A Bridge Between Us

by K. K. Allen

  “I suppose I am, yes. Operations, business development, marketing…”

  I have no desire to continue listening to the long list of roles Thomas has acquired over the years. While I promised myself that I would go into this meeting with a clear head and all preconceived notions aside, I find it hard to look past the feeling that has always twisted in my gut while I’m around him. “I’d love to take a look at that client list as well as all the business documents you can muster up. Operations handbooks, updated business plan, employee logs, you name it.”

  Thomas nods toward the desk. “Everything you need to know is in your father’s desk drawers. Everything else is in a shared cloud drive on his desktop. I’ve left the logins and passwords for you, and if there’s anything I can help you find, just let me know.”

  “I definitely will.” I snap my fingers, remembering something. “Speaking of passwords.” I open my organizer, where I stored my notes and questions and checklists. My one and only goal for today is to hit the ground running. “I thought I could take a look at the website and our mail lists. I’ll need access to those as well as our domain and hosting sites.”

  “Of course.” He tilts his head, looking reluctant. “But you realize those are all things your father left up to me?” Thomas’s smile is restored. “He had approval over everything before it got published, of course, but he never bothered himself with the marketing details.”

  “I don’t doubt that you’ll continue to manage all of the same things, but I would still like access to everything.”

  “Of course. No problem.” Thomas jots a note in his notepad and looks back at me.

  I rattle off a list of to-dos regarding all the different departments—set up meetings, tours, demonstrations with the staff, and on and on—until Thomas looks back at me with annoyance on his face.

  “I’m your partner, Ms. Bell, not your assistant. While I’m more than happy to help you get up to speed, this—” He rips the paper out of his notebook and slides it on the coffee table between us. “Can be done by you or someone you employ. I do not set up meetings. Frankly, I don’t have the time, since I’m pounding the pavement every day to ensure our assets are locked in.”

  My jaw drops, and I wish I’d been able to contain it. It’s too early to let Thomas Bradshaw know that he has the ability to get under my skin. He never failed to do that before, but working together in a business setting means something different.

  As if she detects the tension, Mama leans over and slides the paper into her lap. “I can take care of this while you look for someone, Camila. Hiring an assistant isn’t a bad idea. It’s something I wish your papa had done long ago.” She turns to me, and I know the warning look all too well. Keep your cool, mija. “Patrick was always doing way more than he should when it came to operations. Someone else would be more than happy to take on the smaller tasks.”

  “Do we have the budget for that?” I ask Thomas. And as the questions continue to come to me, I realize just how in the dark I’ve been all these years.

  He tilts his head and purses his lips in thought. “I believe we’re well-equipped to add on, but financials, payroll, and accounting were your father’s responsibility. The budget documents are on your desktop as well.” He reaches for his notebook. “How about you review them, and we can discuss things in the morning with the new business manager?”

  Why do I get the feeling that Thomas is calling an abrupt end to our meeting? “We have a new business manager?”

  “Yes,” Thomas says, rising to his feet. “And he’s been a dedicated full-time employee for eight years.”

  One by one, I silently think about all the vineyard workers I’d gotten to know and love over the years while growing up, and not one of them is coming to my mind as a likely candidate.

  My mama touches my leg to get my attention. “He’s talking about Trip. Trip is the new operations manager.”

  “Oh.” I widen my eyes. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  Thomas smiles, pride appearing to puff out his chest. “That’s right. Trip will take over my old job as business manager as well. He already knows our clients and has had his hand in vineyard operations. And Raven will continue to manage the winery and all event planning.”

  My chest feels tight with anger. “Again, Thomas, those are some major decisions you made without even speaking with me.”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Bell, you weren’t here. The vineyard couldn’t wait three months for you to tie up your affairs back in California. I still had a business to run.”

  I stew inside, wondering how I’m going to manage to work alongside this prick like my papa did for over thirty years.

  “I had to sell my house, give notice at my job, and pack an entire decade’s worth of stuff within three months. The least you could have done was pick up the phone and call me.”

  Thomas shrugs. “I suppose I could have done that. But what’s the point? You should trust that I know what I’m doing by now.”

  “And what is it that you’re doing, exactly?” I ask, condescension in my tone. “Since you’re giving all your jobs away, what will yours be?”

  Thomas shoots a look at mama then back to me, like they’re in on the same secret. “You don’t know?”

  I squint at him in confusion. “Know what?” Then I look at my mama, who has her head bent low, just like she would do when Papa used to scold me.

  “My title is vineyard owner,” he says. “Just like you.”

  A laugh bubbles in my chest. I can’t believe the nerve of him to invite himself into my office, sit down in my papa’s old seat, then claim that he has the same title as the heir to the vineyard. I stand, leveling him with my gaze. “I hope you didn’t print that on your new business cards, because that is a decision that will not get my approval.”

  He smiles back at me. It’s the same creepy smile I remember from when I was a teen. The man called me a whore with those same twisted lips.

  “I don’t need your approval. Once you brush up on some of that homework you desperately want to do, you’ll see for yourself. You’ve been gone for a long time, Camila. This isn’t the same vineyard you left. In fact, you may want to consider whether your being back here is the best decision after all.” He nods at me. “It’s been a pleasure, but I have work to do. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “He’s part-owner?” I half growl, half scream the words once I find Papa’s ownership papers, which clearly states that Thomas Bradshaw owns fifty percent of the business along with me. As an only child, I’ve never had to share anything in my entire life. What would have made Papa believe I’d want to share this? It was supposed to be mine.

  I hold it up to Mama, who hasn’t moved from the couch. She knew all along. I can see it written all over her guilt-ridden face. “Why didn’t you warn me about this? How the hell did this happen?

  Mama sighs and looks up at me with sad eyes. “Your papa never included me in these business discussions. I knew something was wrong, but no one ever consulted me. But to be honest, I feared something like this would happen.”

  “What?” I can’t even comprehend what’s going on. “Why? How?”

  “Your father was getting himself into trouble. I’ve told you that much. Before you walked in, I was trying to get Thomas to explain to me exactly what happened, but that man is impossible. I warned your father repeatedly that he’d been giving Thomas too much control, but it got to the point that Patrick couldn’t make any business decisions without him.”

  “And Papa cut you out of every single decision?”

  She frowns. “He omitted a lot. I got the sense he was drowning, but you know your papa and his pride. I knew things were bad. I just didn’t know they were this bad.”

  I look back down at the documents, feeling a tornado of emotions whirl through me. “This can’t be happening. How are we just finding out about this?”

  As I flip through the documents page by page, I start to catch on to a pattern. And it all started the s
ummer after I left for college, after my parents separated. Each year, Papa gave up his shares five percent at a time, until it added up to what it is today, and Thomas Bradshaw paid a mint for each of those shares.

  What I can’t figure out is why. Why sell? And why keep it from everyone? It’s all too much to process.

  Ten years ago, I would probably have shed a tear or two at my papa’s betrayal, but I refuse to shed a single tear today. I don’t care how Thomas managed to get my papa to give up ownership of his company. I will find a way to get it back.

  Chapter 46

  Camila

  I let out a growl as I stomp around Mountain Village well into the evening. I can’t enjoy a damn thing, the way my mind is circling the conversation I had with Thomas Bradshaw this morning. This used to be my favorite place to get away and stroll by the plazas, ice skate on the Village Pond, or dine outside at one of the scenic restaurants. Something about knowing I was over nine thousand feet above sea level made me truly feel like I was on top of the world. But no matter how far I walk, how many familiar sights I take in, or how much joy I can hear in the laughing voices around me, nothing can restore my mood.

  After I pored over business and legal documents all damn day, so many things started to make sense, including why Thomas Bradshaw encouraged me to go away to school. Having the future heir gone made it easier for him to manipulate Papa. And my papa’s last will and testament was shared with me, but the actual property share documents were not. Clearly, no one wanted me to know what was going on. I’d been living on a false sense of security my entire life, while Thomas slowly chipped away pieces of my future and stole them for himself and his family.

  Well, I suppose stole is the wrong word. Thomas evidently paid for everything that’s now his. But all I can think about is how. How did a full-time vineyard worker rake in the millions and millions of dollars it took to pay my papa off? Why did Papa even consider accepting? And it isn’t just the vineyard he’s been purchasing.

  He now owns half of the land, the villa, and the freaking llamas, for heaven’s sake.

  I don’t know what I’m angrier about—that I’m to operate the vineyard with Thomas, as if we could actually agree on anything, or that my papa decided all of this without remotely consulting with me. Surely he realized the risk he put our family legacy in by handing over so much power to another family. Did he ever care what I thought about any of it? A sinking feeling enters my gut when I realize that it’s possible he didn’t care at all.

  Papa and I never fully reconciled after our big blowup about Ridge, but we were still family. I visited him and Mama, he sent me wine, and I called home often. We never talked business, and perhaps that was a mistake. I should have been asking the hard questions, but I never expected him to leave this world as early as he did. I thought when I was finally ready to come home, I would have training, then we would have a transition of power. I would be in the fields while Papa smoked cigars and drank crates of wine until the last of his days.

  This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t why I went away to school for a slew of degrees, all to benefit the Bell family name, for a freaking decade.

  My brain hurts, and my body feels sore from too much walking. So when I spot the outdoor dining area at Poacher’s Pub, I grab a seat and begin to order a few too many glasses of wine.

  None of them make me feel better, but my buzz is strong when Josie calls.

  “Sorry,” she says. “We just parked.” She’s breathing heavily, like she’s walking fast. “Where are you?”

  I drain the last of my wine and set it down. “I’m up at Mountain Village, trying to clear my head.”

  When I talked to Josie earlier today, I vented to her about what was going on, and she suggested we meet up for dinner and drinks tonight.

  “Is it working?”

  “Nope.”

  She laughs, but I can hear sympathy there too. “Well, come down and meet us at High Pie. If the best pizza in the world doesn’t cheer you up, then I will.”

  I smile. “I’ll start heading there now.”

  “Great. We’ll grab a table.”

  After hanging up, I pay my bill and head back to the gondola station to wait for the next cabin. I look up to the sky and exhale, trying to ease my anxiety with slow, deep breaths. As I watch the fog from my breathing fade from view, I focus on the present. Dozens of people are in line, and even more are still perusing the sights around Mountain Village. Laughter and joyful shrieks fill the air. Blades cut through ice as skaters circle the ring. Heavy boots crunch through thick snow. Ski equipment gets placed on the racks of the gondolas.

  So much noise and activity is around me, but somehow, I’m able to filter that out as I trace the constellations with my eyes.

  “Next!”

  I jump at the operator’s deep voice and lurch into action. I jog toward the slow-moving cabin and take a step up to get in. But when my left boot catches on something, my first wine-induced instinct is to tug it harder—big mistake. My boots are loosely tied, enough to cause the bow of one lace to catch on the metal edge. The moment my boot slips off my foot, I lose my balance and stumble into the car, landing on my knees and palms just as it begins to move.

  “Oh no!” I scramble across the floor on my hands and knees to get to the door before it closes.

  I make a move to stand so that I can jump out as one of the workers swoops down and grabs my boot. When the gondola stops, relief floods me, sobering me enough to thank my savior and retrieve my shoe. But when the doors open completely, and I see who’s standing on the other side, my buzz comes right back, slamming me hard in the chest.

  His chocolate-brown eyes meet mine, and his face has the same hard look as the first time we met. Only this time, he isn’t holding a gun. He’s holding my boot, and he’s handing it to me.

  Chapter 47

  Ridge

  Camila’s boot isn’t the first personal item I’ve rescued while operating the gondola station in Mountain Village, especially on nights after the alcohol sets in. I just never expected for those cornfield-green eyes to be the ones staring back at me when the doors opened this time.

  The moment our eyes meet, it’s like a jolt of electricity, firing up my every nerve ending and putting me on high alert. She’s every bit the Camila I remember and so much more. Her hair is longer and even appears darker against the snowy backdrop. Her white sweater sets off the deep caramel of her skin, showcasing her Spanish-Brazilian roots. And her eyelashes seem bolder—thicker and longer—transfixing me.

  “Ridge.”

  She says my name with wide eyes, like she can’t believe it’s really me. Maybe if I walk away, she’ll convince herself it was all a mirage. That would be far easier than engaging in the reality of who we are today—opposites and enemies.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, her eyebrows knitting.

  “Working.” My response is gruff, but even with all the thoughts about Camila circling my mind, I never once planned how I would react to coming into contact with her again.

  People are waiting, staring at us and wondering. If Camila were any other passenger, she would have grabbed her shoe, thanked me, and been on her way. Even I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable, standing here while the shock settles between us both.

  I lift her boot, trying to get her attention. “I believe this is yours, Ms. Bell.”

  She seems startled by my voice and looks down at her shoe. Swallowing, she reaches for it, and her hand brushes mine as she glances back at me. “Thank you.”

  Her voice sounds so small and unlike her. My heart squeezes at the loss of the strong, determined, and stubborn Camila I once knew. Nothing ever made her voice small, which was one of the things that drew me to her then and one of the many things I still miss.

  She clutches her shoe against her chest as her shocked expression quickly dissolves into something colder and harder. It resembles the look she gave me the last time I saw her.

  Time has been cruel
to me, and in turn, I’ve been cruel to her. I will never forgive myself for the decisions I made, but I also know they were all the right ones. Unfortunately, the damage has been done, and it appears Camila feels the same.

  She takes a step backward into the cabin, and I mirror her, stepping away from the car. A second later, the gondola starts to move, and the door to Camila’s cabin slides shut, creating yet another wall between us. But it doesn’t matter when every wall built before it is more impenetrable than the next.

  Over the next hour, I continue my shift at the gondola station, inspecting and cleaning as cabins come through, assisting passengers with mounting their ski equipment onto the outside of the rides, and making sure everyone leaves with their articles of clothing intact.

  By the time my shift ends and I jump into a cabin to head down the mountain, I’m exhausted. Not physically or even because of lack of sleep, but I’m mentally drained from the constant cycle of thoughts about Camila. I go from past to present, from good to bad, and from fantasy to reality. My mind just keeps spinning and hurling memories at me like tiny grenades, exploding in my heart.

  We got the hard part out of the way. We saw each other again. Is that how it’s going to be from now on? We run into each other in town and share an awkward glance? It feels wrong, but not much feels right anymore.

  As I’m carried down the mountain, I look out the window at a view I will never take for granted. The surrounding land appears to be painted right into my vision. Peaks and valleys spread out over hundreds of miles, all white with fresh snow. A box canyon sits below, snuggled between the mountain walls. From where I sit at nine thousand feet up, the buildings scattered below resemble a picturesque Christmas village, like the kind one would put on display in their house every winter.

  As the buildings at the bottom of the box canyon grow, tension in my body mounts right along with it as Camila’s words from earlier pop into my head.