The Vineyard Sisters: A Wayfarer Inn Novel Read online

“Sorry, Michelle. Hi,” Lori said, letting out a harsh breath. “Tony is… in a, uh, meeting. Right now. Can I take a message?”

  “He’s in a meeting? Tonight?” Michelle glanced at the clock. It was after seven. Tony never took client meetings after five.

  Another long pause. “Yes. Sorry. I’ll tell him you called?”

  A strange feeling settled over Michelle. The kind of wobbly feeling that she’d felt just before she passed out the day she found out about Leslie’s accident all those years ago. She felt disconnected from her body. “That’s okay. I’ll text him. Thanks.”

  Michelle held her phone in her hands, staring at the black screen. She started formulating several different texts to him, but had no idea what to say.

  Luckily, she didn’t have to come up with anything. Her screen lit up with his name. She swiped up to answer. “There you are! I just called Lori looking for you.”

  “Uh, yeah, hi,” he said, voice clipped and distracted. “I only have a minute.”

  “Oh. She said you were in a meeting. I didn’t know you took meetings in the evening.”

  “Not voluntarily,” he mumbled.

  Michelle waited for him to explain, but he didn’t say anything right away. She could hear muffled voices in the background, phones ringing, the shuffling of other people moving around.

  “When will you be home?”

  “Well, that’s actually why I’m calling. I’m at… the police station, actually.”

  She gasped. “Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?”

  Tony always drove too fast. Recklessly. Even when the girls were in the car, he’d go ten, fifteen, twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Michelle would make jokes about him carrying “precious cargo,” but it never lightened his foot.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s nothing serious. Just some ridiculous charges. It’s all getting sorted out.”

  She frowned. “Charges for what?”

  “I have to be careful what I say,” he said. “But they are accusing me and Mike of financial fraud, embezzlement, defrauding investors. That sort of thing.”

  Mike was the CEO of Tony’s company. He and Tony went all the way back to their fraternity days. He’d been the best man at their wedding.

  “They pulled us both in for questioning last week, and—”

  “Last week?” Michelle screeched, jumping off the counter. Blood filled her head, making her feet feel tingly against the terra cotta tile floor. “You didn’t say anything!”

  “Because it’s a bunch of B.S.,” he said. “But now, they have us down here in custody, so I figured I should let you know what’s going on.”

  Michelle felt like she was dreaming. Trapped in a nonsensical nightmare. “So what actually is going on?” she croaked.

  “I just told you,” Tony snapped. “We’re being questioned again and they filed formal charges.”

  “What does that mean? That means they have something on you, right?” she asked.

  Tony sighed. “This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d blow it out of proportion. Everything is fine.”

  “It doesn’t seem fine! What did you—”

  “I have to go,” Tony interrupted sharply. “I just wanted you to know I’d been charged and wouldn’t be home. This will be taken care of soon.”

  Before Michelle could say anything else, he hung up. The line fell into silence. And Michelle was left in her big, beautiful, empty house…

  Completely and utterly alone.

  3

  Jill

  SCHENECTADY, NEW YORK—AMELIA RUTHERS’S HOME—TWO DAYS AFTER WARREN’S DEATH

  When the unknown number appeared on Jill Ruthers’s phone, she didn’t even hesitate to dismiss the call. She had her mother to thank for all the spam calls. Or rather, her mother’s dementia.

  Before Jill and her brother had realized their mother was slipping away, she’d responded to every spam email that appeared in her inbox. Called back every scammer who left her a message. Entered the whole family into one nonexistent sweepstakes after the next.

  Now, two years since the diagnosis, Jill’s phone lit up day and night.

  Jill shoved her phone back down in her pocket and then cursed when she caught sight of the eggs in the nonstick skillet. Burnt.

  “Oh, come on,” she muttered to herself.

  Her mom wouldn’t eat the eggs if they were even a little burnt. The tiniest bit of golden-brown caramelization was enough for Amelia to turn her nose up.

  “Expect regression,” the doctor had told Jill. “By the fifth and sixth stages of the disease, everyday tasks will become difficult. I don’t want to scare you, but I want you to be prepared.”

  Jill didn’t think there was a way to be prepared to watch the only parent you’ve ever known disintegrate before your eyes.

  Part of her felt like this all might be easier if her dad was in the picture. But he wasn’t just absent—he was an absolute ghost. Try as Jill might to loosen her tongue, her mother had never let a single crumb of information drop about the man who had given Jill and Grayson half of their DNA.

  Or, shoot, maybe it wouldn’t be easier if there was a father in the picture. Maybe it was better that Jill could put what little energy she had left at the end of the day into caring for her mom, instead of splitting it between a sick parent and a grieving one.

  Jill tipped the ruined eggs into the trash can, dropped the skillet back onto the stove top, and cracked two more eggs. It was the only meal she could guarantee her mom would eat. So long as she cooked them properly.

  Jill widened her eyes and shook out her shoulders. “Focus, Jill,” she counseled herself. She’d been distracted lately. “Wandering,” as her mom used to call it.

  Her boss had mentioned it, too—her “wandering.” To be fair, Jeff had mostly been referring to the way Jill was no longer stopping in his office on her way to the break room to see if he needed coffee or a snack or anything at all, really. The way she no longer listened for the sound of his footsteps coming down the hallway so she could smile up at him as he passed.

  He'd married his fiancé two weeks earlier in a big church ceremony. Jill hadn’t been invited.

  Before that, the flirting between them felt harmless. Now, Jill had to set boundaries. For everyone’s sake. She knew what “harmless” dalliances could lead to. What kind of long-term damage they could cause.

  “You don’t need to cook for me, Jilly,” her mom called from her rocking chair in the living room. She was watching a Perry Mason episode she’d seen a hundred times before. Jill only had ten of them recorded on the DVR, but Amelia watched them over and over again. “I’m happy to do it myself.”

  Jill knew just how true that was. It was why she unplugged the stove during the day and padlocked the cabinet with access to the outlet. The last thing they needed was a repeat of the melted spoon that had nearly caused a kitchen fire. Thankfully, the mailman had smelled smoke and knocked on the front door.

  Soon, her mom would need to be in a home with round-the-clock care. But not today. Not yet.

  “I love cooking for you, Mama. In fact, it’s almost done.” Melted butter pooled in the center of the toast and the eggs were still steaming when Jill walked into the living room with their plates. “Dinner is served,” she announced.

  “Eating in the living room?” Her mom raised her thin eyebrows high. “We always eat at the table.”

  “I thought we’d try something different this time.” Jill grabbed the two television trays she stored against the wall behind her mom’s chair.

  Amelia was wrong—they ate in the living room every night now. Most nights, Jill came over after work and sat with her mom while she ate whatever meal the delivery service had dropped off.

  Garden pizza with a breadstick. Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. A square of lasagna with fruit and Jell-O.

  But on the days they didn’t deliver three meals per day, Jill stopped by and made something for the both of them. Nine tim
es out of ten, they ate eggs and toast.

  “How’s school?” Amelia asked, using her fork and knife to slice off a sliver of egg. Her movements were as poised and graceful as ever.

  “I graduated, Ma,” Jill reminded her. Thirty years ago, she added silently. “I’m working reception at a design firm now.”

  Her mom chewed and nodded. “Oh, that’s right. How is that?”

  “The work is fine, but I’m not sure about my boss.”

  “Is she arrogant?”

  “He is a good boss, but he likes to blur the professional/personal boundary.”

  Her mom hummed, brow furrowed. “It makes sense. You’re a beautiful girl. But just tell him you have a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t want to lie. Besides, I think being direct might be the—”

  “A lie? It isn’t a lie. Tell the man about Derek.”

  Jill closed her eyes and sighed. Derek had been her high school boyfriend. A soccer player with shaggy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They’d broken up one week after graduation.

  It was common for her mom to backslide into old memories and live in them. Like slipping into a pair of well-worn jeans. New memories chafed against what her brain remembered; they didn’t fit right.

  But the old ones were comfortable. Easy. Familiar.

  That was something else the doctor had warned Jill about early on. At first, it was jarring. Now, it was commonplace. Jill had learned not to fight it.

  “I suppose I could tell him about Derek,” Jill sighed, pushing a strawberry around her plate. “Thanks for the idea, Mom.”

  “Is Grayson going to come out of his bedroom and eat? A growing boy shouldn’t be skipping meals.”

  Jill winced. Some days were better than others. Occasionally, she could coax her mother into a conversation that almost made things feel normal. For a few minutes, she could forget that her mom was forgetting.

  Today was not one of those days.

  Jill’s brother, her mom’s “growing boy,” was forty-seven years old. And his childhood bedroom was now a storage space brimming with decades of Christmas decorations and dusty photo albums.

  She was saved an explanation when her phone rang yet again. She stood up and shimmied it out of the back pocket of her dress pants.

  Grayson Ruthers. Speak of the devil.

  Jill answered. “Long time, no hear.”

  “Are you capable of taking my calls without the guilt trip?” he sighed.

  “Who is it?” Amelia whispered.

  Jill put her hand over the speaker. “Grayson.”

  Her mom smiled and nodded without an ounce of surprise on her face. Entirely forgetting she’d just thought Grayson was in his childhood bedroom. Jill gave her a tight-lipped smile and turned towards the far end of the couch.

  “I’m your sister. Guilt trips come with the territory.”

  Especially since you haven’t called more than twice since Christmas.

  “If twin telepathy really worked, you’d know I’ve been insanely busy.”

  “If twin telepathy really worked, you’d know I’m rolling my eyes right now,” Jill retorted.

  Grayson was always busy. While Jill had graduated from high school and continued living with her mom for a couple years, Grayson went to college. Even though they were twins, he’d always been better in school, and his test scores had earned him a few scholarships. He was Mom’s pride and joy.

  “Oh, Grayson is taking over the world just like I knew he would,” she would say when anyone asked. “He’s studying business. Going to get rich and finally let me retire.”

  Ha. He got rich, but Mom was on disability and Grayson was living the high life in Manhattan. Constantly “saving for his own venture,” according to his version of events. Sorry, Sis. Haven’t a penny to spare. Bahumbug. That sort of thing.

  Jill took care of everything their mother needed. The longer it went on, the less subtle she could be about how mad that made her.

  “I was just calling to see how Mom is doing,” he said. Jill could hear a phone ringing somewhere in the background. He must be at his desk.

  “We’re actually eating dinner right now. Do you want to talk to her?”

  Amelia was once again lost in the Perry Mason episode. The volume was down, but her vision was much better than her mind and she could read the closed captioning.

  “No, no, no. No, that’s all right.”

  “She’d love to hear from you,” Jill pressed.

  “Yeah, well…” Grayson trailed off. “Talking to me sometimes confuses her. I’d hate to make things hard for you.”

  “As if they aren’t hard already,” Jill bit out.

  He sighed bitterly. “I forget. You’re such a martyr.”

  Jill opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, her phone buzzed in her hand. She pulled it away from her ear and saw the same unknown number calling as before. She swiped down to dismiss the call and lay into her selfish, arrogant, belittling little brother—“little” by four minutes, but what an important four minutes that was—but Grayson had moved on by the time she pressed the phone back to her ear.

  “…Besides, I have to get going soon. I have a meeting with an overseas client. The hours are hard to work out, so I can’t miss it. I just wanted to—”

  Her phone buzzed again, actually making her jump this time. A strawberry fell off her fork and bounced across the carpet.

  It was the same number. Unbelievably persistent, she thought. Scammers were really getting out of control these days.

  “…I’ll try to come back for the Fourth of July, maybe?” Grayson continued. “If not, Labor Day is a sure bet. Or maybe I could come down for half a day right after—”

  “Grayson,” Jill interrupted, “I actually have another call. I’ll have to let you go.”

  “Oh, alright. Okay.”

  “Talk to you soon.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself no matter how infuriating her brother could be, she added, “I love you.”

  Before Grayson could reply in kind—or not, which seemed more likely—she dismissed the call and swiped up on the unknown number.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line before a gravelly voice responded, “Hello? Miss Ruthers?”

  “This is her.” Jill sat up straighter. She sensed this was more formal than the usual spam calls she dealt with on a daily basis.

  Amelia leaned over her TV tray again. “Somebody is popular tonight. Is it Derek?”

  Jill gave her mom a thumbs up and paced into the kitchen.

  “Sorry to bother you, Miss Ruthers, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with you,” the deep voice said.

  “Okay…” Despite the official tone of his voice, Jill was waiting for him to mention the expiration of her car’s warranty or an all-expenses paid trip to some nonexistent tropical resort. “And who are you?”

  “My apologies, I should have begun there. I am John Schmidt, the executor for the estate of Warren Townsend.”

  Jill stared at the dirty nonstick skillet sitting on the sink, eyes narrowed. “John Schmidt” sounded suspiciously like a made-up name.

  When this so-called “John Schmidt” didn’t say anything else to clarify things, she chuckled. “Okay, but who are you?”

  “A lawyer,” he explained. “Handling the affairs of Warren Townsend. I assume you are aware he passed away recently?”

  “You must have the wrong number.” Either that or this scam was more elaborate than most. “I don’t have any clue who that is.”

  “Really?” For the first time, the man sounded something less than professional. “You aren’t familiar with the name?”

  “No. You must have the wrong ‘Miss Ruthers.’”

  “Jill Ruthers?” he clarified. “Daughter of Amelia Ruthers? Twin sister of Grayson Ruthers?”

  Now, Jill spun around and leaned back against the counter, gripping the edge until her fingernails turned white. “How do you know all of that?”

  A blackmail scheme. That’s
what this was. Something where the person revealed all of the personal details they knew about your life before they extorted money out of you in return for your identity or your family’s safety.

  “It’s written in Mr. Townsend’s will,” John Schmidt said. “Along with your current address and phone number. I’m sorry—am I the first person to contact you about your father’s passing?”

  If Jill hadn’t been holding onto the counter, she would have dropped to the ground. Her legs felt weak, unsteady. Her head swam.

  “My what?” she spat out, not caring if her mother heard. She needed her mother right now. In any form she could have her.

  She needed someone to make sense of this.

  “Your father passed of a suspected heart attack two days ago,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “My father.”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “Mr. Townsend is my father?”

  There was a pause before John once again answered. “To my understanding, yes.”

  Jill sagged against the counter and shook her head.

  For the first time, she could imagine what her mother felt like on a daily basis. The confusion. The uncertainty. Having someone speak to her as if she should know who Warren Townsend was, as if it was just so blindingly obvious he was her father, had her feeling nauseous.

  The eggs turned in her stomach. Jill thought she’d be sick.

  “Jilly, do you need help with dinner?” her mom called from the living room. “You don’t need to cook for me, you know. I’m happy to do it myself.”

  Warren Townsend was her father.

  He was dead.

  And the only person who could answer any of Jill’s questions was sitting ten feet away, suffering from a disease that may as well have placed her on the opposite side of the world.

  This wasn’t a scam.

  It was a cosmic joke.

  4

  Michelle

  The Evans House—Day Of Warren’s Death

  Michelle was still reeling.

  Tony was in police custody. Suspected of fraud and embezzlement. No, wait, not suspected. He’d been charged. Formally charged.