She looked to Zach. “Cuverie?”
“It’s where they store the wine vats,” he translated. “I suppose we want the tasting room.”
The turned right. The lane sloped uphill and at the crest stood a small timber-frame barn, converted into what looked like a restaurant. Troublingly, the parking lot was empty. The website for the vineyard didn’t say anything about it being closed in December. It listed the daily tour schedule as usual. Then again, it hadn’t been updated since early November. She’d placed a few calls, all of which had gone to voicemail. She began to experience a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn’t hunger…
As they neared the barn that housed the tasting room, they saw one of the big double doors standing slightly ajar. The lights were on inside. Her heart skipped a beat.
Even if the vineyard was closed to the public, somebody was here. She would use Zach’s lie, she decided—that she was an author writing a book set at a vineyard in this region, and she would love to meet young Monsieur Delacroix, if he would be so kind. She would, of course, bat her eyelashes a little. She also wasn’t above bribery.
They paused as they reached the double doors. Nora heard voices through the crack. One female, one male. Both young, by the sound of their voices. The woman asked a question in rapid French, to which the man responded, “Non, pas aujourd’hui.”
No, not today.
Another question, and then, “Dans l’ancienne grange.”
In the old barn.
The woman pressed him again about something, her French too fast for Nora. “Je vais bien, ne t’en fais pas,” the young man said.
I’m fine. Don’t worry.
“Shall we?” Zach whispered. “I’ll do the talking.”
She took a breath and nodded. Zach squeezed her hand and pulled her inside.
The young man was gone. Nora noticed immediately, because she’d scanned the room for him at once. The barn’s ceilings were high, with exposed beams. The back wall was lined with a bar featuring a massive wine rack. Behind the bar stood an open door. The man whose voice she’d heard was back there in that little room, Nora knew. She stared at the door, willing him to come out, to show himself.
The woman was on a ladder, dusting the blades of a large ceiling fan. She noticed them, lowered her dust rag, and smiled. “Bonjour?”
Zach replied in his fluent French: “Hello there. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” Pretty girl, about twenty-two or three, with braided brown hair.
“Is the tasting room open?”
“Only for cleaning,” she said and smiled more broadly. “We’re getting ready for a wedding on New Year’s Eve.”
Zach apologized for barging in, and the young woman went on talking, pleasantly, but Nora wasn’t listening anymore.
A silver tabby sat on the bar, doing that odd little cat thing where it licked its paw and then ran the wet paw over its ear to clean it. It stopped its bath when Nora reached it, looking at her with bright golden eyes. Nora held out a finger and the cat tilted its head magnanimously, allowing her to pet it.
The girl called out, “Nico? Guests.”
And then Nico—Nicolas Delacroix—finally appeared.
Chapter Five
He stepped through the open door behind the bar, and Nora’s knees nearly buckled. It was King. The nose. The broad shoulders and trim waist. The way he stood. The way he lifted his chin. His mouth. The lips. The jaw. Then Nora blinked and Kingsley was gone and another man stood in his place. One who was wholly himself, unique, who she would never mistake for Kingsley ever again, not even in the dark.
It was rude to stare, but Nora was rude and so she stared…and stared and stared.
His hair was shaggier than in the photograph. He was a little thinner, too, which made him look even younger than in the picture. With summer long gone, his skin was paler, though still far darker than hers. He had a black and gray checkered flannel shirt tied around his waist. His t-shirt had sweat stains, and he held a small drill in his right hand. A drill? Never in her life had she seen Kingsley holding a drill. Wait. Yes, she had, but at the time he hadn’t been using it for the purpose God intended.
The young man worked hard. Too hard, she could tell. She wanted to cook him a huge meal, though she didn’t do that sort of thing. And she wanted to hold him. She wanted to bring him home with her and welcome him into the family.
“I didn’t hear you,” he said to the woman on the ladder. “What did you say?”
“Nico, visitors,” the young woman said. Nico. That was his name. Not Nicolas, but Nico.
He saw Zach first, nodded his head in greeting, said, “Bonjour.” Then he saw her standing with the cat, her hand still resting on its back.
“Bonjour,” he said to her.
“We saw the gate open,” Zach was saying, the same spiel he’d given the girl. “But you seem to be closed.”
Nico didn’t look at him when he answered, saying, “We’re open.” No, when he said that, he was looking at Nora.
The girl on the ladder sighed, and it was a sigh that wanted to be a laugh.
“Are you? Thank you,” Zach went on. “I came from England. She’s American, but—”
“American,” he said with some awe. Nora didn’t expect that from a Frenchman. “Where are you from?”
He’d shifted immediately into English, very good English.
“New York,” she said.
“Ah. I lived in California for a year. Napa.”
“Did you? I hear it’s nice there,” she said, not knowing what she was saying. Or why she said it. Or why he was looking only at her, why she kept petting the cat as if her life depended on it. The cat didn’t seem to mind, at least.
He held out his hand. Nora hesitated before putting her hand in his. She made the handshake quick, but not so quick she didn’t feel how calloused his hands were. A farmer’s hands.
“Nico Delacroix,” he said.
“Nora.”
“Nora.” He nodded like he approved. “What brings you here to Mozet, Nora?” His questions were polite, the sort of questions the proprietor of any tourist establishment might ask the tourists. Except he’d said her name twice, like he was trying to memorize it. “I hope it’s our wine.”
Nora couldn’t bring herself to lie to his face. She thought she could, and had planned to lie to him, to get to know him a little before telling him the truth. Face to face with him now, though, seeing him live in the flesh, she couldn’t. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, either.
“I’ve never had it,” she said. “Is it as good as they say?”
“Better,” he said, smiling. The smile transformed him. The boy became a man with that smile. “You want to try Rosanella?”
“Very much, thank you.” She felt stupid talking like this, all her confidence gone, her nerves rattled to the bone.
Zach wandered over to her side. She grabbed his hand and held it tight. She didn’t want Nico to see how much it was shaking.
Nico. Nico. Nico. She played his name in her head like a new favorite song. That’s exactly who he was. He was a Nico, not a Nicolas. And she was a Nora, not an Eleanor. Except to Søren, and only Søren. So he must be a Nicolas to someone. His mother, probably. Maybe his father. Or a lover? Surely a young man this beautiful, King’s son, after all, had a lover. Maybe several.
“Come on, Pinot,” he said to the cat. “You know you can’t be up here.” He plucked the cat off the bar, scratched his head so he would know he wasn’t really in trouble, and set him on the ground. “Sorry. He thinks he owns the place.”
“Pinot?” Nora asked as Nico picked up a damp bar towel and wiped the counter down. “I thought you only had Syrah here?”
His eyes clouded over but the cloud passed quickly. “My father named him. Named all our cats Pinot, Chardonnay, something like that.” His French accent was light but lovely. She adored hearing him speak. “Tourists would come and make a joke. Only Syrah on the wine list an
d they’d ask for a Pinot, ask for a Burgundy. He would say he had Pinot in the back. He’d come out holding the cat and drop it in their laps. ‘You want a Pinot? Here’s your Pinot,’ he’d say.”
He would say… The article about the vineyard had come out last spring. In it, his father was still at the helm of the vineyard. Had he retired, leaving Nico in charge, or…had he passed? Either would have gone a long way to explain the tiredness, the weight loss, the clouds in Nico’s eyes.
He seemed to suddenly notice Zach existed. “Hello,” he said politely. “Nico. I’m the vintner.” He held out his hand to Zach and they shook.
“Zachary Easton. A pleasure.”
“You two married?” Nico asked. “On your honeymoon?”
“No,” Zach said quickly. “She’s a writer. I’m her editor. We’re on a sort of research trip together.”
“Ah.” Nico nodded, smiled again with more interest than before. “A writer. What do you write? I read when I can. Maybe I read something you wrote.”
“You’re not old enough to read what I write.”
His eyebrow shot straight up. He laughed and shook his finger at her. “You’re funny.”
Zach reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone to check the time. “Ah, I have a conference call soon. Do you mind?” he asked her. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take your time,” Nora said.
He didn’t need to make a phone call, she knew. No one worked in publishing in December. This was his way of giving her a chance to be alone with Nico, to tell him.
“I’ll walk her back when we’re finished,” Nico said.
“Thanks,” Zach said. “Good man. I’m off. Don’t drink too much.” He shook Nico’s hand again and told the girl on the ladder goodbye as he walked out.
When he was gone, Nico addressed the girl on the ladder and said, “It’s good. You can finish. Thanks.”
The young woman came down the ladder, threw her dust rag over her shoulder and sauntered out with a lilting, “Au revoir…”
Nora glanced back at Nico, who was looking at her expectantly. Now they were alone.
“Pretty girl,” Nora said. “She work here?”
“My cousin,” Nico said, rolling his eyes. “Thinks she owns the place, too.”
“Who runs things now?”
“Me,” he said. “My father left it all to me.”
Left it all to him? He hadn’t retired; he’d passed away. Oh God.
“Did that…happen recently?” She tried to keep her voice even, kind, politely curious. “I read about this place in a magazine not that long ago. They interviewed your father.”
“November,” he said, not looking at her, just wiping the same spot on the counter again and again with the bar towel. “Heart attack in the fields. Found him under the vines.” He smiled a pained smile. “It’s how he said he wanted to go. On his land, with his vines. Working.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Hot tears pricked her eyes. Could her timing be any worse?
He turned and plucked a photograph off the wall that hung over a line of wine bottles.
“This is him,” he said. He showed her a photograph of himself and a much older man standing side by side under an arched grape arbor. One of those pale men who never tanned, just turned pink as wild salmon. He had a large Roman nose, nothing like Nico’s. An enormous man, even taller than Søren, and broader, too. Nora would have guessed he was in his early 70s in the photograph, though ages were impossible to guess with people who worked outdoors. He and Nico couldn’t have looked more different if they’d tried. And Nora could easily imagine the boredom of a young wife, married to a much older man, a farmer, too, falling for Kingsley—young, handsome, wounded—in a week.
“He looks so happy,” she said. “He must have lived for this place.”
“He lived for me,” Nico said. Nora stared at him, waited. “He told me that so many times. Frost, fire, bad year, no money, whatever…he’d say to me, ‘You’re alive. I’m alive. Your mother’s alive. What else is there?’ ” He blinked and Nora saw his eyes were red. “I thought he’d live forever.” He seemed to suddenly catch himself. The smile he gave her was sheepish. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying all this to you. Still feels like his place, not mine.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
“Why is that? You didn’t even know my father.”
“That’s why, probably.” She rested her elbow on the bar, her head on her hand. “Everyone here knew him, right? And loved him, too.”
“He was worshipped here. We’ve had people working here for forty years.”
“So they loved him, and they’re grieving, too. But none of them are his son, so none of them are grieving as much as you are. Maybe you resent that a little, that they don’t miss him as much as you do. Maybe you resent having to go on, because now you’re in charge. But I didn’t know him, so you don’t resent me for not covering myself in ashes and sackcloth.”
He laughed softly, so softly it was more of a breathy smile than a laugh.
“You’re smart.” He tapped his temple. He took a big breath. “It’s not fair of me to expect them to miss him as much as I do. Why would they? I’ll stop talking about him now. You came here for wine, not my life story.”
Keep talking, she wanted to say. She had a thousand questions and she needed answers.
Are you all right?
Are you eating enough?
Aren’t you too young to be running a business this big on your own?
Have you been sleeping?
Is anyone helping you?
Is anyone taking care of you?
Does anyone love you like you should be loved?
Nico took the framed photograph, turned and hung it on the wall again. “If I get enough wine in you, maybe you’ll tell me about your books.”
Nora watched as Nico straightened the picture, then adjusted it again until it was straight. He turned around.
“You want to see our list?” he asked.
At once Nora knew she couldn’t do this. Not now. Not to him. On the verge of a panic attack, she said, “I need to go.”
His head cocked, his brow furrowed. “Go? Now? You don’t want wine?”
“I’m sorry. I…I need to get back. I’m very sorry,” she said. She reached for her scarf she’d laid on the bar. “This was a mistake.”
“What was a mistake? Hey.” He reached across the bar and touched her arm lightly. “What’s wrong?”
She met his eyes—another mistake. Those celadon eyes of his were imploring her to stay, to speak, to explain herself. In a moment of weakness, he’d confided in her and here she was, leaving him so abruptly. She’d hurt him. His hand on her hand was light, but she felt as if her arm was nailed to the bar.
“I can’t tell you,” she said.
“Can’t tell me what?”
“Why I’m here. The real reason I’m here. I can’t tell you. I thought I could, but I can’t. And I can’t lie to you either.”
“Lie to me? About what? You don’t know me.” He took his hand away from hers, as if she was scaring him. God, she was ruining this. Kingsley would never forgive her.
Nora rubbed her forehead, sighed.
“Nora?”
The way he said her name, like he knew her…
“I came here because I do know you,” she said. “In a way. Maybe. Ah, this is impossible. I wanted to talk to you about something kind of personal, but I have no idea how to do it.”
He smiled. “You’re mysterious, you know. It’s a little crazy.”
“I really am very sorry,” she said.
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Say the truth.”
She glanced around. She heard more voices outside the barn. Other workers. His cousin. They were trying to get the place ready for a wedding. Anyone could walk in while they were talking.
“This isn’t the right place. Can we talk later?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Les Florets. Do you know it?”
“I know it. I can be there at eight.”
“Perfect. I’ll try to pull myself together by then.”
“Eight then. Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I said I would.” He untied the flannel shirt from around his hips like it was a done deal. As if I said I would meant the same thing as I will. It didn’t, for most people. “We don’t have to talk when we walk, if you don’t want.”
Nora was shocked to find that she did want him to walk her back. So she said, “All right.” Then she said, “Thank you.” And finally, as they were walking out of the barn and down toward the open gates, with Pinot the cat half-heartedly following them, she said, “You.”
“Me?” he said. “What about me?”
“You asked me earlier what brings me to Mozet. The answer is ‘you.’ ”
Chapter Six
On their walk back to the parking lot, Nora was both surprised and impressed that Nico hadn’t said anything for a full two minutes.
“No questions?” she said.
“Too many questions.”
“You can ask. I won’t answer if it means having to lie to you.”
“Are you with the bank?”
Nora had to laugh. Did she look like a banker? “What bank?”
He shrugged and the shrug was so like Kingsley that she shivered. “We had an investor,” he said. “He pulled out when my father died. He doesn’t think I can run the place on my own, says I’m too young. So I’m trying to get a loan. If everyone paid their bills on time, I could cover payroll without a loan. But even restaurants with Michelin stars are bad at paying their bills. If we can make it to spring, we’ll be okay but…you know. It’s just business.”
“I’m not from the bank. I’d give you the loan if I could, though. And I promise, I always settle my bar tab by the end of the night.”
He laughed. “I believe that.”
“I know someone who might be able to help you,” she said as they walked. “A friend of mine. He used to come to Mozet when he was a boy. And in his twenties, too—decades ago. Before you were born.”
Winter Tales: An Original Sinners Christmas Anthology Page 4