Whiskey Moon

Sometimes I wonder if a part of her regretted choosing a Buchanan over an Abbott.

Her life would’ve been different, that’s for sure.

“So?” Mama asks. “How is she?”

Angry.

“We didn’t talk much,” I say, and it’s the truth. The entire exchange lasted maybe all of five minutes before she told me to stick my apology up my sorry ass and stormed off. The whole thing would’ve been comical had it not been rooted in such tragedy. “She’s still in New York.”

Mama splays a hand over her heart. “Is she? Aw, good for her. Acting?”

“I believe so,” I say. “We didn’t get into that.”

“How long is she in town?” she asks. “I’d love to catch up with her.”

“Not sure.” I stab a forkful of eggs.

Mama takes a seat beside Cash. “So what’d you two talk about then?”

Cash’s tired eyes flick to mine. “Yeah, Wyatt. What’d you talk about?”

The wall phone rings, stealing Mama’s attention. Without hesitation, she slides her chair out from the table to answer. From the sound of it, it’s one of her sisters, which means her food will be cold by the time she gets back here.

“So tell me, Wyatt,” Cash says before nibbling on a piece of bacon. “What did the two of you talk about?”

“Last I checked, it was none of your concern.” I maintain his stoic gaze.

“Maybe that’s true, but I just couldn’t help but wonder why she was rendered speechless when I told her she was the one who broke your heart,” he says. “Seems she thinks it was the other way around. Just a little confused on that is all.”

“Well, boys, Aunt Serafina is coming to town in a couple of weeks for the Whiskey Moon festival,” Mama says when she returns earlier than I expected. “She claims she’ll only be here for the weekend, but we all know it’ll be at least seven to ten business days.” She chuckles, reaching for her fork. “Anyway, what’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” I say, rising and gathering my dishes. “I was just telling Cash I better head out and fix the east well. It’s acting up again.”

“The east well? Still?” Mama scrunches her face. “That thing’s been nothing but trouble.”

Cash studies me, silent.

I head out before he can ask any more prying questions.

11

Blaire

* * *

“Blaire?” a familiar voice calls my name Sunday morning as I leave the little brick coffee house on Hillside Drive. “Blaire, is it really you?”

Glancing up, I spot a woman with flowing white-blonde hair, a wrist full of turquoise and sterling silver bangles, and a smile the size of Texas.

Renata Buchanan.

My stomach drops, but my chest is blanketed in warmth. I’d always loved Renata and the way she made me feel like a part of the family, but after what happened, I considered her a casualty of our silent war. A few times, I’d thought about calling her up to find out why Wyatt wasn’t returning my calls anymore, but it never felt right involving her in any of it. Not to mention, if Wyatt had fallen out of love with me, it’s not like his mother could make him fall back into it. She’s a persuasive person, but her powers stop at love spells.

She trots closer, her leather boots scuffing the pavement.

Wrapping her arms around my shoulders, she gifts me the warmest of hugs, leaning, lingering, breathing me in. I let my body relax as I inhale her soft lavender and line-dried cotton scent—one that still feels like home.

Wetness stings my vision but I blink it away.

“Wyatt mentioned you were back in town … I was hoping I’d run into you.” Renata cups my face in her soft hands, her eyes resting on mine. I find it interesting that he’d mention me to her, but I don’t ask. “How have you been, sweetheart?”

Sliding her palms down my arms, she stops to gather my hands into hers.

“I can’t tell you how many times I thought about you over the years, wondered what you were up to, if you were still in New York,” she says. “Breaks my heart that you and Wyatt called things off, but I understand. It’s hard doing the long-distance thing, and you were both so young.”

I paint a neutral expression on my face to hide the confusion flooding my veins. So not only did he lie to me and his brother, Cash, but he lied to his own mother as well.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

“You doing okay, though? How’s your daddy?” she asks. “I see him around from time to time.”

“I’m doing fine, Renata, thank you. Just back from the city for a quick visit. And my father’s doing well. I’ve been enlisted by Odette to talk him into retiring …”

“And how might that be going?” she asks with a knowing undercurrent in her voice. Anyone who knows an ounce about my dad knows he’ll be working until his dying day if he gets it his way.