Chapter 12: Ask Wyatt

The Ashbury harvest supper has been held on the manor terrace every October for forty years.

This year, for the first time, the owner of the land stood at the head of the table.

Sixty guests sat under strings of white lights, with the vines going dark behind them.

The chair of the Napa Valley Vintners sat on my right, a silver-haired woman with a fork in her hand.

The retired judge from the wine club sat on my left.

Joaquin stood at the back by the pergola with his arms folded.

Conrad sat at the far end beside his mother, with Courtney three seats down in the green dress, pale and very straight.

Wyatt sat at the foot of the table, in a clean shirt, not eating.

I stood and tapped my glass.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "I'm told this supper is a tradition, so I'd like to add one more to it."

I set my cracked phone against the caterer's speaker.

"This was recorded in my own pool house this week. I'd like you all to hear it."

I pressed play.

Courtney's voice came out across the terrace, flat and clear.

"Four years ago, Lillian hired me as events director at Ashbury Cellars."

Every head turned toward her.

Nobody breathed in the silence after each line.

Green, always green, near you.

When to touch Conrad's arm at a gala, and how long to hold it.

A woman who thinks she's failing doesn't read what she's handed.

Conrad stood up and his chair fell backward.

"Turn that off."

I did not.

The recording ran on, and the chair of the Vintners put down her fork.

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