Chapter Two
Freddy glanced at his buzzing phone, which he’d left visible next to his workstation, as he chopped fennel.
We got it.
He poured himself a whiskey, picked up the phone, and took both items out the back door into the alley behind the restaurant.
Another text from his sister arrived before he could type a reply to the first one.
Thank you so much for helping with this.
He’d been glad to do it. Just because he personally loathed that shithole of a town didn’t mean he wasn’t happy to help his sister.
Freddy: This was a foreclosure, right?
He’d lost track of the properties his sister and her husband had considered during their search—part of his aversion to all things Bishop’s Glen, probably.
Sophie: Yep. So we got it for a steal.
It was sad, really. The Finger Lakes region was home to some pretty, thriving towns. Bishop’s Glen, though, was smack dab in the middle—in what his friend and business partner Ben called “the armpit of the Finger Lakes.” Too far west for people from upstate and New York City, and too far east for people from Rochester and Buffalo, it was the kind of town where the surrounding wineries used wine slashes to attract Groupon-toting tourists.
Wine. Slushies.
He shuddered.
According to his sister, who was moving back to the region from Rochester, where she had settled with her husband, there had been a lot of foreclosures in the area. He’d told her to just buy what she wanted, no need to get involved with a foreclosure.
Sophie: I promise we’ll pay you back.
Freddy: Soph, stop it. I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m happy to help.
Sophie: Still. Once Geordie gets his business off the ground, we are paying you back. I’m going to set up a payment plan.
Sophie’s husband had, thanks to a severe knee injury, been forced into medical retirement from the navy. He had a mind to open a business taking tourists on lake cruises, which would probably be successful. His brother-in-law was smart and a hard worker, and all those wine-slushie-guzzling tourists needed something to do when they sobered up, didn’t they?
Freddy: Whatever. The idea of you buying a place in Bishop’s Glen is payment enough. You will have gone from cleaning those places to owning one. It’s very satisfying.
It was true. He and his sister had grown up helping their single mother clean hotel rooms in that goddamn town, and now Sophie was going to own a piece of it. It was a nice bit of poetic justice.
Freddy: In fact, I hope you sit on your porch drinking wine and looking down your nose at those bitches who used to give you so much grief.
Sophie: Ha! I’m with you in spirit, but it’s going to be hard to action that because the house isn’t visible from the road. We actually bought an entire vineyard!
Freddy: Even better. Good for you.
Fuck all those assholes who thought he and Sophie would never amount to anything. Fuck. Them. Very. Much.
Sophie: It’s not really functional right now—there hasn’t been a harvest in several years, and the vines are all out of control, but we didn’t buy it for the vines. It has good water access and lots of outbuildings where Geordie can work on the boats. And Freddy—it’s BEAUTIFUL. I love it.
Freddy took a swig of his whiskey and smiled. His sister wasn’t vengeful like he was. She probably really did love the place. He was glad about that, but he was also tickled by the notion of one of the peasants taking over the means of production.
Sophie: Maybe someday we can get it going again as a working vineyard, but for now we’re just going to get settled and get the boating business going.
Honestly, Freddy would rather she let the grapes rot in place while she swanned around all day eating bonbons, but that wasn’t her.
Sophie: Will you come visit? Pretty please?
She knew about his aversion to Bishop’s Glen, if not the chief reason behind it. He had half a mind to make an appearance just to freak everyone the fuck out. Yes, motherfuckers, I’m back. They’d all thought he was such a bad seed back in the day. A little drinking, some poorly done tattoos. Some sleeping around—including one time he got caught getting his dick sucked in the town square by the son of a prominent summer family. It didn’t help that he and Sophie had different fathers, neither of whom had stuck around long enough to meet their kids. His had been a migrant worker—they came in the late summer to pick the grapes—who’d left before his mom even knew she was pregnant.
These things had combined to brand Freddy the bad boy of Bishop’s Glen. All he’d wanted to do was keep his head down and work, both to help out his mom and, ultimately, as a means of propelling himself as far out of that shithole as humanly possible as soon as he could get enough money together.
But they wouldn’t let him.
What would Adam have said? Every story needs an antagonist. At the time, Freddy had laughed at that interpretation. Thought that if he was the villain of Bishop’s Glen, the Beast, then Adam was his Beauty. The only person pure of heart enough to see past the facade.
But no. He’d been wrong. He’d been so very wrong.
His phone pinged again.
Sophie: I know you have a hate-on for this place, but just THINK about coming, okay? Mom was talking about visiting later in the summer—you could fly into Rochester and drive her.
He’d be there sooner than she realized. Normally, his pride would not permit him to visit, even for his sister’s sake. He’d left after that horrible night and vowed to never look back. And he hadn’t. He’d learned from his mistake, hardened his heart, and made something of himself in spite of all those assholes. Maybe because of them.
Fuck. He could still see Adam’s face crumpling. And Freddy had felt bad for him, even though Adam had been the one doing the dumping. His guts churned. Even after all these years, the memory had the power to trigger a visceral reaction. He hated that.
He needed to get a hold of himself. Look at him: he was rich and successful. He could handle a couple weeks in Bishop’s Fucking Glen.
Freddy: You’re gonna get your wish sooner rather than later, sis. Ben will be on his way to town soon, and fuck me, but I’m going to have to come with him.
Sophie: Oh, I’m a terrible person! I should have asked about that right off. How are they doing? Is she still hanging on?
Freddy: Yes, but her doctors are saying a week to ten days. He’s not taking it well. It’s not like it’s a surprise—we all knew this was coming—but he’s coming unhinged. I don’t think I can let him be alone. I’ve pretty much resigned myself to coming with him and staying a few weeks. Long enough anyway until he figures out what he wants to do. I’m getting things in order here at the restaurant for us to both be away for a stretch.
Ben was Freddy’s best friend, had been since they were kids. He was the only person—besides Adam, temporarily—who’d seen through his rough exterior. And in Ben’s case, that was because he shared it. He’d had it worse than Freddy, actually, in that he’d essentially been left to fend for himself as a kid. At least Freddy’d had his mom and Sophie.
To Freddy’s mind, there were two kinds of people in the world: people who stuck by you no matter what and people who didn’t. Ben was in the former category and, as such, had earned Freddy’s fierce loyalty.
And now Ben’s wife was dying. And after she did, he was determined to head back to the town of their youth and hole up for a while.
Which meant Freddy was, too.
In Freddy’s opinion, Ben was idealizing the place. Freddy and Ben had left Bishop’s Glen together, exchanging their dishwasher and busboy jobs for similarly shitty jobs in New York City. But the difference was that in New York, there was room to climb the ladder. Bishop’s Glen had rich people and poor people and very few people in between. You either owned a vineyard or a summer place or you worked in the service industry waiting on those people and on the tourists who came to visit the wineries.
&n
bsp; In New York, no one knew Freddy. No one looked at him and dismissed him out of hand as a result of some kind of bullshit small-town groupthink.
The gamble had paid off. After a few years in New York, both he and Ben had worked their way into progressively more senior kitchen jobs. And when they took the big leap and opened their own place with the backing of a couple of loyal, deep-pocketed customers, they’d found success beyond their wildest dreams.
That would not have happened back in the armpit of the Finger Lakes. If he had stayed in Bishop’s Glen, Freddy would still be washing dishes.
But Ben was a nicer person than Freddy was. Where Freddy had ruthlessly cut out the cancer that was his past, Ben, even in those early, heady, New York City years, had waxed nostalgic about the town of their youth. The lake, the falling-down town square that was supposedly haunted by the ghost of its founder, the bush parties—it all seemed to have a pull on him. Once the money from their Food Network show started rolling in, Ben had bought a place on the lake. And now that his beloved wife was dying, hooked up to a state-of-the-art hospital bed in Manhattan, the only thing getting him through was the prospect of “heading home,” of sitting on the deck at the lake, staring into the sunset, and letting his grief subsume him. It was like he thought the lake had magical fucking healing powers.
Sophie: Well, I’m glad I’m back in town. I can help Ben, maybe—if he wants me to. And the circumstances are terrible, but I’ll be happy to see you without having to drag my ass to NYC.
Freddy: I’ll be happy to see you, too. So what’d you buy? Does it come with a wine slushie machine?
Sophie: Kellynch Estates.
Freddy’s phone and his glass of whiskey both clattered to the pavement.
Sophie had bought Kellynch?
Of course she had. Because that was just his luck. That fucking town had it in for him.
There was probably an “of all the wine joints in the world” joke to be made here, but he couldn’t fight his way through the panic that was descending to make it.
But no. No panic. He needed to tamp that shit down. He was long past expending emotional energy over the inhabitants of Kellynch. He forced himself to focus. Stooped to pick up the phone, cursing the shaking of his hands—he hated it when his body lagged behind his brain. The screen had cracked—shit.
Sophie was still texting.
Sophie: Kellynch is a little ways out of town, and it was never one of the big players, so you probably don’t know it.
Oh, he knew it.
Knew exactly how far out of town it was—a thirty-five minute walk on his own, closer to fifty with Adam. Knew all the private nooks and crannies of those outbuildings his sister had been raving about. Knew how cold the water was when you dipped into the lake after dark.
Knew ways to warm up inside that lake, too.
Fuck.
No. He wasn’t letting his mind go there.
Sophie: I had only vaguely heard the name. It was owned by a family called Elliot, and I do kind of remember the Elliot siblings even though I think they were all younger than I was. Anyway, it wasn’t one of the places we used to clean. And I don’t know if there’s a slushie machine! These foreclosure auctions move fast. You just kind of have to jump without really getting a detailed look at the place. But Freddy, it’s lovely. I adore it.
He tried out the phone. It still worked despite the crack. Not unlike his heart.
Freddy: What happened to the Elliots?
He immediately regretted the question. Why ask a question when you didn’t care about the answer? Hadn’t he just reminded himself that he was done expending energy on this topic?
Sophie: I don’t really know. The last family winemaker died a few years ago. I guess they couldn’t keep it going?
The last family winemaker would have been Adam’s dad—since he never let Adam in on the business.
Poor Adam, left with only his crazy mother and siblings. Even though he’d been pretty distant with Adam, his dad had always been the sane one. Relatively speaking, anyway.
But no. There was no Poor Adam. Adam didn’t need—or deserve—Freddy’s pity. Freddy ordered himself to have some fucking pride and stop thinking about Adam.
Sophie: They apparently had someone in on contract after that, but it didn’t work out. The last harvest was several years ago now. That’s all I know, really. Somehow it ended up with them losing everything. I feel a little bad taking someone’s house under such sad circumstances.
This should be good news. The part of Freddy that was reveling in the idea of Sophie sitting on her porch and looking down her nose at all the snobs in that town should be doing a dance of joy. If there was a little bit of poetic justice in Sophie returning to Bishop’s Glen as a home- and business-owner, there was shit-ton of it in her doing so at Kellynch Estates specifically. The Elliots were getting what was coming to them.
So it was fine. He would make his visit as short as he could manage, and he’d stay with Ben. Or hell, maybe he’d stay at one of those fucking B and Bs they used to clean. As soon as he was assured that Ben was going to be okay, he’d hightail it out of there.
It’s fine, he told himself again.
He blew some dirt off his damaged phone and took a deep breath to calm his roiling guts.
It did not feel fine.
Chapter Three
Eight years ago
The first time Freddy laid eyes on Adam, he fell in love a little bit.
Or so he assumed, being unfamiliar with the emotion. He could only speculate what this strange jolt was. It felt like interest, but more. Lust, but more. The physical sensations cascading through his body—shortened breaths, jumpy limbs, a fluttery stomach—were not unprecedented, but in the past, they had heralded anger. Fear. Self-preservation. These were the things he felt when he had to defend himself—when he was younger from actual physical blows on the playground and now from the more subtle but just as insidious slurs about his appearance, his lack of a father, his poverty—you name it.
But he wasn’t angry right now, at least not any more than usual. No, he’d just been standing outside Miller’s Inn having a cigarette before his shift started when Adam came limping up to the valet stand and kept on going right into Freddy’s heart.
He’d looked up, caught Freddy’s eye, and flashed a crooked smile. Then, seeming to think better of it, he’d looked at the ground, quickly, almost like he was embarrassed.
It was awfully fucking cute.
“Hey.” Freddy nodded at another member of the kitchen staff, a cook who had just appeared for a smoke break. “Who’s the new guy?” He tried to pitch the question so it came out sounding like he was merely mildly interested.
“New valet, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Adam Elliot.”
Freddy didn’t know the name, but that wasn’t saying much. He wasn’t very well connected in Bishop’s Glen—by design. He kept his head down. Had little interest in being social with these people, with the exception of his friend Ben Captain.
“Adam Elliot,” he echoed, savoring the feeling of the name in his mouth. “What’s his deal?”
“His family owns Kellynch Estates.”
Shit. That must be one of the wineries around town. So this guy was definitely from the other side of the proverbial tracks. “Why’s he working here, then?”
“Beats me.” His colleague stubbed out his cigarette and said, “See you.”
Freddy took a long, slow drag of his own cancer stick and ordered himself to get his shit together. To assess the situation logically. What was it about this guy that had done such a number on him?
He was of average height—shorter than Freddy—and kind of small-boned. He had slightly wavy dark brown hair and pale skin. He looked almost otherworldly—or he would have if he hadn’t been wearing the standard valet uniform of a Miller’s Inn–branded polo shirt and black pants.
None of it added up. There was no rational reason for Freddy to be so…comp
elled by this guy.
And then, just as he was talking himself out of this stupid crush, Adam Elliot lifted his head and looked right at Freddy again.
And smiled.
And this time, he sustained it. It was a big, guileless, almost goofy smile.
And Freddy was undone.
Present day
Just before dawn the day after packing up the library, Adam emerged from underneath his RV, wiped his fingers on his coveralls, and crossed them. The vehicle, which had already been old when he bought it, had only ever been driven once in the years he owned it, and that had been onto the site on the vineyard where it was currently parked.
It was fine inside. Roomy, as far as these things went, and well organized—it was a Class-A RV the previous owners had basically never used. And since he used it as a stationary living space, he hadn’t much concerned himself with the health of its engine.
It had been parked here between Kellynch’s southernmost stand of vines and the surrounding forest for several years, since he’d moved out of the house. He had concentrated all his energy on incrementally transforming the interior, but he probably should have taken it for a spin every now and then. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have foreseen a day when, left to run unchecked by Dad, his mother’s profligacy would mean saying goodbye to Kellynch. But what do they say about the shoemaker’s children going shoeless?
Undue Influence Page 2