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 sentence. “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.”
Closing the study door behind her, she ignored Ash’s parting comment that she’d already stabbed him in the back, tears clouding her vision as she hurried to her car.
And ran straight into a pink polo-covered chest before she made it to the foyer.
“Trey? What are you doing here?”
“Whoa, there.” Holding her steady, he dipped his chin. “I wanted to extend my condolences in person. Are you okay?”
“Thank you,” she said politely, looking toward the front door. “I need to go—”
“On behalf of everyone at Gillis Wine Group, we’re all sad and disheartened to hear of Marshall’s passing. I couldn’t let that go without saying.”
“Thank you,” she repeated, his grip on her shoulders not easing even as she tried to sidestep him. “But I really have to run.”
“He was an icon in the industry and his presence will be greatly missed.”
“Once again, thank you.” Christ, he wasn’t going to let up on this. “Now do you wanna tell me why you’re really here? Because if it’s about the distribution deal, we’ll need to schedule a meeting later. It’s been a doozy of a day, and I really need a drink. Preferably one with Jack Daniels.”
As he wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb, his cologne gagged her. God, she hated Obsession for Men.
“I wanted to check on you personally, see if you need anything. Looks like you do.” In another lifetime, his thoughtful smile might be charming. “You know I’ve always wanted to take our relationship to another level, so maybe we can start with a friendship. I make a mean Whiskey Sour.”
“Well, isn’t this tacky as shit.” Ash’s sarcastic voice echoed, and Olivia jumped like a thief caught red-handed.
Hands on his hips, he froze Trey in place. “You know the guy they planted this morning wasn’t her husband, right? She’s still married to me. For now, at least.” His parting shot was said directly to her.
“Oh, spare me the dramatics.” She mimicked his stance. “I’m not even gonna bother with the whole ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ bullshit. You know it’s not.”
He smirked and headed for the front door, tossing a jab over this shoulder. “Might be a good time to cozy up to him. Maybe he can give you a job. You’re gonna need one.”
“What are you talking about?” Half running to catch up, her heels clicked on the terracotta tile. “My job’s safe for the next twenty-five years.”
“Not if I shut this place down. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Stopping at the door, he turned. “Got a sweet standing offer from a land developer the day Marshall croaked, and thanks to controlling share, I just accepted.” He waved his phone in the air, wasting no time. “Polish your resume, ‘cause Coleson Creek is closed for business. Take whatever you want from the house. Hell, yank the draperies and make goddamn dresses out of them. Strip the wallpaper. Steal the toilets. Wrecking ball’s coming soon.”
A land developer. Cookie-cutter houses.
“No.” She shook her head, the pins holding her tasteful updo loosening. “No, you can’t do that. They’ll bulldoze it all down. They’ll level the rose garden. Please don’t do that, Ash. Please.”
Forty-ton trucks would drive over sacred ground, the rumble of diesel engines frightening as they scraped away everything in their path. A heavy metal claw the size of a refrigerator would hammer the hallowed earth, churning up grass, dirt, and roots, digging with reckless abandon, disturbing what rested peacefully, innocently, beneath it.
The images choked her, panic setting in.
“Already done, darlin’, and that means you’re out of a job. But don’t worry, I’ll give you a decent severance package, despite Marshall’s will. Oh, and that alimony payment that’ll kick in before too long. You’re getting what you want from me.”
“No! Ash, you don’t understand. Wait!” Chasing him to the driveway, she grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. “They’re gonna take away all I have left. And for what? A golf course and townhouses? That’s meaningless. But the garden means something to me. I need it. I need to go there. It’s all I have. It’s all that’s left.”
Tears streamed down her face, loose clumps of hair hanging from the ruined twist.
“Look at you,” he said, rounding on her, face flushed in anger. “Carrying on about a house. It’s just a fucking house, Liv! I’m your husband.” He pounded his chest. “Care about me that much. Love me that much! I just told you I’m granting you your divorce, and what do you do? Throw a shit fit over the vineyard. Not me. Not the fact that my life is over. Christ, my wife loves Coleson Creek more than she loves me.”
“That’s not true,” she pleaded, bearing the weight of his words. “But the garden—”
“It makes me question whether you ever really did.” He held out his arms. “Did you ever love me? Or did you just marry me to get the keys to the kingdom?”
“What about you? Did you only marry me because you knew it would piss off your dad?”
Charged silence followed, neither willing to shed their protective armor, both wounded anyway.
Olivia broke first, voice shaking. “I know Rosa taught you better than to call a woman a whore to her face, so I’ll reference another legal document with our names on it. It’s called a prenup. And I’m begging you to rethink this. Please. They’ll dig up the garden.”
Chest heaving, he stared at the sky. “I love you, Liv. So fucking much. And all you’re worried about is the goddamn yard.”
Then, with a vile curse aimed at himself, he hopped into his Jeep and flew down the road, not hitting his brakes once.
She knew because she stood on the cobblestone driveway of a house that meant squat to her, with mascara running and the wild hair of an escaped mental patient, watching him go.
Just like so many times before.
A crowd of onlookers stood on the front steps, the men shuffling their feet in awkward silence, the women holding a hand to their mouths and weeping with her. All unsure how to approach a woman losing her mind right before their eyes.
Trey. Elliott. Rosa. Hope and Beck.
The first two men retreated to their cars, seeking immediate escape. Rosa and Hope circled her, a protective embrace from women who’d once had their hearts broken, too. Beck hung back, hands on his hips and scowl on his face, undoubtedly, rightfully, taking Ash’s side.
Olivia didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t even hear them. All she heard were the powerful three-word sentences she should have said, but didn’t.
Don’t leave me.
I need you.
I choose you.
I love you.
All the way.