“So will you help your birth father?” Dad finally says, his dark gaze meeting mine.

“Why should I?”

“You just said, and I quote, ‘I will always help anyone in need.’”

I scoff. “I meant children. You know exactly what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you said.”

“We were talking about kids. About Donny and me and why you helped us.”

“So if your father were a child, you’d help him?”

“Hell, Dad, if my father wasn’t a child and he needed help through no fault of his own, I’d help him. But he abandoned us.”

Dad nods. “It’s your choice. I’m willing to help him if the two of you are willing. But I won’t if you tell me not to.”

“Wait a minute, Dale,” Donny says.

“What?” My tone is harsher than I mean it to be.

“He is our father.”

I point to Dad. “That’s our father.”

“For God’s sake, you know what I mean. But for him, you and I wouldn’t be here. And frankly, we both have pretty damned good lives, all things considered.”

“All things considered?”

“Yeah, Dale, all things.”

I soften my gaze. For a moment, Donny is seven years old again, and that need to protect him coils tight in my belly.

I protected him then.

And I protect him now.

But there are things he still doesn’t know.

My little brother cries in my arms.

I push my own pain and horror into the back of my mind and focus on his.

Only Donny is important. He’s mine to protect.

I haven’t done a very good job so far.

I vow to do better.

Donny sobs against my shoulder, his nose running and wetting the dirty T-shirt I wear.

We don’t wear pants. The T-shirts are long enough that they cover our privates when we get up to use the makeshift toilet in the corner of the room.

I’m used to the smell now.

It no longer nauseates me.

I force myself to be used to most of it.

But I’ll never get used to listening to my brother sob. I’ll never get used to his cries for help. I’ll never get used to the image of masked men brutalizing his small body.

From now on, I vow, they won’t touch him.

I’ll do anything to make sure I take the brunt of what they have to give.

I tamp down my emotions and sniff back a tear.

I’m done crying.

No more.

I’m done.

Chapter Seven

Ashley

 

 

“Sure,” I finally say. “I’d love to taste the wine with you.”

“Wonderful. How about dinner tomorrow? My place?” He points to the ceiling.

“You live here?” I ask.

“Right above the bar. My father lived there until he married, and then he rented it out. I’ve been hanging my hat up there for the last ten years, since I moved out of my parents’ house.”

“All right. I work until six.”

“Seven, then?”

“Sure. No, wait. Let’s say seven thirty. It’s a half-hour drive, and I’ll need to clean up. I worked in the vineyards today.”

“You don’t look like it.”

“I had a shower, goofball.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He winks.

“Who’ll be manning the bar?”

“I do have employees, you know.”

“Right.” Dumb question. Several waitresses and another bartender are here.

I turn to Jade. What must she be thinking? She knows how I feel about Dale. “Time for dinner?” I say.

“Yes. Thanks, Brendan. See you soon.”

“Absolutely. Tell Talon I said hi.”

“I will.”

I follow Jade out of the bar and back onto Main Street. Should I say something? I bite my lower lip. I’m at a loss for words, which is unlike me.

Finally, I open my mouth, when—

“It’s okay, Ashley,” Jade says.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Of course I do. We both know how you feel about Dale. But there’s no reason why you can’t share a bottle of wine with another young man.”

“It doesn’t feel quite right.”

“Would you be interested in Brendan if not for Dale?”

“Well…yeah. I think. I mean, he’s handsome and funny. And he runs a bar, which means he knows a few things about wine, so we have that in common. But…”

She laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“Again, you remind me of myself all those years ago.”

“It’s like only Dale exists to me,” I say. “It doesn’t make any sense. Brendan is clearly a great guy, and any other time I’d be flattered by his attention.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Ashley, I know exactly what you mean.”

Lorenzo’s is an adorable little Italian place. We walk in, and I’m suddenly transported to 1950s Little Italy in New York. Or at least what I assume 1950s Little Italy would be. Dean Martin croons through the sound system, and the tables are covered with red-checkered cloth.

Our server brings a carafe of Chianti and a loaf of crisp Italian white bread.

“This is lovely,” Jade says.

“I agree. I feel like we’ve traveled back in time.”

“Lisa Lorenzo is a second-generation Italian American. Her parents moved to Snow Creek when she was in high school. I believe she graduated with Donny.” Jade wrinkles her forehead. “No, she was a few years younger. She graduated with Henry. With so many offspring, it’s hard to keep them all straight sometimes.”

“Everyone knows everyone around here,” I say. “A far cry from LA.”

“Yes, but you get used to it, and once you do, you’ll never want to live anywhere else.”

“Snow Creek does have its charm.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t give you the tour I promised. We ended up having that drink, and then you and Brendan hit it off.”

I look down at the piece of bread I’m swirling in olive oil.

“Ashley,” Jade says after a few minutes of me swirling and being mesmerized by the darkness of the balsamic vinegar making images in the light-green olive oil.