Seven
There’s a fountain outside the St Julien Hotel, only instead of water, it overflows with flowers. Gorgeous blooms that even in autumn encompass a wide range of colors—yellow sunflowers, maroon mums, and fuchsia coneflowers.
The hotel rises in the background, a striking combination of old-school class and new age sleek, with sandstone siding, black-framed tinted windows, and flags welcoming guests from every corner of the globe.
And then there’s the valet parking. Not that I own a car.
I used to drive a tan Toyota Camry, my car being inextricably linked to freedom. But after Aunt Laura’s accident, nightmarish visions kept flashing before my eyes every time I got behind the wheel. Cars screeching into mine, shattered glass raining down on me in the intersection, and my aunt’s bloody face slowly transforming into my own. My chest would grow tight and my palms sweaty, and before too long my nerves couldn’t take any more.
Luckily, all of this coincided with the rise of ride-sharing. That, along with public transit, made it easier to find alternative modes of transportation rather than dig into my psyche.
So, yeah, I don’t have a car.
Instead, I wave at the valet attendant and enter the posh hotel. The first thing that hits me is the scent. It smells like money—clean, luxurious, and perfumed with some exotic flower. The next thing is the hardwood. Giant pillars, pristine floors, and gorgeous countertops, all made of warm shades of wood.
The lobby oozes comfort with tables and cushiony chairs scattered throughout, dimmed modern lights, and a dual-sided fireplace.
A good-natured concierge stops me, a polite smile on her face. “Can I help you?”
Given that I’m dressed in mismatched slacks and a T-shirt that reads Got wine?—the only spare shirt I had at my shop—I appreciate her kindness.
I rest my forearm on the edge of her podium. “I’m here to see the Wallaces. They’re expecting me.”
She taps a few strokes on her keyboard, her fingernails expertly painted with tiny pumpkins, and then makes a phone call.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wallace, there’s a young lady here to see you by the name of—” She holds a hand over the receiver and gestures at me with her hand.
“Parker,” I supply.
She relays my name and there’s lots of mmhmming as she listens to whatever’s being said on the other end of the line, her eyes flitting curiously to me.
My palms grow sweaty as I consider the possibility that the Wallaces might refuse to see me, might turn me away, or pretend they don’t know me. Which would be the epitome of embarrassing.
Finally, the concierge hangs up and says, “Suite 408. Grab the elevator, just over there—” She nods in the direction of an archway. “When you get to the fourth floor, take a right and keep walking straight on till morning.”
“Thanks,” I say with a small smile.
I follow her directions into an elevator, studying my reflection in the paneled mirror. I came straight from closing up at Vino Valentine. In a desperate attempt to freshen up, I give my T-shirt a French tuck and finger-comb my hair. It’s the best I can do.
The elevator chimes and opens.
For the dread building in my body, you’d think I was doing a death march through Stephen King’s version of the Stanley Hotel and not walking down a posh hallway on my way to see my boyfriend’s vacationing family.
I reach suite 408 and knock loudly, half hoping they’ve already left for their dinner in the time it took me to reach the fourth floor. No such luck.
Camilla answers, looking as poised as ever. Cashmere cardigan, pearls, and snake-embossed heels. With pristine posture, she gives me a once-over, her lips curling malevolently as she takes in the lettering of my T-shirt.
I insulate myself against her icy stare, willing my skin to grow thicker. “Uh—hi, Mrs. Wallace. I mean, Camilla,” I say, stumbling over the words. “Mind if I come in?”
“I suppose, but we have to leave soon.”
She regally opens the door to their suite. And that clunk you hear? That’s my jaw hitting the floor.
Their suite has a full sitting area with a sofa and two lounge chairs surrounding a wrought iron coffee table. Off to one side is the master bedroom with a four-poster king bed, and through a sliding glass door is a private balcony with a breathtaking view of the grassy foothills and slanted Flatirons.
It’s that odd time in Colorado when the sun has disappeared behind the mountains but hasn’t officially set yet. The sky is still crisp blue, the only sign of impending darkness a yellowish tint to the clouds.
“Hey, Parker,” Ben says from where he’s parked on the sofa. He’s in a suit similar to the one from last night, only now paired with a cream shirt the color of butter.
His father sits beside him, absorbed in the talking heads on whatever news show they’re watching on TV. Gary gives me the barest nod of acknowledgment. His face is red and the top button of his shirt is undone, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.
“I didn’t know you were coming to dinner tonight,” Ben says, absently swiping at the screen of his phone. Honestly, it’s more like an extension of his hand than a mobile device.
Camila and I speak at the same time—
“She’s not.”
“I’m not.”
Tristan saunters in from the balcony, leaning coolly against the doorframe. He looks like a movie star. Tousled hair, sunglasses, V-neck showcasing a leather necklace with some sort of bronze pendant.
I read once that nerves associated with public speaking stem from the primal part of our brain that feels threatened when eyes are on us, as if sensing we’re being hunted by a predator. I feel that way now. Like I’m in a den of wolves.
I swallow and force myself to continue, “I wanted to talk with you. All of you. About Reid.”
“I need another drink,” Gary says. He goes to the wet bar and pours himself a finger of whiskey from a bottle that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
“What about Reid?” Camilla asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Well, to start, have you tried visiting him?”
“I’ve been more focused on things that matter.” She primly squares her shoulders. “Like hiring a lawyer.”
“Oh,” I say, cocking my head to the side. I shouldn’t be surprised that Camilla’s answer is basically to throw money at the situation. Still, the more people on Reid’s side, the better. “My friend is happy to help as long as you need. She’s really good, I promise.”
Camilla purses her lips. “I’m sure your friend is fine for some people, but Reid needs the best. The legal counsel I’ve secured will sort out this colossal misunderstanding. Hopefully before our family name is dragged through the mud.”
Of course Camilla is more worried about how this will affect their reputation—their precious family name—than about their son. Although, as I home in on her, I notice flyaway strands from her chignon and extra concealer dabbed around her eyes. Perhaps Reid’s arrest is affecting her more than she’s letting on.
“I can’t even imagine what people will think if they find out,” Camilla says, arms crossed over her chest.
“They’re going to blame us, obviously,” Gary grumbles at his wife. “Always blame the parents. Even though I warned Reid about Oscar years ago.”
“Warned him how?” I ask. I rest my hands on my hips and lift my chin, trying to mimic Sage’s power pose from earlier. Pretty sure it comes across as awkward and stiff. At least I fit in with this crowd.
“That Oscar is nothing but a freeloader,” he hisses. “A leech. He roomed with Reid, slept on the couch, while we, hardworking Americans, paid for the roof over our son’s head.” Gary straightens to his full height, his deep voice taking on an alarming tone. “Then there were all the free meals.”
The entire room is silent at this proclamation and I catch Ben and Tristan exchanging a worried look, obviously embarrassed by their father’s blatant racism, as they should be.
I furrow my eyebrows, unable to stop myself from grinding my teeth. From what I knew of Oscar, he was definitely not a freeloader. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” I mutter under my breath, referencing the first rule of economics.
Gary looks me straight in the eye for maybe the first time. “Oscar tried to prove otherwise.”
Well, this explains the tension I noticed between the Wallaces and Oscar. Could it have been something from his past, some misunderstanding from culinary school, that got him killed?
Gary takes a sip from his tumbler and, incidentally, I wonder how many he’s had. “He was doing it again.”
“That’s enough,” Camilla cuts in.
“Doing what again?” I prod.
“Taking advantage of my son,” he says, his knuckles white around his glass.
“No more.” Camilla’s hands are visibly shaking. “I can’t take any more. It’s time to get ready for dinner.” With that, she storms into their en suite, slamming the door behind her.
I blink rapidly, unsure how to proceed.
“Well, that’s one way to make an exit,” Tristan says, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head and slouching into one of the lounge chairs.
“I’d better go fix this.” Gary follows after his wife. Their not-so-dulcet voices seep through the door, but their words are too muddled to understand.
And then there were three: Ben, Tristan, and me.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned while owning a business, it’s how to force a smile. For the annoying customer who asks question after question about my winemaking process and then doesn’t buy a single bottle. For the loud customer who, unprompted, lets everyone know their opinions on everything. And for the slob, who can’t seem to eat a palate-cleansing cracker without leaving a Hansel and Gretel–like trail through my winery.
I invoke just such a smile now.
“I didn’t know there would be a show before dinner,” I say, trying for a joke.
Tristan chuckles but then rubs his temples, turning to his brother. “What are the odds we can get out of going tonight?”
“Zero,” Ben says. “Check that, below zero.”
“It seems horribly inappropriate,” Tristan says. He props his sandal-clad feet on the coffee table. “Our brother is in jail, for chrissake.”
The sun basks Tristan in a glow, and suddenly my heart clenches at how similar he looks to Reid. And Ben, too, really. Sandy-blond hair with amber undertones, somewhat large ears sticking out, and lean builds. Even their mannerisms are the same. From the way they hold themselves to the dimples that form when they smile. It makes me miss Reid even more.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ben says. He turns up the volume on the TV to block out Camilla’s and Gary’s voices. Or perhaps it’s to veil our conversation.
“Surprised that Reid was arrested?” I ask, perching on the edge of the other lounge chair.
“Well, yeah, given—”
“Now, Ben, there’s no need to scare the lady here with our family drama,” Tristan says. He acts nonchalant, hands clasped behind his head, but there’s a warning in his voice. “Our baby brother has actually managed to secure a girlfriend, let’s not ruin it for him.”
Properly chastised, Ben mimes locking his lips.
“Wait, you can’t leave me hanging like that,” I urge, my curiosity heightened. “For what it’s worth, I’m in it for the long haul.”
Ben spins his phone between two fingers, glancing meaningfully at Tristan. “If that’s the case, she deserves to know what she’s getting herself into.”
“She most certainly does,” I say before Tristan can impose another gag order. “What exactly am I getting myself into?”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not convinced he’s innocent.”
It’s as if Ben’s brutal honesty sucks all the air from the room. The newscasters on the TV rage about a recent political fiasco, their voices fading to a dull buzz in my ears. I stare at the floor, my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth.
Tristan slides his feet from the table to the plush carpeted floor in one swift motion. “I refuse to believe Reid is capable of murder. If you insist on entertaining the notion that he is, I’m leaving.”
They glare at each other and the moment stretches until the tension is palpable. I lean back in my seat, wishing I could be absorbed in the striped upholstery.
“Fine,” Tristan says. “I’m outta here.”
The door clicks shut behind him. I raise one eyebrow and turn back to Ben, slightly apprehensive at being left alone with the eldest Wallace sibling.
While Sage is a brilliant lawyer, she’s never really fit the stereotype. The same can’t be said for Ben. He’s clean-cut, cold, and calculating, even when it’s just the two of us.
I try to camouflage my unease. “So, what exactly makes you believe Reid could be guilty?”
Ben rubs his chin, a gold wedding band glinting on his ring finger. I know from Reid that Ben is married to a woman named Liza, and that they have a two-year-old son, Linus. The last time Reid went home was to meet his then-infant nephew. He’d brought a tiny chef’s hat, apron onesie, and whisk-shaped rattle for the little tyke. These innocuous gifts led to Camilla effectively blowing a gasket.
Words were launched like missiles, accusations made about how Reid shouldn’t encourage Linus. How the child hadn’t ruined his potential yet, still had a chance to make something of himself.
Reid left in a fury and decided that if his family wanted to be a part of his life, they could come to him. And here they are. Though now it strikes me as odd that Liza and Linus didn’t come along for this family reunion.
“The thing is,” Ben starts, “ever since I heard about Reid and Oscar, this one story keeps coming back to me.” He balances his phone on the remote control, more for something to do with his hands than for any practical purpose.
I sense that if I stay silent, he’ll continue, and my intuition is proven right a minute later.
“Reid and Tristan used to be best friends. Being closest in age, it made sense.” He says this flatly, without even a hint of emotion. “Then one day, everything changed.
“The basement at my parents’ house is a dark place. Cavernous, dimly lit, full of dust and cobwebs and appliances prone to loud clanking sounds. We rarely went down there, and when we did, we never went alone.”
My blood turns cold and my stomach flips, much like the creeping anticipation on a roller coaster moments before the plummet.
Ben continues, “One day over summer break, Tristan and Reid went down there, looking for a Nerf gun or some other form of childish entertainment.”
He hesitates, his face half obscured by slanted shadows. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
There’s no unknowing some things so I pause.
Do I really want to hear this story? From Ben, of all people? Wouldn’t it be better to ask Reid?
Only, Reid isn’t in a position to tell me. And I have a hunch this is important. If not directly to the case, then to understanding the man I’ve come to love.
“Yes,” I say.
Ben nods once. “Reid apparently came upstairs first and thought it would be funny to lock Tristan down there. He wedged a chair under the doorknob and left him in the basement, through Tristan’s escalating pleas, his shouts, his sobs. By our nanny’s account, Tristan was down there for two hours before she finally found him. While Tristan was scared to the point of wetting himself, Reid had grown bored and went to play a video game.
“After that, Tristan and Reid were never as close.”
As he finishes the tale, my forearms are covered in goose bumps and I feel nauseated, like I’ve had wine on an empty stomach. I wipe my clammy palms on my knees.
Reid always made it sound like he was in the right in this ongoing battle with his family. Which goes to show there’s always more to a story.
Tristan’s adamant defense of his brother is admirable and slightly surprising. It makes me wonder if he’s protecting Reid or his own masculinity. That’s certainly not an anecdote I would want circulated.
I hear my own voice as if from afar. “That doesn’t sound like Reid.”
Even now, I’m instinctively protecting him. Love has either emboldened me or blinded me.
“I’ve known him longer than you,” Ben answers.
“Touché,” I say, giving him a faux-sweet smile. “What do you think is more important, knowing where someone came from or knowing who they are today?”
“You can’t have one without the other.” He chuckles and scratches the back of his head, amused. “Reid’s always had a way with the ladies.”
I sit up straighter. “This has nothing to do with me and Reid.”
“Right,” he says, obviously not buying it. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never met one of his girlfriends.” The pitying look he gives me makes me feel vulnerable and naive.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Gee, thanks.”
Ben’s phone buzzes and he checks the screen. “I have to take this. It’s a client.”
“Very important, no doubt.”
“There’s no other kind.”
Ben turns his back to me and answers his phone with a professional greeting.
I see myself out, a mess of uncertainty riddling my psyche.
Although I want nothing more than to hightail it home and immerse myself in Zin—the cat and the wine—I want to talk to Tristan first.
I find him relaxing at a wrought iron patio table just outside the hotel lobby. He seems to take up as much space as possible with his legs stretched out before him and both arms draped over the back of his chair.
It’s as if his abrupt departure upstairs never happened.
He grins at me when I plop down next to him. “Had enough of the Addams Family?”
I snort. “Let the record show, those are your words, not mine.”
Inside the hotel, a wedding party is assembling outside the main ballroom. A bride dressed in head-to-toe tulle clasps a cascading bouquet of calla lilies. Her four bridesmaids hover around her in matching bubble-gum pink dresses, alternately shaking out her train and veil. What an odd tradition our society partakes in.
Not that I’m opposed to the whole till death do us part bit, merely the pressure and formality surrounding it.
Tristan turns to me, his sunglasses back on despite the impending dusk. “You’re lasting longer than I thought.”
“I don’t scare easily.”
He appraises me—hair caught in a headband, bare arms, and beaded necklace around my neck. I resist the urge to look away.
“No, I don’t think you do.”
The embellished wooden doors to the ballroom open, letting a serenade of strings escape. The friendly concierge from earlier directs the bridesmaids through the entrance, a task that loosely resembles herding cats. Speaking of cats . . . Reid’s kitty is in dire need of rescuing. Best get a move on this conversation.
“How’s your conference going?” I ask, remembering the real reason Tristan is in town.
He shrugs. “Eh, too much pomp for my taste.”
I give him a bemused smile.
“I know what you’re thinking: bloody hypocrite.”
He’s right; that’s pretty much exactly what I was thinking.
“Thing is, if the pomp and schmoozing doesn’t benefit me, it’s just not worth it.”
I shift in my seat to face him. “And it doesn’t?”
“I’ve climbed as high as I care to in the medical field.” He says this like it’s no big deal, but it makes me wonder if Reid isn’t the only Wallace unhappy under the weight of parental expectations.
“What made you decide to become an anesthesiologist?”
“Everyone’s happy to see me,” he says, brightening. “I bring relief from pain.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I concede. “It’s nice you’re so protective of Reid.” Especially after the basement debacle, I hold back, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable.
“He’s my kid brother, what else would you expect?”
The bride disappears into the ballroom, her arm looped through her father’s. I watch her march toward her partner, wistfully, until the doors shut, closing off the ceremony to rubberneckers like me.
I change the topic, hoping my abruptness takes him by surprise. “Why were you on edge with Oscar last night?”
“Look, it’s not really my thing to talk crap about someone behind their back.”
“I respect that,” I say. “But how else are we going to find out what really happened?”
Tristan pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, giving me full access to his striking brown eyes, almost gold in this light. And the color isn’t the only way they’re different from Reid’s. Whereas his always hold a spark of passion and impulsivity, Tristan’s are intelligent and a touch playful.
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the grooved patio table, searching my face. “You really don’t think Reid did it, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And I’m getting sick of explaining why to everyone.”
“Preaching to the choir,” he says, raising his hands in mock defense. “He’s lucky to have you, you know.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you two meet?” he asks. “I take it, it wasn’t Tinder.”
“Reid came to my winery’s opening.” I smile at the memory.
Back then, he was nothing more than my brother’s new mystery friend. Very hot mystery friend, but off-limits, all the same. My, how things change.
Tristan cups his chin with his hand and gazes at me like I’m another species—an insect, perhaps—that he’s trying to make sense of. His attention is unnerving.
“I’d like to see your winery. Vino Valentine, right?”
“That’s right.” I shift in my chair, the cushion moving with me.
“Tristan, let’s go,” Camilla says, suddenly behind us. “We don’t want to be late.”
My body recoils as if she were scratching her nails down a chalkboard.
“Enjoy your dinner,” I say. “Flagstaff is really beautiful this time of night.”
Flagstaff is the mountain overlooking Boulder, adjacent to the Flatirons, and perched at the top is its namesake restaurant. The Flagstaff House is notable for its mountain cuisine—bison, elk, and other Colorado specialties—and Camilla mentioned they had reservations there.
“Thank you,” Camilla says curtly, her fingers resting on the tabletop. Before she turns away, she adds, in a softer tone than I thought possible, “Let me know if you hear from my son.”
“Of course.”
The Wallaces depart together, but there’s enough distance between each of them that they might as well be walking alone.