a frown.
Cole took his phone from his back pocket and keyed in a code to unlock the home screen. He punched the screen again and then held up the phone to show Maggie a photo from one of the popular social media sites. Morgan had her arm around another girl, both of them wearing too much makeup and holding up red plastic cups.
The picture had been tagged “Saturday night shenanigans.”
“When was this taken?” she demanded.
“Two nights ago.”
After they’d had pie together and she’d gone to bed.
“Why are you showing it to me?”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. “I’m telling you that group she’s trying so hard to be a part of is bad news. Trust me, Ms. Spencer.”
“I do,” she murmured and Cole’s gaze returned to hers, something like gratitude flashing in his eyes. Maggie knew her sister had a wild streak, but she’d thought the fire had taught her a lesson. Apparently not.
“Do you two...um... Are you friends anymore?”
He shook his head. “We never were.”
“That’s not what Morgan thought,” Maggie told him. “I don’t mean romantically, although I know she had those kinds of feelings for you until...” She glanced at the tasting room and saw Cole squirm.
“She’s too good for me,” he said, his voice flat, “just like she’s too good for the rest of the dumba—” he cleared his throat “—the idiots she calls her friends.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Maggie insisted, “and my sister clearly could use some friends who really care about her.”
He closed his eyes, chewing on his bottom lip like he couldn’t find the words for what he wanted to say. “Yeah,” he mumbled finally.
“Think about it,” she told him.
“Her dad... Your dad wouldn’t like that,” he said suddenly.
“Our father wants what’s best for Morgan. He’d get used to it.”
Cole tilted his head to one side, digesting that information. “I need to get back to work,” he told her as a car pulled up the driveway.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He turned and walked toward the building. Maggie pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling nauseous. She hated to think of her sister still rebelling. Morgan had been hit hard by their mother’s death from ovarian cancer, somehow taking the loss to heart in a different way than Maggie or Ben. She had a lot in common with their father, actually. Dad had retreated into his art and Morgan had dealt with her grief first through acting out in little ways and now in a full-blown rebellion.
But Maggie wouldn’t give up on her sister. Morgan had a huge heart and so much potential. The election, fights with Grammy and Maggie’s own tattered heart weren’t nearly as important as Morgan. Maggie would do anything to make sure her sister stayed safe. Anything.
* * *
“Everyone was impressed by your work here.”
“Great,” Griffin answered absently, nailing a strip of weathered shiplap to the wall behind the tasting room bar. Most of the big items had been checked off the list: updated lighting for the room, expanded bathrooms for customers and a newly vaulted ceiling lined with reclaimed barn wood. The bar he’d had custom built by a renowned furniture maker north of Portland was due to be delivered next week.
The rest he was handling himself, with help after school from Cole. He was good at the general contractor piece, managing all the different subs and phases of a project. But he enjoyed working with his hands most of all, the satisfaction of creating something from nothing.
“It’s going to be a wonderful event,” his mother continued. “We’ve sold close to two hundred tickets.”
The hammer stilled and he turned around at that bit of news. “Really? That seems like a lot of people.” His skin itched at the thought of all those bodies and the conversation he’d be expected to make. Trevor thrived on that sort of stuff. His brother could glad-hand a fish if he thought it would increase exposure for the vineyard. Griffin still preferred to work behind the scenes.
“All those people are going to raise a lot of money for the new pediatric wing at the hospital.”
“Sick kids are a big draw,” he muttered.
“Griffin Matthew Stone.” Jana Stone could communicate more saying his full name out loud than most politicians did throughout an entire career of making stump speeches. The blatant disapproval in her tone felt familiar, if off-putting.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. It’s a worthy cause. I know that. Today was rough.”
“Cassie’s doing okay?” his mother asked, her voice gentling.
“Yeah. I’ve never seen someone with such a great attitude. If optimism could cure cancer, she’d be well tomorrow.”
Jana frowned. “I thought her prognosis was good.”
“There’s no sure thing,” he answered, “and I can’t shake the feeling she isn’t telling me the whole truth. The business about a friendly visit down here, then insisting I go back to Seattle with her for a day to meet her son? It was strange.”
“People have different ways of dealing with that kind of news. You did a good thing by making time for her.”
“The boy is cute...” He picked up another board from the stack piled near the wall. “If you’re into kids.”
“Which you aren’t,” his mother said with an overdramatic sigh.
“There’s time for that.”
“Maggie was here yesterday,” Jana said casually.
He straightened and pointed the hammer at his mom. “That was the worst transition in the history of the world.”
She shrugged. “Subtlety isn’t my thing.”
“No doubt.”
“Sass,” she said, lifting one brow.
“How is she?” He went back to measuring his next board as he asked the question, knowing if his mom saw his face she’d be able to read exactly what he was thinking. She’d always had that ability. It was damn annoying.
“Efficient and capable as ever. It’s thanks to the changes she made to the event registration that helped us increase ticket sales so much. There’s an app for RSVPs and it even tracks the silent auction items. People are already bidding and the gala isn’t for two weeks. That girl really knows her stuff.”
“Since when did you become such a Spencer fan?” he asked, biting down on the edge of a nail while he lifted the shiplap into place.
“I’m a fan of Maggie,” his mother corrected.
He began hammering the wood, not wanting to continue this conversation. At all.
“So is Dr. Starber,” she said loudly.
Griffin cursed as the hammer slammed against his thumb. He squeezed his fingers around the throbbing digit, bending forward and trying hard not to spit out the vilest words he knew. And that was saying something thanks to his years in the army and on various construction sites around the Pacific Northwest.
His mother tutted. “You should be careful. I can grab an ice pack from the main house.”
He shook out his hand. “It’s fine. Who’s Dr. Starber?”
“He’s the chief of pediatrics at Willamette Central Hospital,” she reported. “He’s a member of the planning committee and drops in on some of our meetings. We wanted his input on seating hospital staff.”