“You’re right. But that means justice, not revenge. To me, they’re defined with different intent.”
“You’re right. They are. And I might be brutal, sweetheart, but the law is my bitch, and so are your enemies.”
“I know that. I’m not really upset at you, Nick. I wasn’t even reacting to you. I’m upset to realize my father was someone I didn’t know him to be.”
“His sex life doesn’t change who he was as a man, Faith.”
“A little kinky sex doesn’t. I, of all people, know that.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“He played the victim and that feels like a lie. It’s like I didn’t really know who he was and that is such a deep betrayal. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not before we meet with Kasey. Can you just please help me with the stupid box?”
“Of course.” I kiss her temple, my lips lingering there, because damn it, it’s like she was talking about me. And it feels like she has that kitchen knife in her hand again and she just plunged it in my chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Faith
I don’t like who you are here…
Nick’s words play in my head the entire afternoon as we box up my belongings for the move to San Francisco. Namely because there isn’t much to do or that I want to take with me, most certainly not how I act and feel here. All I want are my clothes and shoes, and basic items I use every day. Nick notices too.
“You know,” he says, about an hour into packing my bedroom, “you can take anything you want. You can take everything if you want.”
“I’m taking what matters,” I assure him, holding up a pair of pink panties. “See?”
I successfully distract him and we move on to the living area and make the rounds from there. The entire time, he builds the boxes and tries to overstuff them, and I pull things back out. Time gets away from us and it’s nearly sunset and time to get ready for dinner when it hits me that I haven’t packed a box of random items like gloves and scarves I keep in the closet. Afraid I’ll forget again, I rush to the bedroom and the closet. Grabbing a decorative wooden container where I have various accessories stored, I stick it in an empty box in the center of the small room.
I rotate to leave and find Nick leaning in the archway, his hair half around his face, and half tied at his nape. His blue eyes are stark. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You aren’t taking anything with you, Faith. It’s as if you aren’t committed to leaving or rather, staying with me.” There is a hint of vulnerability in his voice, his eyes, that Nick Rogers doesn’t allow anyone to see. But he does let me now. He lets me see that I could hurt him the way he could hurt me.
And I am instantly in front of him, my hand settling on his chest. “I am committed,” I assure him. “I want to be with you.”
“Then why do you read like someone packing for a vacation and planning to come back home?”
“Because you’re looking for one thing, and not seeing what’s really going on.”
“Which is what?”
“I just don’t feel connected to anything here. Only my studio.”
“You bought this house. You designed it.”
“Because I needed something of my own.”
“And now you’re accepting something that’s mine.”
“No. It’s not like that. I don’t want your place to look like mine.”
“It’s not my place anymore. It’s ours and I’ve never wanted to share my home with anyone and I have zero hesitation in this. I need to know you feel the same.”
His cellphone rings and he draws in a breath, breathing out. “Why do our phones ring at the worst possible times?” And when I would expect him to ignore the call, he doesn’t, which tells me he’s the one shutting down now, withdrawing.
“Nick,” I say, but he’s already looking at his caller ID with a frown.
“Rita. This is an odd time for her to call.” He answers the line. “Rita?” He listens a moment. “Kasey?” he asks, and after a pause, “Right. She’s standing right here. She’ll call him.” He ends the connection and offers me his phone. “Call him. There’s a problem.”
“I guess I don’t know where my phone is,” I say, punching in Kasey’s number and the minute it rings, he answers.
“Faith?” Kasey asks.
“Yes. Sorry. I was—”
“We have several busted water lines in the west vineyard. It’s bad. I’m trying to get someone out here, but struggling at this hour.”
“How bad is bad?”
“It’s flowing from numerous locations and flowing isn’t even an appropriate description. Gushing is more like it. If we don’t get someone out here soon, it’s a total loss.”
My stomach knots. “We’ll be right there.”
“Faith, I don’t know if we can save it even if we get someone out here,” he adds, pretty much repeating what he’s just said but obviously trying to prepare me for what he feels is the inevitable: We’ve already lost the west side.
“Do what you can,” I say, ending the call. “We need to go there. There are several broken—”
“I heard,” Nick says. “Grab your purse and phone. We’ll go now.”
I head into the bathroom, grab my purse, and hunt for my phone that I can’t find. Frustrated I shout, “I can’t find my phone!” and Nick appears in the bathroom, holding it. “Oh, thank God,” I breathe out, racing toward him and grab it. “This is bad, Nick. He can’t get anyone out there.”
“You drive,” he says, handing me the car keys. “Let me make some calls.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding, and it’s less than a minute later when we’re in the car and he’s already on the phone. “Rita. Be a superwoman right now. We have several broken water lines in the west vineyard. Pay whatever you have to get help out there now.” There is a pause. “I should have known. Yes. Call me.” He ends the call and glances over at me. “She already knew and is already looking. And the woman is magic. She’ll get us help.” He’s already dialing again. “Beck,” he says. “Do you know what’s happening?” He listens for a few beats. “Right. I’ll find out if it’s intentional once we’re there, but get fucking cameras on the vines. I want every inch of the property covered.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He hangs up.
That knot in my stomach doubles in size. “You think this is payback for us winning in court.”
“I’d bet my bank account on it, sweetheart. Beck has the cameras in place that we discussed, and men here locally watching the place, but he didn’t have eyes on the vines.”
“I’m sure that didn’t feel important,” I say, turning us down the main road leading to the vineyard. “Why would it be? Until it is, obviously.”
“Aside from us winning in court,” he says. “You shut your uncle down today.”
“Why would he do this? This isn’t squeezing me financially. This is destroying the vines that produce profit for the winery we’re assuming he wants to own. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if the real treasure isn’t the vines, but the property.”