Page 29

The motorcycle was an old piece of junk, but Sebastian taught me how to fix it.
I know how to do so many things I never used to—how to patch a hole in a roof, how to mend my own clothes. How to clean a wine press, how to operate a crusher. And yet in so many ways I feel like I’m still stuck in that day five years ago. I can remember waking up with Isla in my arms as clearly as I can remember waking up in my bed this morning.
I try to be happy for Isla, test out that feeling. It sours in my chest. I do want her to be happy. But not with Luke.
The huge veranda that surrounds the lodge is about half filled with tourists. I see Daisy flitting from table to table, pouring wine, checking on the guests, laughing and telling stories about Everton or asking people where they’re from. She’s very good at this. A real natural. I used to help with tastings sometimes, on the days Dad had a light schedule. I enjoyed geeking out over my family’s product, watch people having fun. Even though I never actually worked at the winery the way I do at Catarina Azul, I still knew everything about the wines. Our winemaker, John, is a very traditional, very old-fashioned guy when it comes to style.
I start to turn the dreams I used to have for Everton over in my mind and think of how I could apply the things I’ve learned in Argentina. The environmentally friendly packaging we could use. Putting solar panels on the lodge and on the outbuildings where the presses and crushers are. Hell, we could even put panels along the edge of the vineyards, the larger ones that aren’t seen by tourists. I could implement some of the methods Sebastian uses to conserve water and maintain healthy soil.
“Cade!” Daisy breaks apart my thoughts as she hurries up to me, reminding me that I’m not here to change Everton. I’m not part of Everton at all. “You’ll be here for dinner, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Good. Dad’s going to be home!”
I immediately wish I’d made other plans. Daisy must read my expression because she folds her arms over her chest.
“You already said you’d be here so no backing out. And Von said she’d come too.
I was worried she’d cancel like she usually does but she just texted me to say she’ll be here. That job of hers is crazy. She works like eighty hours a week. But I’m going to make Mom’s pasta sauce tonight!” Daisy beams. Her strawberry blonde hair is braided into two plaits, and she wears a short black apron with the Everton logo over her jeans.
“Really?” I say. The memory of Mom’s famous pasta sauce bubbling away on the stove and filling the kitchen with the scent of tomato and garlic brings me back to being a kid again.
“I hope I don’t screw it up. It’ll be nice to have the whole family home,” Daisy says. But her voice is tinged with sadness. It will never be the whole family. There will always be someone missing. She perks back up again. “Do you want to help with the tastings?”
“I’m heading into town actually. Thought I’d talk to some people who were at the party.”
My sister’s face brightens, like that’s the best idea she’s ever heard. I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like Daisy. “That’s a great idea! Was Fred any help?”
“He sent me his files,” I say, feeling a twinge at the memory of his interview with her. “But…well, I need to talk to Noah about some things.”
I sound much more self-assured than I feel. Daisy’s eyes widen.
“Wow. This is great, Cade. You’re really doing it. Maybe we can finally get some answers.”
I feel a sudden burst of apprehension. This isn’t just about me needing answers. My whole family deserves them too. I don’t want to let them down. I glance around at some of the empty tables. “Business seems a little thin.”
Daisy sighs. “It’s picking up,” she says. “But yeah. We took a pretty big hit after Mom died and…” She purses her lips. “Anyway, every year gets better.”
“Right,” I say. I give her a quick hug. “See you for dinner.”
“Do you want to borrow my car?” Daisy asks.
“You know what,” I say. “I think I’ll walk.”
I give her a wave and head out onto the road. The last time I took this walk was with Isla. It was on this very street that I confessed my plans to make Everton sustainable, a dream I’d not dared to voice aloud to anyone. And she told me about her wish to go to Paris. We were both so full of hope then.
I wonder if Luke has taken her to Paris yet. He certainly can afford to. I hope they did it her way—she said no luxury hotels or fancy restaurants. She wanted to do Paris the Isla Davenport way. She wanted to eat crepes from a street vendor and drink cheap Bordeaux on the Pont des Arts.
The memory expands in my chest, pushing the air from my lungs. I barely see the trees that line the road or hear the hum of bees.
Which is probably why I don’t notice the car trailing alongside me at first.
“Caden Everton!”
I jump and turn to see old Mrs. Greerson. Her iron-gray hair is in its usual bob and she wears oversized glasses, a yellow cardigan, and a blunt expression.
“I heard you were back,” she continues sternly.