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“What would Hewitt Ridge want with them?” Those experiments cost us the winery, as my mother well knew.
“One was for Vineyard Twenty-Seven.”
“Okay. I still don’t—”
“It was your father’s blend. It is your father’s blend.”
“Mom, you can’t prove that.”
“Can’t I?”
“How would you? You said the formulas were handwritten. If you were able to determine the wine’s composition, you still wouldn’t know if it matched what Dad was experimenting with, since they’re no longer in your possession.”
“I’ve tasted it.”
This conversation was ridiculous. If my father had possessed the same formula Ridge now used, why had his wine been such a spectacular failure versus the success Noah’s family now had with it? My mother wasn’t making any sense.
“The night of the accident, your father found out Hewitt was at the bar. He went there to confront him, to get back what belonged to him. Hewitt refused.”
“Wait. If it was the night of the accident, how do you know he refused? Dad never woke from the coma.”
“I just do.”
Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to her. Rather than antagonize her further, I backed off. “What if someone else came and looked in Luisa’s room?”
“Who?”
“The Barretts—Press and Beau.” God, I was so stressed by this conversation I couldn’t remember Press’ real name. “Lavery!” Thank goodness I remembered. It would’ve driven me crazy if I hadn’t. “Lavery and Beau Barrett.”
“That would be fine.”
“I’ll let them know, and when I find out when they’ll be here, I’ll let you know too.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, baby.”
My mother’s behavior baffled me, but thankfully, she’d agreed to let someone search Luisa’s room. I pulled the cork out of the bottle of wine I’d brought from my apartment and poured a glass, wishing I was drinking it with Noah rather than alone in my mother’s kitchen.
I picked my phone up and sent him a text, saying his idea about having Press or Beau search my sister’s room was a good one. I also asked him to let me know when he thought they might arrive. There were marching dots on the screen before I set the phone down.
That works. Let me know how early they can arrive.
Eight?I responded.
That early on a Sunday? How about ten?
I shook my head and chuckled. That’s fine.
Tell me, Sera. Will you be up that early?
I’m an early bird. Except for today when I’d slept until nine.
I am too.
But eight is too early?
