Page 82 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

“Pop.”

“Don’t let me down, Holt.” The manipulative son-of-a-gun adds, “I need you.”

6

WISER NOW

APRIL 2023 – PRESENT DAY

It’s amazing what a man can accomplish in only twenty-four hours. Sure, I didn’t get myself to the office to start my re-training with Dad, but I packed my shit, caught a flight and arranged a meet with the real estate agent I’d used six years ago when I bought property here in Rubble Ridge. She’d promised discretion, and I’m confident she did all she could to see that promise through to me.

But Rubble Ridge is small, and I bought the property with my own name. Whoever filed it must have blabbed to Dad. I have no doubt it was Dad who made sure the blabber didn’t blab again.

Herman Wilder was a prominent figure in Rubble Ridge. He’d been that as far back as I could remember, being born and raised in the small town that was little more than a dot on a map. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. He had his nose in a little bit of everyone’s business, a finger in nearly every pot, what with his investments and donations into pretty much every startup.

While just driving through town, it’d been impossible not to note the new rec center that stood proudly on the outer edge. Gleaming tinted glass and angled timber crafted an architectural piece of art that, although modern, fit with the ambiance of the town that bled rustic charm. The sponsors were etched into the massive stone out front. The Vancouver Vikings one of the biggest, followed closely by the Wilders.

In my talks with Mom, Wilder Builds and Reno’s had slowed significantly since Tate’s death. Dad hadn’t accepted a project outside town borders in fourteen months, even going so far as letting some of his guys go. Mom says it’s a shame.

Although there’s a cookie cutter builder monopolizing the pop-up new builds in town, if you want custom, you trust Wilder Builds and Reno’s.

“Will this do, Mr. Wilder?”

Mr. Wilder. It sounds different here than it does under the flash and fame of the city.

“It’ll do, Quinn. Thank you.” I call her by her first name, hoping she takes the hint and returns the favor.

Quinn joins me by the spread of windows overlooking a view that’d take the breath away from most men. There was once a time it was so familiar to me; I hardly saw it. Then I lost it.

Now I can’t stop looking.

I’ve been the same way with Faye’s social media pages since I saw her fourteen months ago. Kenny likes to tell me I have a problem. I’m liable to believe the guy. I’ve basically been stalking her. With every picture I come across, the blade that lodged in the deep of my heart that day fourteen months ago, twisted. Every twist sent pain knifing through me even as the obsession drove me to seek out another, and another.

The pain of it—of her—was—is unending.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I clear my throat. “You don’t see it while you’re here, living in it.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve never stopped seeing it. Never stopped thinking it was the most beautiful view.” From the corner of my eye, I watch as she settles into the power stance, I’ve come to find familiar from her. “I’ve been here for nine years now, and I still take my coffee each morning while looking at those mountains.”

I don’t know why her words make me sad. “Maybe I was just ignorant then.”

I feel her eyes on me. “Or maybe you were just a kid with big dreams.”

Of course, everyone in Rubble Ridge knows the story of Holt Wilder. The hockey prodigy. Rubble Ridge’s claim to fame.

“I don’t know.”

“Something tells me you won’t be blinded by the familiarity of this view again. You’re older now. Wiser. You’ve lived. You know the value of what you have in front of you.” Why do I feel like she’s not talking about the mountain view? She must sense my frown, because she tells me, “The owner has agreed to a month-by-month lease. I will draw up the contract and have it to you by five pm this evening.”

The way she pivots is jarring. But I remember this from the last time I’d worked with her. Remember being struck by her heels with their killer spikes and dark burgundy red lipstick that made all her sharp angles look sharper than they really were. Quinn LaBonton is a force to be reckoned with.

“Thank you,” is all I say.

She nods once. The sharp shoulder-length bob of her sleek black hair hardly moves. “The condo is yours. I’ll see myself out.”

The scent of Mom’s lasagna hits me as soon as Dad opens the door. It’s always been a favorite of mine. I think I’ve tried every homecooked style of lasagna that Vancouver has to offer at least once. Every time, the effort to feel that sense of coming home failed me.