by Jodi Watters
“Your enemy?” Rushing past him, she grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter, rifling through it for her car keys. “This isn’t about you. Or us. It’s about an old man who’s probably dying alone right now, while you stand there throwing a temper tantrum.”
He shook his head, watching her walk out on him. Again.
“I’m not playing this game. If you leave right now and go running to him, then we’re—”
His ego—and his shit for brains—made him issue the ultimatum, but his heart wouldn’t let him finish it.
Didn’t matter. The message came through loud and clear.
They’d be done. Over.
She froze, her hand on the front door. Slowly, woodenly, she turned to face him, and the level of hurt in her eyes pierced his soul. His only reason for living had vanished the minute he’d voiced the irrational, but necessary condition.
Looking toward the heavens for guidance, her face crumbled.
“How can one man give me so much pleasure, yet cause me so much pain? Dear God, help me get through this again,” she whispered, the watery prayer laced with suffering.
A slow, torturous death was the least he deserved. This moment, with the love of his life weeping, bleeding from wounds he’d inflicted and praying for divine intervention, was why he’d survived the battlefield. That death sentence was too merciful.
Sinners—killers—didn’t get a fast pass to Hell on a ticket for one. No, sir.
Instead, he carried a malignancy within him that would only be satisfied after it destroyed everything he held dear, allowing him the relief of death only once those he loved sufficiently suffered. By his own hand. His own words.
Suitable punishment for past transgressions against mankind.
Rolling her lips together, her damp eyes sliced through him like razor blades. His Livvy was a strong one because her voice brooked no argument.
“I was once in the hospital fighting for a life, reeling from the loss of my baby, and the one person I wanted with me more than anybody else, needed with me more than anyone else in this entire world,” she stressed, her breath hitching, “wasn’t there. He was busy. So, I want to make this very clear to you and your hardheaded noggin.” She tapped the side of her head. “I’m going to my father-in-law’s side, and I’ll stay by his side for as long as he needs me. And do you know why? Because nobody, no matter how many moral crimes you think they’ve committed, deserves to feel the same way I felt. Intentionally abandoned and utterly alone.”
Silent only long enough to let her words sink in, she opened the door, bright sunlight highlighting her in an ethereal glow.
“Now you get your stupid ass to that hospital pronto. Not for Marshall. Not for me. And not even for you, because there’s a price to pay for selfishness. You’re gonna do it for your sister. Hope will need you, and if there’s anybody in this world you will show up for, it’s her.”
Slipping on her sunglasses, she shot her last arrow. “You’re a good brother, Ash, but you’re a shitty husband.”
Bullseye.
The wind chimes danced on the late afternoon breeze, filling the rose garden with a twinkling melody. As serene as the flutter of butterfly wings, the chorus soothed Olivia, today as much as yesterday and the days before, replenishing her, filling her empty cup with calm acceptance amidst turmoil.
A beautiful lullaby that played at the smallest puff of air, the chimes provided solace to those who resided in the garden, be it a few moments or an eternity.
Pushing back windblown strands of hair escaping her tight twist, she inhaled the fragrant breeze, a mix of sweet perfume and spicy musk, the melody taking her back to childhood. To those muggy summer days when she and Macy would roam the streets of Savannah on bicycles, flicking round silver bells on their tasseled handlebars as they cruised the neighborhood. Ding and dong, her dad would call them, looking for trouble or the ice cream truck, whichever they happened upon first.
The memory brought a welcome smile on a sorrowful day.
Her cell phone interrupted the solitude, the musical ringtone harmonizing with the chimes.
“It’s time,” Rosa said when she answered, and Olivia turned, looking at the window of Marshall’s study. The linen drapes dropped, swinging back into place, hiding her voyeur’s identity.
Heels clicking on concrete as she forced her legs to move, she crossed the patio, another memory bombarding her.
They were back where it all started. Coleson Creek Winery.
A marriage coming full circle.
Stopping short of entering the house, Olivia patted the wrinkles on her black sheath dress and straightened her double strand of pearls, missing the old-fashioned charm of the South. No self-respecting Southerner held a wedding or a funeral without the benefit of a good Kentucky bourbon. Whether adding a fifth to the jug of sweet tea or spiking the punch bowl, it was considered bad etiquette to go dry. People would talk for days.
Apparently in California, ground zero for lavish funerals, they made you wait until the body was cold and the money was dispersed before cracking out the Bloody Mary mix. Ironic, considering the deceased was in the booze business.
Marshall Coleson was dead. Hadn’t even made it to the hospital.
No time for a deathbed confession. No time for an overdue reconciliation. No time for an apologetic goodbye. Just gone.
And his son was gone, as well.
Olivia returned to the condo late that night to find Ash MIA, and he hadn’t been home since. In fact, up until the funeral this morning, a full five days later, she hadn’t seen him at all. He might have gone undetected at the service, as well, if he didn’t stand a head taller and a broad shoulder wider than everyone else in attendance. Standing in the back row, he’d worn a tailored navy suit, mirrored aviator’s, and a mask of indifference, playing protector to Hope—redundant considering she had a Navy SEAL attached to her hip, but if Ash wanted to pretend he was there for his sister’s benefit only, then so be it.
Stubborn, infuriating man. What he did was of no concern to her. His ultimatum, and disappearing act since, made it clear where she stood. This summer was just a cruel sampling of something too good to last, the consequence of which sent her back to Marie’s sofa. A place she’d weened herself from since moving back in with him.
“Olivia, please join us.” Elliott Pierce, Marshall’s long-time lawyer and an odd duck with male patterned baldness and social anxiety, gestured her into the study. “Marshall always spoke so highly of you. Thank you for taking the time.”
“Of course.” As if she’d had a choice.
Shaking his sweaty hand, she sat on the edge of a wingback chair, feeling out of place in a room she spent hours in every day. Without Marshall, the office felt small and dated, the walls closing in. There’d be no more mornings drinking pots of black coffee in this office, Marshall behind his desk as they debated marketing strategies. No more late nights with her shoes kicked off, settled into this very chair with her legs folded underneath her, discussing alternatives to streamline operations.
Ash’s revelation had altered her perception of the man she so admired, though she’d not confronted her father-in-law. Knowing the awkwardness would damage their working relationship, Olivia hadn’t questioned his interference in her marriage. Four years had passed, and given his recent insistence she reconcile with Ash, she considered it water under the bridge.
Longing for a gin and tonic, she assessed the room. Hope gave her a tired smile, waving from her perch on the settee. Beck leaned against the wall behind her, his subtle nod acknowledging her.
The three had exchanged pleasantries at the small service, of course, but she’d stuck to the shadows, letting Marshall’s children accept condolences from the few in attendance. Not one for religion, tradition, or giving up control, Marshall had planned his own funeral, right down to his silver cuff links. It was a veritable gift to Olivia, who’d been working damage control all week, keeping vineyard operations on track while reassuring the skeleton
staff that nobody would lose their job. It was a false promise. The winery’s fate wasn’t in her hands.
Hope had been the real beneficiary of Marshall’s preparedness, though. Rumor was, Ash’s only offer of help was to dig the hole and dump the body himself. At least he’d been taking his sister’s calls. Olivia had tried countless times, getting only his voice mail.
When her messages went unreturned, she’d stopped trying.
Not a good sign for her future, both professionally and personally, because Olivia had a sneaky suspicion controlling share of this company—and her new boss—was the brooding man with his back to the room, alternately tapping into his phone and staring out the window overlooking the rose garden.
He was an island of one, alone at the edge of a room, and her heart ached for him. Urged her to go to him.
Self-preservation and unreturned messages stopped her.
His suit jacket and tie were gone, probably tossed in the Jeep’s back seat, the crisp white dress shirt folded up his corded forearms, stretching tightly across his back.
Pocketing his phone, he tilted his head, tuning in at the sound of the lawyer’s voice, but not turning around.
“As you all know, I’m here to go over the finer points of Marshall’s will.” Elliott’s tone was formal, taking his official duty seriously. “For accuracy’s sake, he’s requested the attendance of both his son, Asher, and his daughter, Hope. This man here wasn’t on the list,” he added, tugging on his collar while pointing out Beck, as if in a courtroom, “however, given his rather frightening insistence, and if there are no objections, I’ll allow it.” Beck’s hard stare made it clear there’d be no objections. “Okay, then. Also in attendance per his request, is his daughter-in-law, Olivia, who currently presides as vice president of sales for Coleson Creek Winery and is noted by Marshall to be his most valued professional and personal adviser.”
“Stop wasting time with the obvious,” Ash hissed, not moving his head. “I have things to do today.”
“Mr. Coleson, I assure you, once I disclose the division of your father’s assets, you will find your time here to be well worth it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, it’s highly unusual to be doing this on the same day as the funeral, but Marshall said you might be less cooperative the colder and deader he got.” He glanced at a teary-eyed Hope. “Sorry, ma’am. Those were the exact words he used.”
“Don’t apologize, I’m not gonna wilt,” she replied, but leaned toward Beck for support.
“Marshall’s asked me to read a brief summary regarding the division of assets, then provide you a more detailed accounting of his directions in writing. I encourage you to have your own lawyer read through these documents and explain it fully at that time. To ensure a smooth transition, his instructions are quite specific,” he said, his attention on the stack of papers before him, “and remarkably simple.” His hand stilled on one sheet, eyes speed reading the document. “In fact, he leaves little room for interpretation.”
“You have two minutes, Pierce.” The growl came from the man with his back to the room. “Get on with it.”
“To my daughter, Hope,” Elliot began, after rushing through the page noting Marshall’s declaration of sound mind and body. “Once my wishes are read, you will see that I am granting you what you desire most. Freedom and independence.”
The pretty brunette stared at her folded hands, Marshall’s posthumous words succinct.
“And to my son, Asher,” he continued, nervous gaze darting toward the big man. “I give you something I once was incapable of. Forgiveness and trust.”
Ash scoffed, but the lawyer continued, plowing through a bizarre mix of sadness and resentment hanging in the air.
“My forgiveness comes not in the form of words, but action. And along with it, complete trust. To Asher Coleson, I bequeath the entirety of my estate, including any and all assets, property, and possessions. I appoint him sole owner of Coleson Creek Winery, retaining one hundred percent controlling share of the company, in perpetuity. This allocation, however, comes with two irreversible and unchangeable stipulations. First, Hope Coleson is to receive payments in the amount of fifty percent of any and all net profits, paid quarterly via wire transfer to the financial institution of her liking. Should she choose cash payments instead, her request shall be granted.”
Pausing to flip the page, Elliott glanced at Olivia over his reading glasses, Marshall’s predictable will taking a sharp left turn.
“Second,” he continued, “Olivia Coleson is to retain her position at Coleson Creek Winery for a period of no less than twenty-five years. She shall continue her employment in the same capacity, holding the same title and salary, with yearly increases at a minimum of five percent. As sole owner, Asher Coleson has the authority to promote her, but is not authorized to terminate, nor demote her position, or reduce her salary for the previously stated twenty-five-year term. If, of her own free will, she chooses to resign during this term, she may do so without penalty to the company; however, she will forfeit any and all benefits from a compensation or severance package.”
Dropping her chin, Olivia bit her lip as the sudden urge to weep overcame her.
By giving his entire life’s work to Ash, the company he’d built from the ground up, placing its well-being above those of his children, Marshall wasn’t granting him forgiveness as his will stated. He was apologizing the only way he knew how.
By giving him his most valued possession.
The good news was, Ash couldn’t fire her. The bad news was, he could make her life a living hell, forcing her to quit a job she loved and walk away with zilch. Years of hard work and devastating personal sacrifice, all for not.
And the kicker was, Olivia didn’t give a single shit. What she really wanted—what she’d once had and thrown away—was the love and attention of the man standing ten feet away, back ramrod straight, staring out the window.
As of this moment, her new employer.
He owned not only her heart and soul, but her livelihood. And given his unmistakable cold shoulder, Olivia might be needing another grave soon, this one for her career.
Marshall had been laid to rest in a shared plot next to Claudia, in the same cemetery as Inez Arenada. In the ultimate of ironies, his mistress resided a stone’s throw away, just over the crest of a rolling hill. Even in death, Marshall couldn’t allow Claudia to rest in peace, his mistress quite literally looking over her shoulder.
After learning the man she called boss, mentor, and father-in-law was one of many faces, it shouldn’t surprise her.
What did surprise her, as the monotone lawyer finished reading Marshall’s recently amended will, was his ability to manipulate from the grave.
“Lastly, Marshall left a note addressed to Olivia. He asked that it be read aloud in the presence of both Asher and Hope.”
Her muscles tensed as she stared at Elliott, sensing impending doom. A death knell echoed in her mind.
Shaking out the letter, he read Marshall’s words, taking what little chance at happiness she and Ash might have, and blowing it to hell. The same hell he was most likely burning in.
“Only a short time ago, I enlisted you with the task of reconciliation. Bring my boy to me, at all costs. Reunite father and son, and strengthen the family, for the betterment of the vineyard. You, being my most loyal soldier, set out to fulfill those duties, which exceeded the scope of your professional title. If you’re hearing these words, it means time was not on my side, but my last wish will be granted, thanks to that loyalty. I’m afraid, my dear daughter-in-law, that it must also be to your detriment. You can run this company, Olivia. My pride would not allow me to say this while alive, but you have indeed been running it all along and doing one fine job. You have the skills, the leadership, and the moxie. But what you do not have, by no fault of your own, is the power to halt destiny.”
The lawyer paused to look at Ash cautiously, feeling the air shift and crackle with each stunning se
ntence. “My son is where he belongs,” he continued, “at the helm of Coleson Creek Winery, and while my last will and testament cannot enforce it, it is my final wish that you will be sitting in the chair next to him, making not only wine, but a family.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Blue eyes blazing with fury, Ash looked at her for the first time since she entered the room, not caring about their audience. “Fulfilling Marshall’s request?” He turned back to the window, a hand over his shaking head. “You’re unbelievable.”
If there was prior doubt Marshall had done the things Ash accused him of, it was gone. Misconstruing her decision to spend the summer with Ash as that of a mindless sheep following direction was ludicrous and insulting. To call her out in front of him was just plain spiteful.
“Are we done?” Olivia asked, staring at Elliot’s bald spot.
“Oh, we’re done,” Ash fired back, glaring at her sideways.
“Excuse me,” she said, struggling to maintain composure. “I was speaking to Mr. Pierce. I’m well aware of my status regarding done or not done where you’re concerned.”
“Good, darlin’, because the word charred comes to mind.”
“Funny. The word jackass comes to mine.”
He turned around, hands spread wide. “Is that any way to speak to your boss? I’m writing you up for insubordination.”
“Fire me instead,” she replied, standing. “Oh, wait. You can’t.”
“Since you like going above and beyond when it comes to your duties, I’m wondering what particular kind of overtime you put in so Marshall would include that convenient clause. Maybe I could be the beneficiary now that I’m your superior?”
Looking at Elliott, she straightened her perfectly straight pearls, lifting a questioning brow. “Before I’m arrested for homicide and Hope has another funeral to plan, I think I’ll take my leave.”
He swallowed, stacking his papers in a neat pile. “Yes, I believe that completes your part. I need Asher and Hope for another minute, though. The paperwork requires signatures.”