Page 45 of Let It Breathe (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #1)

C onsidering how much effort he’d invested in walking the straight and narrow, Clay was surprised to realize it was the second time in a week he’d found himself at the police station in the presence of a scowling detective.

He felt a certain sense of pride that neither visit had added to his rap sheet. For the first time in his life, Clay was innocent.

Well, pretty much.

The same could not be said for Sheila.

“So let me make sure I’ve got all this.” Detective Austin Evans tapped his pen against the desk. He’d agreed to meet with them an hour ago after Sheila insisted she wanted to talk to the police immediately. Clay had tried to talk her out of it, but Sheila was adamant.

“I just want this over with,” she said for the hundredth time as she mopped her eyes with a tissue.

“We’re working on that, ma’am,” said Detective Evans.

He flipped back a few pages of his notebook and frowned.

“You’re confessing to destroying a wine barrel and its contents, setting a trash can on fire in a winery barn, stealing all the corkscrews, and deliberately failing to correct a typo on a wine label? ”

“I also ran a red light on the way here,” Sheila sniffed. “I was nervous.”

Clay squeezed her hand, not sure whether to hate her for what she’d done or admire her for trying to do the right thing now. Though he’d tried to convince her to wait until Eric and a lawyer could be present, she hadn’t been willing. Once she decided to confess, there was no stopping her.

Beside him, Sheila looked up and sniffed. “When does it get easier, Clay?”

“When does what get easier?”

“This screwing up so badly and trying to make it right—how long will I feel like hell?”

Clay shook his head, not sure how to answer. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

The detective cleared his throat. “So, ma’am, as I told you before, you’re welcome to have an attorney present?—”

“No,” Sheila said. “I did this, I want to face the consequences.”

Clay tightened his grip on her hand. “I wish you’d let me call someone—Eric or a lawyer or?—”

“I let you call Reese,” Sheila interrupted. “That’s who I want to talk to first. I need to apologize, to try to make this right. Until I’ve talked to her, I don’t want anyone else hearing about it.”

Clay nodded. The whole story would get out soon enough, probably before the day was over. For a few hours at least, he could let her feel like she had some control.

When she’d started confessing at the bar, he’d known right away it was bad. She wasn’t drinking anything stronger than root beer, but the words still came flooding out of her. He’d wanted to call Eric, to ask her to wait until she was calm before rushing to the police.

But she wanted to confess, and she wasn’t willing to wait.

On some level, Clay could relate. When he’d hit rock bottom and decided to get sober, he’d had Eric drive him to rehab that minute.

It didn’t matter that Clay hadn’t showered in days and the sweatpants he’d been wearing were covered in paint and food stains.

When you’re ready to get clean—or in Sheila’s case, come clean—waiting might mean losing your nerve.

So yeah, Clay kinda understood where she was coming from. And as she finished describing her crimes to the detective, he felt his cell phone vibrate.

“It’s Eric,” he said, setting his phone on the table. “Look, Sheila—he’s going to know sooner or later. You sure you don’t want to talk to him now?”

“Not yet.” She sniffled and swiped at her eyes with a tissue. “That’s going to be the worst part, and I’m not ready yet. I just need to talk to Reese first.”

Clay nodded and hit the ignore button on his phone. “Fair enough.”

Detective Evans cleared his throat again. “So, ma’am, just to be clear, this was all an attempt to get your husband—Mr. Eric Mortenson—to leave his position as winemaker at Sunridge Vineyards and move with you to New York to be closer to your family?”

“And work.” Sheila looked down at her lap and began shredding a soggy tissue.

“I’m a forensic nurse, and there’s not much opportunity here in Oregon, but in New York—” She stopped, shaking her head.

“There are lots of good wine jobs there, too. For Eric, I mean. But he never wanted to talk about moving.”

Clay bit his tongue. What would his best pal say when he found what his wife had done?

The detective scribbled something, then consulted his notes again. “And you claim you didn’t set out to sabotage Sunridge Vineyards.”

“That’s true.” Sheila sniffled. “It started innocently. When I saw Eric get upset about the winery having a termite problem, I got the idea to poke a few holes in the barrel so he’d think his work was compromised. Things just spiraled from there when I saw he wasn’t budging, and?—”

She broke down in sobs again, and Clay felt his heart twist. God, he knew all too well how it felt to screw up this badly. To know he’d done something horrible and destructive to people he cared about.

The desk phone beside the cop gave a shrill beep. “Detective Evans?” called a female voice. “There’s a Reese Clark here for you. You asked me to alert you when she arrived?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right out to get her. Just give me a sec.”

He hit a button on the phone and stood up, eyeing Clay and Sheila. “I’ll be right back. You two stay here.”

Clay nodded and gave Sheila’s hand another squeeze as the detective moved past them into the hallway.

Sheila looked up at him, eyes still shimmering with tears. “I blamed you, you know.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For being the reason he wouldn’t even consider moving. He was so excited when he heard you were coming back. So proud of you and the fact that you got your life back together. Did he tell you that?”

Clay looked away. “Not in so many words.”

“That sounds like Eric. All dirty jokes and grunts and not a lot of sentimental talk. You thought the only thing he cared about with you is whether you’d end up with Reese?”

Clay looked back at her, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”

“I know my husband. He’s protective of you both. He thought you’d be a bad combination. Personally, I thought you were perfect for each other.”

Clay shook his head. “I think I already proved that wrong. Things are kind of a disaster right now.”

Sheila shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“I do.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “I screwed up, and it’s too late to fix things.”

“No it’s not.” She clenched the soggy tissue in her fist, her eyes taking on a rabid look that made Clay sit back a little. “Promise me something—promise me you won’t give up on this thing with Reese.”

“It’s not my choice to make.”

“Yes, it is. Fight for her. Convince her you want her. Tell her you won’t take no for an answer.”

“What am I supposed to do, club her over the head and drag her back to my cave by the hair?”

“Yes!”

Clay shook his head. “You’re nuts. No offense. Though maybe you should consider that as a defense?”

Sheila squeezed his hand. “Promise me you’ll try.”

“Why don’t you just worry about yourself for right now?—”

“Promise me!”

“Okay,” Clay said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Why don’t you promise me you’ll get a lawyer? Someone who’ll make sure you’re not screwing yourself here.”

“I already screwed myself,” she said, turning as the sound of footsteps came trudging down the hall. “Now I’m trying to make it right.”

Clay nodded and felt his heart constrict as Reese walked into the room looking confused and nervous and so damn beautiful he had to clench his hands to keep from jumping up and wrapping his arms around her.

He turned back to Sheila. “I can relate.”

As soon as Sheila finished telling her story, Reese asked her to repeat it.

It still didn’t make sense.

Reese frowned at the cop, then at Sheila. She deliberately avoided meeting Clay’s eyes. “So you did these things on purpose?” she asked Sheila. “The wine, the fire?—”

“I’m so sorry, Reese.”

She stared at this woman she’d loved like a sister. A woman whose shoes she sometimes borrowed, a woman she’d cried with while watching The Notebook . “I thought we were friends.”

“We were. We are . You have to believe I didn’t mean to hurt you.

” Sheila covered her face with her hands and sobbed the next words into her palms. “I wasn’t trying to damage the winery.

I just wanted Eric to question things and wonder whether he belonged there, and it all sort of snowballed.

When one thing didn’t work, I tried another. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“No kidding.”

“Reese, I’m sorry.” Dropping her hands to her lap, she met Reese’s eyes with her own swollen ones. “Truly, truly sorry.”

Reese nodded, not sure what to say to that. You’re forgiven wasn’t right. Not yet, not even close. She looked at Clay. He reached over and squeezed her hand, and Reese felt a small surge of strength.

Sheila sniffed and looked up at the cop. “How long will I be in prison?”

“Look,” Reese said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure the cops and lawyers will want to work through the details, figure out the charges, all that complicated legal stuff. Talk of prison might be a little premature.”

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Sheila said, waving a manicured hand. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Reese nodded. “Okay. Can I ask you why? I mean, I understand the whole thing about wanting Eric to move with you, but our friendship—yours and mine, I mean. That was always separate.”

Fresh tears pooled in Sheila’s eyes, and Reese couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

“You have to believe I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sheila started.

“I thought it would be harmless, you know? I just wanted Eric to start questioning his future at the vineyard—the lost wine would make him worry about the value of his work, and the thing with the typo on the wine label—that really was a printer error, but I saw it and I just didn’t correct it. ”

“But the fire—you could have hurt someone.”