Judging by the militant expression on Meredith’s face, she’d like that a bit too much, and I’m not inclined to give her what she desires. My father and the brewery have already been catering to her and her sister for the two decades since Mama died. I inhale a shallow breath, fearing too many memories will rise from the long-gone ashes of Dad’s cigars, like how Mama used to sit on his lap when he smoked on the front porch. My brothers and I would play catch with the football on the front lawn, and we’d just…be.
I give myself a mental shake. I’m here for business, and that’s all this trip is. I need to finalize funeral arrangements for Dad and finally release myself and my brothers from the haunting shadows of the brewery and the ranch we once called home.
“Where are all the filing cabinets?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Formidable” is the word that comes to mind. She’s trying to be, anyway. I don’t havethe ambition for a face-off. The ranch bears my last name, and the brewery is named after Mama. Meredith needs to remember that.
“We converted the storeroom to an office on the main level,” she says.
I can’t dispute that the brewery has a shortage of office space, but renovating a storeroom? Why?
“Bea uses a walker, and there’s no elevator,” she clarifies.
Bea Parsons. Mama met her at church and recruited her as a part-time bookkeeper. She’s got to be in her mid-sixties by now, but anxiety races through my veins. Why the walker? Dad didn’t mention Bea got hurt, but then our conversations never lasted long after seventeen years of radio silence.
Bea won’t be happy with our plans once Dad’s affairs are settled. I’ll deal with that later.
“I need access to everything. I also need Ransom’s keys.” I’m not lingering at the entrance for her to unlock it when I want in. She’ll keep me waiting and enjoy it.
Her brow ticks up. At the way I referred to my father by his first name, or because I’m demanding access to something she believes should be hers? “Have you been to the funeral home yet?”
Her question feels like a punch to my gut. Funeral homes. Burials. Before, I had two degrees of separation from all this. Dad managed Mama’s funeral, not bothering to ask what her sons might have wanted.
Grief brims in Meredith’s eyes, and for a scant second, there’s a kinship between us. A shared loss. Recognition of the unspoken and unwanted history that connects us. The funerals are going to be hard on all of us, for so many reasons.
“You know they would want to be buried together,” she utters quietly, shattering the façade.
I do, unfortunately, realize it’s what Dad would’ve wanted, and it’s the one thing he won’t get his way in—or Meredith. She has her sister’s arrangements to plan. Why isn’t she doing just that? Is she still here trying to extract every dollar out of these walls before I run her off?
“Why is the brewery still open?”
She folds her arms tighter.
“Its founder just died, Meredith,” I continue, gauging her wince. Her sadness seems genuine enough. Is it better or worse if she’s truly mourning my dad? “You’re acting like it’s business as usual.”
She lifts her chin, and a beat of relief passes through me. She doesn’t look like her blonde-haired, blue-eyed sister, but then they had different dads. “You’re right. I’d love to be at home sobbing over how I lost the sister who raised me, and the man who took me under his wing and taught me everything about this career that I love. But I must be a greedy slut as well.”
Where did that come from? My initial response is anger. Who the hell called her a slut? But then a memory slaps me. I’m facing Dad, irate and hurt, feeling so goddamn betrayed I can’t think straight. He just told me and my brothers that if we don’t stand by him and his decision to move on, then we can leave and never come back.
Yes, I said awful things about Holly Winslow just to enrage my dad. But that’s not who I am now.
“I was young and upset. I had a right to be.”
Defiance shines in her eyes. “You didn’t have the right to be an insulting asshole to a woman who devoted her time to helpingyourentire family.”
My shame gives way to indignation. This woman certainly has the audacity, that’s for sure. “What help are you referring to? When she started seeing her best friend’s husband? Or when she married her best friend’s widow mere months after thatfriend was in the ground? No, wait—that’s not right.” My voice dips low, causing her to cringe. “They were marriedbeforethe funeral home could even put my mom in the ground.”
Mama passed away in the heart of winter and was held until the ground thawed three months later. By then, Dad had married Holly and had permanently given Meredith my old bedroom. His actions turned me and my brothers from heartbroken sons to mere employees on the ranch for those six months Holly and Meredith lived with us before Mama died.
My blood pressure spikes, and my anger crests again. Yes. Separate funerals.
“Well, congrats,” Meredith says hoarsely. “You stayed away long enough, and now they’re both gone.”
I flinch, and regret sneaks in. The pain darkening her eyes bothers me. I want to make it better, but I shut that shit down. I don’t need the reminder I lost all those years, or that my reconciliation with Dad meandered on for too long. I’m not the one who said that if I couldn’t accept his decisions, I could leave.
“Keeping the brewery open gives locals a place to grieve.” She says it as if she’s extending an olive branch, but I’m not my father.
“By providing them with alcohol?”
