A Season of You

by Emma Douglas

  Where he stood blinking and coughing while the firemen streamed past him, wrestling hoses into position. Someone yanked him out of the way and pushed him in the direction of the road. As his eyes cleared, he realized that Mina was waiting for him. She looked terrified. And beside her, smoke smeared and stony faced, stood Stefan.

  Will stumbled across the road toward them—needing to know that Stefan was okay—when Mina loomed up in front of him.

  “What the hell were you doing?” she yelled. “Are you crazy?”

  “I—”

  She didn’t wait for him to explain. Didn’t give him a chance. Just started yelling at him, telling him he’d been more than stupid in about seven different ways before she burst into tears and collapsed against his chest, sobbing.

  For a moment he stared over her head at Stefan, still not entirely sure he wasn’t imagining his brother standing there. Then Stefan jerked his head in a nod and pointed further down the road away from the confusion of trucks and vans and police. Will nodded back and herded Mina off in that direction, wondering how the hell to calm her down.

  He wasn’t exactly feeling calm himself. Half his face felt raw, the skin stinging and throbbing, and his throat hurt like hell. The wind was blowing strongly, the air a weird combination of soothing cold and salt that only made his face feel worse.

  Eventually Mina stopped crying. Pulled away from him. “You could have died,” she said, sounding broken.

  “I didn’t.” He tried to sound soothing, but it came out more like a rasp. “I’m okay.”

  She didn’t really seem to hear him, shaking her head. “It’s not okay.”

  “It is,” he said. “I’m fine. Stefan’s fine. We have insurance. We can rebuild.”

  She froze. “You what?”

  “We can rebuild the bar,” he said absently. The wind gusted again and he shook his head trying to clear it. There was something about the wind he should be thinking of. But he couldn’t remember.

  “The bar that almost killed you?” she said incredulously. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  “Because it’s what I do,” he said. “It’s my dream.”

  “I’ll give you a million dollars to do something else. Give the bar to Stefan. Take up professional surfing. Or knitting. Or golf. I don’t care.”

  “I—what?” He couldn’t think. Money? She was offering him money. “You think I’d take your money and walk away from something I’ve wanted to do my whole life?”

  “Yes,” she said, expression deadly serious. “You should.”

  “This from the woman who told me there was no way she’d give up search and rescue? Would you stop painting for a million dollars? If you didn’t already have the money,” he added, half a snarl. Because she did have the money. Had it and a lot more if she could offer it to him so thoughtlessly.

  “It’s not the same. Painting is art … this is…” She waved a wild hand at the bar, scowling.

  “What? Just booze. Filthy alcohol?”

  “Yes,” she yelled. “It is. It kills people. It could have killed you and Stefan tonight. Why do you have to go back to that?”

  She’d never really had to work for something, he realized with a start. Not in the put-every-penny-in, risk-it-all kind of way. “Because it’s my life. And my life savings. Stefan’s too. It’s in my blood.”

  “I said I’d give you the money.”

  “I don’t want your damn money.” He stared at her, anger churning through him. She glared back.

  “So you won’t give it up?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then, I’m sorry,” she said. “And this … project is over.”

  What the hell? “What are you talking about? Mina…” He reached for her and she jerked back.

  “No. This was a bad idea from the start. Let’s just cut our losses.”

  “Cut our losses? You just want to walk away. Now?”

  “Seems like a pretty good time to me.”

  “You were just in hysterics because you thought I could’ve been hurt. And now you’re going to stand there and tell me you don’t care about me? That you can walk away? You’re going to keep up this bullshit about not liking alcohol and use that as an excuse to run?”

  “It’s not an excuse. I’m just reversing a bad decision.”

  Maybe he’d passed out in the smoke and was having a nightmare. “Two hours ago you were in my bed.”

  “Things change.” She lifted her chin. “We had an agreement.”

  He wasn’t going to change her mind. He could see that. He could get down on his knees in the dirt and the smoke and the wreckage of his life and tell her he loved her, and she’d still walk away. So maybe it was best to let her go. He stepped back. Straightened shoulders that were starting to throb too, now the adrenaline was fading. “Fine,” he said. “Have a great life.”

  He didn’t stay to watch her walk away. Wasn’t sure he would run after her and make an idiot out of himself trying one last time to win a heart that wasn’t his to win if he did. Instead he turned and trudged back to Stefan.

  Who was staring past the flames dying under the onslaught of the fire hoses and up into the night sky. Will followed his gaze. Saw the plume of the oily black smoke whose bitter taste was coating his throat. Saw it writhe and twist and saw the same wind that was slapping at his back carrying it up the hill toward the distillery. Toward the rackhouse directly in its path. Toward all the whiskey sitting in those barrels, just waiting to soak up whatever flavors the air carried to them.

  “Fuck,” he rasped. “That’s not good.”

  Stefan just looked at him. “No,” he agreed.

  Will bit back the rest of the curses burning in his throat. They were already too late if the smoke was strong enough to taint the whiskey. Insurance money could rebuild the bar. It could even replace the barrels and buy fresh grain to start more whiskey. But it couldn’t give them back the five years of hard work that they might have to pour down the drain if the whiskey was ruined. Couldn’t give them back time. Couldn’t necessarily keep them afloat another five years while they tried to start over either.

  So he’d managed to lose Mina and maybe his life’s work in one night. Merry fucking Christmas.

  * * *

  If there was any justice in the world, Christmas would be canceled, Mina decided when her phone woke her way too early on Christmas Eve. She’d finally finished her paintings and had couriered them to the framer the night before. She wanted to sleep for days. Throwing herself into her work had apparently been distracting her from how much she missed Will.

  She’d managed not to think about him by spending every waking hour painting. She’d blocked his number from her phone, turned off her e-mail, and pretended Will Fraser didn’t exist. She’d even stonewalled Lou, who’d turned up on Saturday morning, having heard about the fire. She’d refused to listen when Lou had tried to get her to reconsider. Not even when Lou told her that the smoke might have ruined the entire stock of the Frasers’ whiskey. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t care.

  She couldn’t love Will Fraser.

  Because it would ruin her.

  She’d finished the portrait she’d started of him. She hadn’t been able to stop herself. Maybe it had been an attempt to exorcise him from her brain. It hadn’t worked. The painting was brilliant. Too good. The sight of him staring out at her from the paper had made her want to cry. She’d stopped herself, but only barely. She’d almost put it in the pile of pictures to go to the show. But then she’d changed her mind and put it carefully away in a drawer, telling herself it was because it would be wrong to show a portrait of him without his permission—and no way in hell was she going to call and ask him for that—and not because she didn’t want to give up this last tiny piece of him she still had.

  She’d locked the drawer and then picked up her brush and painted the ocean again.

  When she’d crawled into bed the night before, she’d expected to pass out after working so hard for a w
eek. But instead, she’d burst into tears and hadn’t been able to stop crying until sometime near two a.m. So much for not caring.

  Stewie, who’d climbed up beside her on the bed and tried to cheer her up by licking her face, had had a very soggy patch on his coat by the time she’d finally managed to sleep.

  He made a grumpy whuffling noise at her now as she stretched across him to reach for the phone, clearly sharing her view that there had not yet been enough sleep.

  “Hello?” she croaked into the phone.

  “It’s me,” Faith said. “I’m calling a family meeting. Can you come up to the Harper office about nine?”

  Mina blinked, trying to make her brain work. “It’s Christmas Eve, can’t it wait?”

  “No,” Faith said.

  Well, crap. That couldn’t be good. “What time is it now?”

  “Just after seven. You sound terrible. Did you celebrate finishing your paintings by going on an ice-cream bender or something?”

  “Something like that,” Mina muttered. Better that Faith think she had a self-inflicted stomachache from too much Chunky Monkey than a self-inflicted broken heart. “Nine. Fine. See you then.” She hung up before Faith could interrogate her any further.

  Christmas was definitely canceled. She would do this meeting and then maybe she’d pretend she had stomach flu. It wouldn’t be a total lie. The thought of trying to smile through Christmas Day was making her feel distinctly sick.

  * * *

  She made it to the Harper offices about ten minutes before Faith’s deadline after showering and pulling on ratty sweatpants and an old Blacklight hoodie. The place was deserted—because sensible people didn’t work on Christmas Eve—and she let herself in. Faith and Lou were sitting at the big table that doubled as staff lunch area and conference table in the break room. Faith had her laptop open in front of her and a stack of file folders piled beside it.

  Ominous.

  “Morning,” Mina managed. “Coffee?”

  “Wow. You look terrible,” Faith said.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Lou said, coming over and reaching out to touch her forehead.

  “I’m fine. Just sleep deprived. I was painting all hours this week.”

  “Are you sure? You look like—”

  “Like she idiotically dumped a perfectly great guy nine days before Christmas?” Faith suggested.

  Mina glared at her. “Will is not a topic that’s up for discussion. Subject closed.”

  “The subject might be closed if you actually looked happier,” Faith said. “But as you look wrecked, I’m going to invoke the big-sister amendment and keep nagging you until you see the light.”

  “I hate you,” Mina muttered. “I hate Christmas. I hate everyone. Except you,” she said to Lou as Lou handed her a mug full of coffee. “You, I still like.”

  “You might not when I tell you I think Faith is right,” Lou said. “But I’ll wait until after you’ve had your coffee for that.”

  “If this family meeting is some kind of Will-related intervention, I’m leaving,” Mina said, gulping coffee. “I mean it.”

  “As fun as that sounds, nope, we have other stuff to talk about,” Faith said.

  “So talk.” Mina took a seat next to Lou. “Is this about the archive stuff?” Just what she needed. Estate talk. Because dealing with your dead dad’s shit was always so festive.

  “Something like that. And I wish I could say that I had news that would cheer you up, but I can’t,” Faith said.

  “Look at it this way, I don’t think I can feel much crappier,” Mina said. She blew out a breath and tried to pull herself into some semblance of together. “So what is it?”

  “Hang on. I have to dial Zach in.” Faith hit a few keys on her keyboard and then swung the laptop around to face Mina and Lou as the call connected.

  Zach’s face appeared. Mina felt herself smile, despite herself. She hadn’t seen her brother in months. She didn’t think Faith had even talked to him in months. And even though she thought it was kind of crappy that he seemed to be doing his best to avoid coming home, and yes, he’d pulled a hell of a stunt on Faith at CloudFest by canceling his appearance at the last minute, she still missed the big lug. But she kept that mostly to herself. Zach was hardly Faith’s favorite person right now. “Hey, Zach,” she said, figuring Faith wasn’t going to be the first to say hello.

  “Hey yourself,” Zach said. He studied her through the screen. “You look tired.”

  Mina rolled her eyes. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Unshaven and bleary eyed, Zach wasn’t looking his best either.

  “Sorry.” He hid a yawn with his hand. “We had a gig last night then flew here to Atlanta. I haven’t actually been to bed yet. But Faith”—he slanted a wary glance toward their sister—“insisted that we had to do this today.”

  “Because it’s important,” Faith said tartly. “You are still part of this family. At least on paper.”

  “Faith,” Lou said quietly from beside Mina. “Be nice.”

  Faith pressed her lips together looking down at the stack of papers in front of her.

  Mina bit back the sigh of exasperation. Zach had let Faith down last summer and Faith was holding a grudge. Mina wasn’t sure she wasn’t right to, but Faith being so mad at Zach wasn’t making it any more likely that he’d decide to come home and try to work things out.

  “So,” she said brightly. “Atlanta, huh? Must be pretty there at this time of year. Not so damn hot.” She’d only ever been there in summer when Blacklight had played. She remembered sweet tea, peach pie, and the unrelenting sticky heat as soon as you stepped outside.

  “There were decorations at the airport,” Zach said. “That and this hotel room are about all I’ve seen so far. So, I’ll get back to you.” He leaned back in whatever chair he was sitting in, giving Mina a better glimpse of the hotel room behind him. It looked like your standard beige hotel decor. Not exactly the luxury that they’d traveled in with Grey. Did it bother Zach that he wasn’t doing as well as Grey had at the same age? Probably. But it was hardly the time to ask.

  She’d been thinking about success lately, as her show grew closer. What happened if she was a hit? Would it change her life? Would she have to get used to leaving Lansing behind more often? Of doing exactly what Angie had said the Harpers would do? She’d always been content here.

  Unlike Zach. Who’d always burned to leave Lansing from the time he’d first picked up a guitar. But even he seemed to find the demands of his career a struggle.

  “So, shall we get on with it?” Faith said.

  “Sure,” Zach replied. He lifted a cup that Mina hoped held coffee. “This isn’t going to keep me awake too much longer, is it?”

  “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your beauty sleep.” Faith picked up a document. “So, I had an e-mail from the lawyers today.”

  “About the New Jersey storage unit?” Lou asked.

  Faith nodded. “They’ve sorted out the papers finally.”

  “Anything interesting?” Zach said, looking bored.

  “Mostly just bits and pieces. Nothing significant in the actual stuff in the unit, so they’re sending it here for us to sort through.” She looked at Lou, her expression a little apologetic. “No sign of any missing masters.”

  Many moons ago Grey had made a solo album but never released it. He claimed he’d pitched the masters into the ocean. Destroyed them. For some reason, Lou, who was usually the most practical one in the family, had never believed his story. But if she was right, then Grey had hidden the damn masters somewhere no one had managed to discover yet.

  Lou nodded, lips pressed together.

  Faith turned back to the laptop. “They mentioned a couple of guitar cases, Zach, so I’ll let you know what’s in them when they get here.”

  Zach perked up slightly at that. “Cool.”

  None of the guitars that Grey had used regularly in his career were unaccounted for, but their dad had bought guitars like other people bought
T-shirts. Some of the ones that had been found in Grey’s stashes around the world had been worth a fortune.

  “The only other thing they found that’s significant was a bank deposit box key. It took them a little while to find the deposit box. But they have now.”

  Mina found herself leaning forward in her chair. Spare guitars and artwork and other bits and pieces were nothing out of the ordinary for Grey. But the estate lawyers had thought they’d found all the bank accounts several years ago. “What was in the box?”

  “Details for a Swiss account.”

  “Another account?” Zach said. “Are we suddenly even richer?”

  Faith shook her head. “They’ve managed to access the account. And it was only ever used for one transaction. Seems like Grey deposited five hundred thousand dollars in cash about six months before he died. And two days later, he transferred it out again.”

  Zach let out a low whistle. “Half a million? That’s a reasonable chunk of cash.”

  “Yeah,” Faith said.

  “Do we know who the payment went to?” Lou asked. Her voice sounded unusually subdued. Mina twisted to look at her. Lou looked worried.

  Faith shook her head. “They’re still working on it. It wasn’t to any account they know about it and they’ve run up against a wall trying to trace it back to Grey himself. So it seems most likely he gave the money to someone else.”

  “Half a million dollars?” Zach said. “Why would he be paying out half a mill not long before he died? We know he didn’t buy any new houses or anything then, don’t we?”

  “Not that we’ve ever found any record of,” Faith agreed. “He traveled around a lot in that last year, you know that.”

  Grey’s farewell tour, he’d called it. Once the doctors had said his cancer would get him in the end, he’d insisted on saying goodbye to his friends in person. Faith and Lou and Mina had all tried to get him to rest and stay on Lansing, let the friends come to him, but he’d been determined to do things his way, as always.