on a rabid look that made Clay sit back a little. “Promise me something—promise me you won’t give up on this thing with Reese.”

  “It’s not my choice to make.”

  “Yes, it is. Fight for her. Convince her you want her. Tell her you won’t take no for an answer.”

  “What am I supposed to do, club her over the head and drag her back to my cave by the hair?”

  “Yes!”

  Clay shook his head. “You’re nuts. No offense. Though maybe you should consider that as a defense?”

  Sheila squeezed his hand. “Promise me you’ll try.”

  “Why don’t you just worry about yourself for right now—”

  “Promise me!”

  “Okay,” Clay said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Why don’t you promise me you’ll get a lawyer? Someone who’ll make sure you’re not screwing yourself here.”

  “I already screwed myself,” she said, turning as the sound of footsteps came trudging down the hall. “Now I’m trying to make it right.”

  Clay nodded and felt his heart constrict as Reese walked into the room looking confused and nervous and so damn beautiful he had to look down at his hands to keep from jumping up and wrapping his arms around her.

  He turned back to Sheila. “I can relate.”

  As soon as Sheila finished telling her story, Reese asked her to repeat it.

  It still didn’t make sense.

  Reese frowned at the cop, then at Sheila. She deliberately avoided meeting Clay’s eyes. “So you did these things on purpose?” she asked Sheila. “The wine, the fire—”

  “I’m so sorry, Reese.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “We were. We are. You have to believe I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wasn’t trying to damage the winery. I just wanted Eric to question things and wonder whether he belonged there, and it all sort of snowballed. When one thing didn’t work, I tried another. I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Reese, I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry.”

  Reese nodded, not sure what to say to that. You’re forgiven wasn’t right. Not yet, not even close. She looked at Clay. He reached over and squeezed her hand, and Reese felt a small surge of strength.

  Sheila sniffed and looked up at the cop. “How long will I be in prison?”

 
“Look,” Reese said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure the cops and lawyers will want to work through the details, figure out the charges, all that complicated legal stuff. Talk of prison might be a little premature.”

  “It doesn’t matter right now,” Sheila said, waving a manicured hand. “I just wanted to apologize.”

  Reese nodded. “Okay. Can I ask you why? I mean, I understand the whole thing about wanting Eric to move with you, but our friendship—yours and mine, I mean. That was always separate.”

  Fresh tears pooled in Sheila’s eyes, and Reese couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

  “You have to believe I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sheila started. “I thought it would be harmless, you know? I just wanted Eric to start questioning his future at the vineyard—the lost wine would make him worry about the value of his work, and the thing with the typo on the wine label—that really was a printer error, but I saw it and I just didn’t correct it.”

  “But the fire—you could have hurt someone.”

  Sheila shook her head, and Reese sat back a little for fear of being hit by flying snot. “It wasn’t supposed to be that big,” Sheila insisted. “It was just a little trash-can fire. It was nighttime, so I knew no one would be there to get hurt. I just thought—well, you know how superstitious Eric is. I thought if he got to thinking the place was cursed, he might not be so set on staying.”

  “Right,” Reese said. “I guess that makes sense.”

  If you’re completely crazy.

  “Look, I know you think I’m nuts, but I did it for what seemed like good reasons at the time,” Sheila said. “I want to be close to my family, and I want to be with the love of my life. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Reese bit her lip and tried hard not to look at Clay. “I can understand some of it.”

  “I know you hate me right now, but maybe someday you can forgive me?”

  Reese sighed. “I don’t hate you, Sheila. I’m just shocked.”

  Sheila nodded and sniffed, then looked up at the detective. “Can we call my husband now? And the lawyer, I guess. I just needed to do that my way, without a bunch of people breathing down my neck about what I should and shouldn’t say. Does that make sense?”

  “No,” the detective answered. “But most things don’t in this business.” He looked at Reese. “You probably want to talk things over with your family, discuss the charges, all that stuff. I understand you’ve already had some discussions with the fire marshal?”

  Reese nodded. “Earlier today.”

  “You’ll have more.”

  She nodded again, not looking forward to a drawn-out investigation but knowing this thing with Sheila probably gave them a light at the end of the tunnel. “Do you need me to do anything else right now, or am I free to go?”

  “You’re free to go,” he said. “Ms. Mortenson will be staying with us for a while, but you two are okay to leave. Mr. Henderson, thank you for being here to—well, to smooth the waters a bit.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good to see you’ve gotten your life together, son,” the cop added. “I remember you from years ago. Thought you’d be in prison yourself by now.”

  Clay nodded. “I got a second chance.”

  Reese felt her gut twist and she squeezed his hand. Clay turned to look at her, then offered a small smile and a hand up. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

  Reese shivered and looked down. She’d taken a few seconds at home to ditch the pajama pants in favor of jeans, but she was still wearing her thin cami top with an oversize flannel shirt thrown over the top like a jacket. It was unbuttoned all the way, and she pulled it closed over her chest as she felt her nipples respond to the sight of Clay standing there looking so broad and warm and dangerous.

  “Are you going back to your place?” he asked.

  She nodded. “That was my plan.”

  “I’ll follow you there. We need to talk.”

  Reese opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. Between her mother, her father, and Axl, she’d had a steady stream of visitors all evening. One more wouldn’t hurt.

  “You’re right. We do need to talk.” She turned and looked at Sheila, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “You want us to wait until Eric gets here?”

  “No. I think I want some time alone to compose myself, if that’s okay.”

  “Right.” Reese bit her lip. “I’m probably going to be angry with you for a long time.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I’ll get over it. I know you’re not a bad person. You just did some dumb things, and maybe someday we’ll look back on all this and laugh.”

  The cop frowned. “I kind of doubt that.”

  “Maybe no laughing,” Reese admitted. “But at some point, I might not want to take you out in the parking lot and hit you with a tire iron.”

  Sheila sniffed. “That’s all I can hope for.”

  Reese turned and let Clay tow her down the hall and out into the lobby. “I need to use the restroom,” she said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I can meet you back at the house—”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She gave him a small smile. “You think I’m going to ditch you somewhere to avoid having this conversation?”

  “I’m not taking any chances.”

  She nodded and retreated to the ladies’ room, where she splashed cold water on her face and wondered what the hell had just happened.

  Sheila. Her friend. How could she?

  But Reese knew. People did stupid things for love. Hadn’t she proved that before?

  She finished finger combing her hair and wished like hell she’d brought some lipstick. She settled for the mango lip balm she found in the bottom of her purse, along with a piece of gum with a nickel stuck to it. Finally, it was time to go back out and face the world.

  The second she stepped into the lobby, she saw Clay standing there. He wasn’t alone.

  “Eric,” she said. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I was right down the street on an errand when Sheila called,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

  She took a shaky breath and grabbed his hand. “You know how you’re always telling me marriage is really tough? How it’s not easy, how you need to work hard at it every single day?”

  He nodded, his expression wary.

  Reese squeezed his hand. “Remember that, okay?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Though Reese and Clay offered to stay at the police station with Eric and Sheila, they both declined. “We’ve got a lot to work through here,” Eric had said in his usual gruff tone.

  Reese bit her lip. “You’re planning to work through it, though, right?”

  “That’s what marriage is, Reese,” he said. “A helluva lot of work. But worth it, in the long run.”

  She’d nodded and retreated out to her car without another word. Clay followed at a short distance, intent on talking to her one way or another. Of course, despite his insistence they needed to talk, he wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to say.

  He spent the fifteen-minute drive to the vineyard contemplating it as he watched Reese’s taillights flicker in front of him. Her hair slid along the nape of her neck as she glanced in the rearview mirror, her eyes catching his for a brief moment before darting back to the road.

  Clay followed her up the gravel driveway, watching as row after row of grapevines fluttered past in the dark en route to Reese’s little house. He hadn’t set foot inside since the night they’d slept together. Since he’d held her in his arms, made her whimper, made her moan.

  The thought of stepping over the threshold now made his gut seize a little.

  He brought the truck to a halt and sat there for a few seconds composing himself. By the time he swung open the drive
r’s side door and stepped out onto the gravel, Reese had disappeared inside.

  The front door stood open, so Clay walked through it, his palms already beginning to sweat. He took his shoes off by the door, not wanting to track mud over her clean floor.

  She stood motionless in front of the kitchen, her hands clenched awkwardly at her sides. Clay studied her face, looking for clues to her emotional state while he admired the curve of her cheek. She wore no makeup, and he couldn’t remember whether she usually did or not. With her hair loose and wild around her shoulders, there was an unpredictable air about her, and it made him ache to reach out and touch her. He swallowed hard and forced himself to stop staring.

  “You want something to drink?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” Clay said. Then he stopped. That was an impulse response—an attempt to be polite—to not inconvenience her.

  Fuck it. He was thirsty.

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “A Coke would be great.”

  Reese blinked, then nodded. “I’m not sure I have Coke,” she said, moving into the kitchen. She didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights, though the under-cabinet lighting cast a warm glow on the countertops. She pried open the refrigerator door and leaned down to peer inside. Clay felt his head spin as he watched her bend over.

  Caveman, he told himself.

  So what?

  “There’s one Coke in here,” she called. “You want ice?”

  She stood up and looked at him. He hesitated. A polite guy wouldn’t take the last of anything in her fridge. Or he’d at least ask if she wanted it.

  That seemed stupid.

  “I’ll take it, thanks,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

  “Pinot Noir, if you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I do mind.”

  “What?”

  Clay folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t mind if you drink around me—especially in your own home. I can handle it. But right now, for this conversation, for anything else that might happen this evening, I want to be sure you’re totally, completely in control of your words and thoughts and actions.”

  Reese stared at him. Then she shook her head and looked down at the Coke can.