Page 195 of You've Got Hate Mail
No. “You drained the barrels?”
“Tapped ’em and let ’em flow, then washed the floors with his favorite whiskey, then turned the hose on all of it like I was cleaning a murder scene. Didn’t want anything left that that old bastard was proud of.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
“The barrel we drank out of—” I start, and then stop myself as I remember that she and Ten couldn’t tap most of the barrels they tried first.
We were halfway down the row before they found one at ground level that they could tap.
Pip said the barrels were broken, which seemed odd to me, but I’ve never been part of the process, so I didn’t know.
They weren’t broken.
They were empty.
A hollow panic builds in my chest and spreads to my arms and legs.
That wine—that wine could’ve saved us.
But it’s not there.
One corner of her lips tilts up in a smile that’s not a real smile. “Saidmostof them, didn’t I?”
I swallow.
Then swallow again.
“So I fucked us over,” she says. “Can’t sell the wine. No wine left to sell.”
Dammit.
I thought we had it.
I thought we had the golden ticket. That I’d found the right thing to say.
And I did.
I found the right thing to say.
The thing that would put us in the black and save our home.
Except it’s not possible.
I swallow hard. “I don’t know firsthand what your marriage was like, but if you needed to drain the wine for closure, for processing, for healing, then you did what you needed to do. And it was your right to do it.”
She studies me. “That’s it? Not gonna yell at me for being dumb?”
Absolutely not.
It’s what my parents would’ve done, but it’s not who I want to be.
“Who’d do that here?” I ask softly instead.
“Dean would’ve.”
“Fuck Dean. I’m glad his legacy is gone.”
