Grayson's Vow
Page 89
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The next afternoon, the rain came down. It drummed on the window, painting the outside world in misty watercolors. I sat in Grayson's office, staring out at the oak trees and the front gates beyond, the printouts of accounting records spread out on the clean desk before me. I'd organized his office, and now everything had a place, whether it was in a file folder labeled neatly in his bottom desk drawer or in one of the stacked paper trays sitting on top of his desk. As I stood up, Sugie chuffed at my feet and yawned.
"Stay here, girl," I soothed. "I'll be right back."
I found Charlotte and Walter in the kitchen, sitting next to each other at the large dining table, a cup of tea in front of them both.
"Oh hello, dear. Would you like to join us for a cup? The temperature has really dropped today."
"Sure. But I'll get a mug. You stay there," I told Charlotte distractedly when she began to stand. I sat down at the table, holding my cup toward Charlotte as she poured from the pot already on the table. Thanking her, I put my hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into my skin.
"Are you all right?" Charlotte asked, a note of worry in her tone. "Is everything okay with you and Gray? It seems like—"
"Yes, everything's fine with us." I smiled. "Better than fine." I worried my lip. "It's something else." I looked back and forth between Charlotte and Walter, not wanting to put into words what I suspected, but knowing I had to.
"What is it?" Charlotte asked. She and Walter had seemed to become very still.
"I've been inspecting the old accounting records and it seems . . . well, it seems as if Ford Hawthorn purposefully ran this vineyard into the ground. Is that even possible?" I whispered. Charlotte and Walter glanced at each other, their expressions grim.
"You mustn't tell Grayson what you've discovered," Charlotte said. "I'm not generally in favor of withholding the truth, but . . . he's suffered enough at his father's hands and this . . . it would destroy him. Maybe someday . . . I think we'll know when the time is right, but not now. He's only just begun to heal."
I exhaled a large breath. "It's true," I choked out, a shudder running through my body. "Why? Why would he do that?"
"It was his last message to Grayson," Charlotte said, her eyes tearing up. "Walter tried to undo as much as he could—tried to preserve anything possible, but when Ford found out he was sick, and Shane and Jessica said they didn't want anything to do with this vineyard, he realized he could only leave it to Grayson and he set about destroying it. Thankfully he had less time than he thought, but he did enough damage even in the short time he lingered."
I felt ill, nausea roiling in my stomach. "He hated him that much?" My body suddenly felt chilled to the bone, despite the warm tea in my hands. I realized I was squeezing the mug and released my grip.
"He hated himself," Charlotte said, and for the first time since I'd known her, I heard heated anger in her voice. "And he channeled that into his relationship with his son. He meant to leave a worthless piece of nothing to Grayson as his final slap across his face. It was cruel and ugly and vindictive and—"
"It's a lie," Grayson's voice came from the doorway. We all startled, hot tea sloshing onto my hands as my body jerked.
"Grayson," I breathed.
"No," he said, but his voice broke as he sagged against the doorframe. Charlotte, Walter, and I all stood quickly and rushed to him.
"Gray," Charlotte said, reaching out to grasp his hand, her expression deeply pained.
"Tell me it's a lie, Charlotte," he said, his eyes beseeching her.
Her face registered deep grief, but she lowered her eyes. She couldn't lie in response to a direct question, not to Grayson. The damage had been done. Grayson turned and walked briskly out of the room, heading for the stairs.
Charlotte and Walter went to follow him, but I put my hand up. "Let me talk to him," I said. "Please."
They both nodded, Charlotte wringing her hands, looking anguished.
"If you need us, we'll be right here," Walter said. I nodded, offering a small, sad smile.
I climbed the stairs, disbelief still pommeling my heart. How was this possible? Going through the records, I'd been deeply suspicious, but I had had a hard time believing it could actually be true. Could anyone be that evil? Could anyone hate that much at the end of their life? That was the legacy he chose to leave? I couldn't wrap my mind around it. That kind of vengeance was wholly unreal to my mind. I entered the master bedroom Grayson and I shared and found him standing before the window, staring out at the rain.
"Gray," I said tentatively, moving closer. He turned to face me and the look of stark devastation on his face stopped me in my tracks. I sucked in a breath.
"I made a vow to him," he choked out. "I thought . . . and all this time . . ." He moved away from the window, pressing his back against the wall next to it. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he slid down to the floor, burrowing his head in his arms. I let out a small startled cry and rushed forward, dropping onto the carpet with him and wrapping my arms around his shaking body. And as I held him, he did what he had probably needed to do for six long years, more likely his whole life: he cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kira
Hawthorn Vineyard seemed very quiet. Grayson had stayed in our room for the rest of the day, not returning to work, lying on the bed staring at the wall. I'd come into the room several times, but he hadn't spoken to me much. I figured he just needed to process what he'd found out. Who wouldn't? He was deeply wounded, anguished, the belief system he'd held close to his heart for so long now completely obliterated. He'd been living to fulfill a singular vow—a vow based on what he now knew were lies. And the truth that lay beneath was ugly and soul-crushing. I didn't have to wonder if he felt directionless—I'd been there once, too. I just wished he'd talk to me.
The next afternoon, the rain came down. It drummed on the window, painting the outside world in misty watercolors. I sat in Grayson's office, staring out at the oak trees and the front gates beyond, the printouts of accounting records spread out on the clean desk before me. I'd organized his office, and now everything had a place, whether it was in a file folder labeled neatly in his bottom desk drawer or in one of the stacked paper trays sitting on top of his desk. As I stood up, Sugie chuffed at my feet and yawned.
"Stay here, girl," I soothed. "I'll be right back."
I found Charlotte and Walter in the kitchen, sitting next to each other at the large dining table, a cup of tea in front of them both.
"Oh hello, dear. Would you like to join us for a cup? The temperature has really dropped today."
"Sure. But I'll get a mug. You stay there," I told Charlotte distractedly when she began to stand. I sat down at the table, holding my cup toward Charlotte as she poured from the pot already on the table. Thanking her, I put my hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into my skin.
"Are you all right?" Charlotte asked, a note of worry in her tone. "Is everything okay with you and Gray? It seems like—"
"Yes, everything's fine with us." I smiled. "Better than fine." I worried my lip. "It's something else." I looked back and forth between Charlotte and Walter, not wanting to put into words what I suspected, but knowing I had to.
"What is it?" Charlotte asked. She and Walter had seemed to become very still.
"I've been inspecting the old accounting records and it seems . . . well, it seems as if Ford Hawthorn purposefully ran this vineyard into the ground. Is that even possible?" I whispered. Charlotte and Walter glanced at each other, their expressions grim.
"You mustn't tell Grayson what you've discovered," Charlotte said. "I'm not generally in favor of withholding the truth, but . . . he's suffered enough at his father's hands and this . . . it would destroy him. Maybe someday . . . I think we'll know when the time is right, but not now. He's only just begun to heal."
I exhaled a large breath. "It's true," I choked out, a shudder running through my body. "Why? Why would he do that?"
"It was his last message to Grayson," Charlotte said, her eyes tearing up. "Walter tried to undo as much as he could—tried to preserve anything possible, but when Ford found out he was sick, and Shane and Jessica said they didn't want anything to do with this vineyard, he realized he could only leave it to Grayson and he set about destroying it. Thankfully he had less time than he thought, but he did enough damage even in the short time he lingered."
I felt ill, nausea roiling in my stomach. "He hated him that much?" My body suddenly felt chilled to the bone, despite the warm tea in my hands. I realized I was squeezing the mug and released my grip.
"He hated himself," Charlotte said, and for the first time since I'd known her, I heard heated anger in her voice. "And he channeled that into his relationship with his son. He meant to leave a worthless piece of nothing to Grayson as his final slap across his face. It was cruel and ugly and vindictive and—"
"It's a lie," Grayson's voice came from the doorway. We all startled, hot tea sloshing onto my hands as my body jerked.
"Grayson," I breathed.
"No," he said, but his voice broke as he sagged against the doorframe. Charlotte, Walter, and I all stood quickly and rushed to him.
"Gray," Charlotte said, reaching out to grasp his hand, her expression deeply pained.
"Tell me it's a lie, Charlotte," he said, his eyes beseeching her.
Her face registered deep grief, but she lowered her eyes. She couldn't lie in response to a direct question, not to Grayson. The damage had been done. Grayson turned and walked briskly out of the room, heading for the stairs.
Charlotte and Walter went to follow him, but I put my hand up. "Let me talk to him," I said. "Please."
They both nodded, Charlotte wringing her hands, looking anguished.
"If you need us, we'll be right here," Walter said. I nodded, offering a small, sad smile.
I climbed the stairs, disbelief still pommeling my heart. How was this possible? Going through the records, I'd been deeply suspicious, but I had had a hard time believing it could actually be true. Could anyone be that evil? Could anyone hate that much at the end of their life? That was the legacy he chose to leave? I couldn't wrap my mind around it. That kind of vengeance was wholly unreal to my mind. I entered the master bedroom Grayson and I shared and found him standing before the window, staring out at the rain.
"Gray," I said tentatively, moving closer. He turned to face me and the look of stark devastation on his face stopped me in my tracks. I sucked in a breath.
"I made a vow to him," he choked out. "I thought . . . and all this time . . ." He moved away from the window, pressing his back against the wall next to it. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he slid down to the floor, burrowing his head in his arms. I let out a small startled cry and rushed forward, dropping onto the carpet with him and wrapping my arms around his shaking body. And as I held him, he did what he had probably needed to do for six long years, more likely his whole life: he cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kira
Hawthorn Vineyard seemed very quiet. Grayson had stayed in our room for the rest of the day, not returning to work, lying on the bed staring at the wall. I'd come into the room several times, but he hadn't spoken to me much. I figured he just needed to process what he'd found out. Who wouldn't? He was deeply wounded, anguished, the belief system he'd held close to his heart for so long now completely obliterated. He'd been living to fulfill a singular vow—a vow based on what he now knew were lies. And the truth that lay beneath was ugly and soul-crushing. I didn't have to wonder if he felt directionless—I'd been there once, too. I just wished he'd talk to me.
