A Stonecreek Christmas Reunion. Michelle Major

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      He shook his head. “You know that’s not true. Maggie, please.”

      “Please what, Griffin?” She threw up her hands. “What exactly do you want from me at this point?”

      “I want another chance.”

      “No.” She fisted her hands at her sides, her fingernails digging into the fleshy center of each palm until it hurt. Physical pain to mask another emotional hit. Of course, a part of her wanted to give in. It would be so easy. She could take one step forward and be in his arms again.

      Except he was still holding back. She didn’t know what it was or understand why, but she could almost see the barrier that surrounded him.

      “I’ve got to go,” she told him. “The tree lighting is tonight and it’s a big deal this year.”

      “I heard about LiveSoft. I’m sure you’ll put on quite a show for them.”

      “Yes, well...the show must go on and all of that. Goodbye, Griffin.”

      His jaw tightened. “I won’t say goodbye,” he whispered.

      “That doesn’t change me leaving,” she said and walked away without looking back.

      * * *

      Griffin returned to the vineyard, his mood as black as a starless sky at midnight. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Maggie. He thought he’d understood how mad she was, but other than that one moment when tears had filled her eyes, she’d been cold more than anything.

      It had been like talking to some kind of vintage automaton, and the ice in her eyes when she looked at him made frustration curl along the base of his spine.

      He kicked a piece of loose gravel in the driveway in front of his mother’s house. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth from the rain that was so typical this time of year. He drew in a deep breath, hoping the earthy smells would ground him, as they always had in the past.

      When he’d left home at eighteen after that final, awful fight with his father, Griffin had never expected to return. As much as he loved the vineyard, Dave Stone had made it clear that his oldest son would never be worthy of having any place in the family business.

      Griffin still didn’t understand the animosity that had simmered between him and his dad back then. Yes, his mother had given him an explanation about his dad feeling trapped by her unexpected pregnancy and taking out his frustration on his older son. But Griffin couldn’t imagine punishing a child for the things in life that didn’t work out the way his dad wanted them to.

      Especially now.

      He’d been home only a day and had yet to talk to Marcus Sanchez, Harvest Vineyard’s CEO, who’d announced plans to step away from his position right before Griffin left for Seattle. Griffin had no idea if Marcus still wanted him to take over the business, or if his abrupt departure had burned bridges with more than just Maggie.

      As much as he wanted to get his former life back on track, he understood nothing would ever be the same. With another glance at the fields stretching out below the hillside, he headed for the house.

      His mother, Jana, greeted him at the door, one finger lifted to her lips.

      “Is he okay?” Griffin whispered, unfamiliar panic making the hair on his arms stand on end.

      “Sleeping,” she mouthed then motioned him into the house.

      They walked through the foyer, and she stopped at the edge of the dining room.

      Griffin’s eyes widened as he took in the antique cherry table, covered with various blankets and sheets.

      “In there?” he asked.

      She gave him another strident finger to her mouth then led the way toward the back of the house and the big farmhouse kitchen that had been remodeled when he and his brother, Trevor, were in high school.

      “I checked on him about ten minutes ago,” she said, her delicate brows furrowing. “He was fast asleep, clutching that ratty blanket he carries everywhere.”

      “He calls the thing Chip,” Griffin told her. “You never would have let Trevor and me cover the dining room table with blankets. As I remember, that room was strictly off-limits.”

      “I had to keep one room sacred from you heathens,” she said with an equal mix of humor and affection. “Besides, neither you nor your brother dealt with anything near the trauma that boy has.” She pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and glanced over her shoulder. “I heard him last night.”

      Griffin nodded, his gut tightening at the memory. “The nightmares are a regular thing since the funeral. He has to be exhausted.”

      “What are you going to do?” She poured two glasses of tea.

      If he had a quarter for every time he’d asked himself the same question over the past few weeks...

      When his ex-girlfriend and longtime friend, Cassie Barlow, had paid him a surprise visit in early October, she’d given no indication she was secretly interviewing him for the role of guardian for her four-year-old son, Joey. According to what she’d told him when he arrived in Seattle over a month ago, she hadn’t known either.

      Treatment for the breast cancer diagnosis she’d received over the summer had seemed straightforward, a course of chemo and radiation and she’d been donning her own pink ribbon as a survivor. Then they’d discovered the cancer had metastasized throughout her body and within weeks, her prognosis had gone from sunny to “put your affairs in order.”

      Being an eternal optimist, Cassie had still believed she could beat the disease. It wasn’t until hospice intervened that she’d called Griffin. He’d arrived at her bedside only to find out about her wishes for Joey.

      The boy was polite and respectful but hadn’t warmed to Griffin at any point. Not that Griffin blamed him. He’d tried to convince Cassie there must be someone more appropriate for Joey than he was, but she’d been adamant. He’d managed to have her moved home with round-the-clock care at the end and then spent four agonizing weeks sitting by her bed and helping the nurses care for her before she’d slipped away peacefully late one night. He’d hoped the peace of her death might make things easier for Joey.

      Could anything lessen the pain and trauma of a young child watching his mother die?

      The night of the funeral had been the first time Joey had woken screaming and thrashing in his bed. The episode had taken years off Griffin’s life, but now he was used to the unsettling incidents. He’d wake within seconds of hearing the boy and bound to his bedside to comfort him. It was the only time Joey allowed himself to be touched.

      It made Griffin’s heart break to feel that small body trembling in his arms and damned if he had any idea how to help the boy.

      “I called Dr. Cunningham earlier,” he told his mother, massaging his hand against the back of his neck. “To say he was surprised to hear from me would be the understatement of the year.”

      She smiled. “The thought of you calling your former pediatrician for advice is fairly shocking.”

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