“I remember,” Jana agreed, and something flashed in her eyes, a mix of affection and understanding that had Maggie’s brow furrowing. She didn’t realize Jana Stone knew her father well enough to understand his idiosyncrasies.
“Were you and my dad friends growing up?”
“Of a sort,” Jana said. “My family moved here when I was in high school. Jim was one of the first people I met.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again all the emotion Maggie had seen moments earlier was gone. “So you’d like to talk about the money for the community center?”
Maggie swallowed. Apparently, the small talk portion of the visit had ended. “Is it true that you’re thinking of rescinding the donation?”
“I wouldn’t call it rescinding when I’ve yet to write a check.”
“You made a verbal commitment.”
Jana held up one finger. “Actually, Trevor suggested I make the donation. I never officially agreed.”
“We had an understanding,” Maggie insisted.
“Yes, you did,” Jana agreed, and Maggie imagined if the smooth, cool, slithery feel of a snake could be translated into a tone of voice, it would sound just like Jana Stone at the moment.
“So this is personal?” She worked to keep her voice neutral.
“Everything’s personal, Maggie.” Jana sounded a lot like her grandmother. “The truth is I was never convinced about the need for my money based on how it was going to be used. You know it’s only been recently our family has had the financial resources to make a significant contribution to this community?”
Maggie nodded.
“I realize my support is a bit of a hot commodity now, but refurbishing a building that’s only ten years old seems frivolous when there are services that could be enhanced. Trevor believed it was an important goodwill gesture—an olive branch between the Stones and the Spencers.” She quirked a brow. “Although I’m not sure why it was ever my responsibility in the first place. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I don’t think it’s a good use of the funds.”
“I agree,” Maggie said quietly.
“You do?” Jana asked, clearly not believing the words.
“Yes,” Maggie continued. “I’ve thought more about the project.” She paused, then added, “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things recently that have been ignored for too long. Stonecreek has needs, but a decorating project isn’t one of them. I’m mayor of the town, not a specific cross section of our residents. Did you know that over seventy percent of Stonecreek Elementary students are home alone after school?”
Jana shook her head.
“I’d like to do something real and meaningful to help our kids. A program that would bring people together, no matter their background or age or socioeconomic status.”
“What did you have in mind?” Jana leaned forward, uncrossing her legs.
“A youth development program. I was thinking we could utilize the community center as a central location to provide mentoring, arts and athletic activities. Open to anyone but with an emphasis on recruiting kids who’d be without supervision otherwise.”
“That isn’t what your grandma had in mind.”
“She’s not the one who was voted mayor,” Maggie countered.
Jana studied her for another moment. “True.”
“I don’t have the resources to do this on my own,” Maggie admitted. “Either financially or in manpower. I was hoping if it appealed to you, that you’d be willing to head up a youth development committee.”
“You want me in charge of it?” Jana looked incredulous.
“If you have time.” Maggie nodded. “And you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” Jana said. “But I’m not going to jump through a bunch of bogus hoops because of my last name.”
“You won’t have to,” Maggie promised.
“I won’t be able to get started until Griffin straightens things out on the tasting room. That project needs to stay on track.”
“I’ll do my best to make sure it does.”
They both looked up at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the driveway. Butterflies fluttered across Maggie’s stomach as Griffin’s Land Cruiser came into view.
“He’s been happy since he came back to Stonecreek,” Jana said, rising from the love seat. “Different than he was before, more at peace.”
“Um, that’s good.” Maggie stood as well, smoothing a hand over the front of her dress.
“I think you have something to do with the change in him.”
Maggie turned toward Jana. “Really?” She wasn’t sure whether she was more shocked to hear the words or the fact that they were coming out of Jana’s mouth.
“I don’t think it comes as a surprise that I never approved of you and Trevor together.”
Maggie gave a soft chuckle. “He told me I was imagining it.”
“I love both my boys.” Jana fingered the delicate gold chain around her neck. “I try to let them make their own decisions, even when I believe they’re making a mistake.”
“It would have been a mistake for Trevor and me to marry,” Maggie murmured. She’d known it for some time but somehow knowing Jana agreed gave her a sense of comfort.
“You’re tied to this town in a way he isn’t. In a way I don’t believe he wants to be, even if he doesn’t see it yet. Griffin is different.” She held up a hand to wave as Griffin parked and climbed out of the SUV.
Maggie mimicked the gesture, smiling at the shocked look on his face as he took in the two of them together.
“Griffin hasn’t lived in Stonecreek for almost a decade,” Maggie pointed out gently.
“But it’s still his home.” Jana placed a hand on Maggie’s arm. “It always will be. He belongs here, but he needs us to help him understand that.”
Maggie nodded, trying not to look as shocked as she felt. “I’ll try.”
“How did it go in town?” Jana asked Griffin as he walked up the porch steps.
“I spoke with the guys down at the building department.” He gave his mother a quick hug, then glanced over at Maggie. “What are you doing here?”
Not exactly a warm and fuzzy greeting, but Maggie smiled anyway. “I came to see your mother.”
One thick brow rose.
“We had a lovely talk,” Jana said, patting his shoulder. “I have a few phone calls to make now. Email me some of your initial thoughts on the youth program, Maggie.”
“I will,” Maggie promised. “Thank you.”
The front door clicked shut behind Jana, and Maggie met Griffin’s questioning gaze with a shrug. “I’m not going to apologize again, because we say those words too often. But I will do everything I can to make sure the historical society approves your permit.”
“Roger told me you’d already talked to him about how to push it through.”
She nodded. “I wish I could just make it disappear but—”
“It’s okay.” Griffin stepped forward, laced his fingers with hers and drew her closer. “And hopefully this will be the last time I say the words for a long time, but I’m sorry, Maggie. I should have known you didn’t know about the order. This isn’t your fault. I’m a big boy, and I’ll manage through whatever roadblocks your grandma and her geriatric posse want to throw in the way.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” she insisted with a sigh. “I’m the mayor. This is my town now, and I have to start managing things like I believe that’s true.” She reached up and kissed the side of his jaw. “You’re helping me do that, and I’m grateful, Griffin.”
“How grateful?” He nuzzled the side of her neck, sending sparks racing along her skin.
“Grateful enough that I need to change our plans for this weekend.”
He stilled. “I’m having trouble following that train of thought, and it’s not because I’m dist
racted by how good you smell.”
“It’s a surprise,” she told him, her voice breathless as he made a show of sniffing her neck. “But pack an overnight bag.”
He pulled back, his gaze filled with banked desire as he stared down at her. “I really like the sound of that.”
* * *
When the doorbell buzzed for a third time, Brenna finally managed to drag herself off the couch to answer it. She wouldn’t have been able to manage moving if she hadn’t been worried the sound would wake Ellie.
After a day and a half, her daughter was on the mend from her stomach bug. Ellie had eaten some soup and dry toast earlier, although Brenna couldn’t say the same for herself.
She’d woken up at 2:00 a.m. last night with the same violently upset stomach that had plagued Ellie. She’d thought there was nothing worse than her daughter being sick, but the two of them feeling awful at the same time had upped the ante tenfold.
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth as she pulled open the door.
“Brenna?”
“Oh, Lord, no,” she whispered as another wave of nausea turned in her belly.
“Are you okay?” Marcus stood on the small stoop in front of her duplex, a bouquet of flowers in one hand. “I know you called in sick today, but I got worried when you didn’t answer my calls or texts and—”
“I’m going to puke,” she told him, then turned and rushed toward the bathroom. After the nausea subsided, she emerged, shocked to see Marcus in her kitchen, quietly unloading the dishwasher.
“You look like death warmed over,” he told her, and she didn’t even bat an eye. She felt worse than death at the moment. “Go to bed. I’ve got things under control.”
“You can’t be here.” She tugged on the hem of her faded sweatshirt. “We’re sick.”
“I see that,” he agreed. “Ellie told me she’s feeling better. I’m going to heat up soup for her when I’m finished here.”
Tears pricked the backs of Brenna’s eyes, a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. She never let anyone see her unless she was showered, with her hair fixed and makeup applied.
“I’m a mom,” she said weakly. “I don’t need to rest.”
“Go rest anyway.” He moved toward her, but she backed away when he would have touched her.
“You can’t see me like this.” She smoothed a hand over her stringy hair, then cringed.
“Too late.” His smile was tender. “Rest, Brenna. Let me help you.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him that she could handle her own life, even with a raging stomach bug. She’d learned not to depend on anyone but herself. Men like Marcus didn’t want to play nursemaid. Yes, they’d gotten to know each other recently, but Brenna had made sure the house was clean, Ellie on her best behavior and everything else easy and smooth whenever he’d visited.
She didn’t want to scare him off by making him think she was too much trouble. Tossing her cookies every twenty minutes would definitely fall under the category of too much trouble.
Yet Marcus didn’t look scared right now. He only seemed concerned and determined to make sure she got to bed. Too tired to put up any sort of real argument, she turned and headed down the hall toward her bedroom. She stopped at Ellie’s door and peeked her head in the room.
Her daughter was on the floor with her favorite coloring book.
“Sweetie, I’m going to rest for just a few minutes,” Brenna said. “Is it okay if Marcus is here with you?”
Ellie nodded but didn’t look up from her coloring. “We’re going to play Candy Land after I have soup.”
“Marcus is doing Mommy a big favor while my tummy hurts. If he needs to work or just wants to watch television, you and I can play a game later, okay?”
“He said he wants to play,” Ellie answered simply.
Brenna pressed two fingers to her temple and sighed. Oh, to be young and unaware that she wasn’t everyone’s top priority. Had Brenna ever felt that way? She’d always had the uncomfortable awareness of being a burden to her single mother. She was proud of herself for always putting Ellie first, but she also knew it could be a heartbreaking lesson to realize not everyone felt that way.
“I know, baby,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. She certainly didn’t want Marcus guilted into an evening of board games. “But grown-ups sometimes have to work even when they don’t want to.”
Ellie paused and looked up. “Feel better, Mommy,” she said, and Brenna would have laughed at being summarily dismissed if she wasn’t so looking forward to collapsing in her bed.
She crawled under the sheets in the darkened room, knowing she’d only get a few minutes of rest before the next round of nausea hit.
But when she opened her eyes, light slanted through the blinds over her windows and she felt weak but no longer ill.
Yelping as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, she stumbled from the bed and down the hall, following the scent of something sweet baking in the kitchen.
“Ellie?”
“We made muffins, Mommy,” her daughter announced. “Do you want one or are you still pukey?”
“I’m so sorry,” Brenna said to Marcus, who was now loading dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. Seriously, what kind of superhuman man would both load and unload the dishwasher without being asked? “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “I thought you needed some rest. How are you feeling?”
“Do you want a muffin?” Ellie asked again.
“Maybe later, sweetie.” Brenna bent and kissed the top of her daughter’s head.
“You stayed here all night,” Brenna told Marcus as if he didn’t realize it.
“The couch isn’t bad.” His mouth curved into a half smile. “Would you like toast or soup? A glass of water?” He frowned as his gaze focused on a section of her hair. “A shower?”
“I have dried vomit on me,” she muttered without raising her fingers to her head. Mortification heated her cheeks.
“A little,” he confirmed. “But you look like you’re feeling better.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Less like death warmed over?”
“You were beautiful even then.”
She laughed. “How are you this perfect and still single?”
He inclined his head, the sudden intensity of his dark gaze making her knees go weak. “Maybe I was waiting for you to notice me.”
She swallowed, her throat raw. “I’m going to shower now,” she whispered. “Probably a cold one for good measure.”
He grinned like her response made him happy. Like she made him happy, even with dark circles under her eyes and puke in her hair. The thought of someone—a man—caring about her no matter what made her ridiculously happy. She wondered if she could be brave enough to trust that happiness.
* * *
Griffin slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and headed out the door of the caretaker’s apartment over the barn on the Harvest property when he heard the car door slam late Saturday morning.
He wasn’t sure what Maggie had planned, but he couldn’t wait to spend the day, and particularly the night, with her. The rest of the week had brought a mix of frustration and promise for Griffin. The meeting with the historical society had been moved to Monday, so he’d get an answer on going forward with the tasting room project at that time.
He’d filled out paperwork and submitted an addendum to his plans detailing how the renovation fitted within the society’s guidelines. Roger at the building department assured him the vote was just a formality. Maggie told him the same thing, but Griffin still didn’t trust that the members of the committee, led by her grandmother, wouldn’t try to stick it to him just because of his last name. No matter. Griffin was a fighter, and this was one battle he didn’t plan to lose.
He’d coordinated his
subcontractors and gotten them to agree to an accelerated timeline so that even with almost a week delay, he could still finish the project on time and under budget.
When he hadn’t been refining his construction plans, he’d spent the past few days with Marcus Sanchez, getting caught up on the current business model and the plans for grafting a few of their most popular vines to create a new vintage. But now he was looking forward to thinking of nothing but Maggie for a while.
Instead of finding her waiting to greet him, he found Trevor leaning against his shiny black Porsche convertible, hands shoved in pockets, staring at the front of the old barn.
“Remember when Dad tried to be a goat farmer?”
The question surprised a chuckle out of Griffin. “Yeah. He bought a pair,” he answered. “But Grandpa still had this place and wouldn’t let him keep the goats here so Dad brought them home.”
Trevor straightened, stretching his arms overhead. “I thought Mom was going to kill us when they got in through the back door.”
“That you left open,” Griffin reminded him. “Even though I got blamed.”
“You’re the one who poured them a big bowl of Frosted Flakes.”
“Whatever,” Griffin muttered but laughed again. “You were a suck-up.”
“A skill you evidently never learned,” Trevor said. “Vivian Spencer is going to fight you on the permit.”
“I imagine that makes you giddy. If I can’t get approval for the original building with its historic status, you get to start on your new shiny monstrosity.”
“It’s called progress,” Trevor said.
“Why do we have to compete?” Griffin asked. “I’ve been talking to Marcus the past couple of days. Harvest is carving out a niche as a leader in sustainable wine making. If we grow too big too fast, we’ll lose some of the control we have over best practices.”
Trevor thumped a palm on his forehead. “You sound just like him. This isn’t what Dad wanted, Grif. He had a vision of making Harvest the biggest player in the Pacific Northwest.”
“Did he?” Griffin walked a few paces to the edge of the hillside, where he could see the original estate vineyard below, the rows neat and green in the hazy sunlight of late morning. “I know I haven’t been around for a while, but the way I remember it, Dad was all about his legacy and reputation, not how many barrels we produced each year.”
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