I'd woken in the middle of the night and reached for my husband, but his side of the bed was empty and cold. And so now, I was walking in my small nightie through a dark, silent house, looking for him. "Grayson?" I called softly. No answer. I stood still and listened, finally hearing something very far away that sounded like breaking glass.
I followed the distant noise until I came to the door in the living room that I now knew went down to a wine cellar, although I'd never been inside. It was open just a small crack, a light shining from below. "Grayson?" I called again. When there was still no answer, I opened the door tentatively and descended the narrow, spiral staircase. The sounds grew more distinct, one loud crash startling me and causing me to pause before moving forward.
When I got to the bottom and peeked around the corner, I saw Grayson sitting on the floor, leaning back against a shelf drinking from a bottle of wine. He saw me and brought the bottle away from his lips, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth and holding the wine toward me. "Kira, try it. It's a Domaine Lefl . . . blah blah blah who cares, from France," he slurred slightly, giving me a wry smile. Then he tossed the half-drunk bottle and watched as it shattered on the cement floor amidst several other smashed bottles, their contents pooling together in a now-worthless mixture of wine, glass, and soggy bottle labels. "Oops, sorry, slipped right out of my hand. I'm not usually so accident-prone. Here, shall we try another?" He reached behind him and grabbed a different bottle off the shelf and picked up the wine opener sitting next to him on the floor. I rushed forward, kneeling down next to him.
"Grayson," I said, leaning forward and putting one hand on his cheek, "what are you doing?"
He stopped in his efforts to open the bottle, looking blearily up at me. "I'm sampling my father's rare wine collection," he said. "Walter did a good job protecting it from him before he could destroy it himself, but I'm really only doing what he would have done if he'd been given the chance." He paused, hurt skittering over his features before he continued. "Do you know that of all the things I sold in this house, I avoided these because I believed it would disappoint my father? When you came along and I didn't have to part with this," he waved his arm backward indicating the shelf behind him which still held several bottles, "I was so damned relieved I'd done something else that would have made my father proud." He laughed, a hollow sound filled only with pain.
Ah, so he was bent on taking what justice he could into his own hands. Only, if the look on his face was any indication, it didn't satisfy.
"So," I said, scooting closer, "how about we sell the rest of them instead of giving him the satisfaction of doing exactly what he would have done? How about we make some money off it and buy . . . a pet monkey and name it after your father? Or . . . a double-seated bicycle? We'll ride around Napa talking about what an ass your father was. Or . . . a parrot! We'll teach it to say nasty things repeatedly about Ford Hawthorn." I placed my hand on his knee. "There are better things to do than this. We'll come up with something together."
Grayson touched my naked thigh with one finger and trailed it upward, lifting the material of my nightie as he went. "You are so beautiful," he said.
I smiled a small smile. "And you are so drunk."
"In Vino Veritas," he whispered, repeating the phrase etched above the doorway I had meant to look up. His finger traced the waistband of my underwear. "In wine there is truth." Ah. He paused, his brow furrowing. "Only here, there are only lies and deceptions."
"Grayson, no . . ."
He shook his head, bringing his hand away. "Think about it, though. It really was such a perfectly devious plan—the perfect way to tell me how much he hated me, the perfect vengeance. If he had had just a little more time, I could have come home to a pile of worthless ashes." He took a loud, shuddery breath. "I thought it was a gift, and it was the exact opposite. After everything . . . I thought he finally . . . Jesus. It hurts so much, Kira," he said, his voice filled with anguish. The look on his face made me feel as if my heart would crack into tiny pieces to lie amongst the shattered bottles littering the floor.
"There's so much pain," he said on a broken whisper.
"I know," I said, moving right up against him and taking him in my arms as he leaned his head into my chest. God, I knew the pain he was feeling now. I understood it, and I ached for him. "Listen to me, Grayson." I leaned back and took his face in my hands, looking him in the eye. "There is always pain in this life. Not just for me, not just for you—for everyone. You can't avoid it. And sometimes the pain is so great, it feels as if it carves out the very essence of who you are. But it doesn't, not if you don't allow it to. It carves out a place in you, yes, but love is meant to fill that space. If you let it, pain makes more space for love within you. And the love we carry inside makes us strong when nothing else can."
His dark eyes searched mine. "Do you believe that?" he asked.
"I know that."
Grayson let out a long, shaky breath, burrowing his head into my chest again. "My Kira . . ." he murmured, "if only I could believe it, too."
"You can. In time, you will. Let that be the legacy your father leaves you. That's the perfect vengeance."
We sat that way for what seemed like a long time, me holding him until my legs beneath me began to cramp.