“Mabry told me he and his wife, Annie, liked the Bianchis quite a lot,” Pippa said. “Mabry hadn’t been too fond of the vineyard plan before then, but said their enthusiasm changed his mind.”
Seth nodded. “The Bianchis were the ones who built the house. Chalet,” he corrected himself, shooting her a fast grin. “I never met Gilbert Bianchi, but his wife, Sarah, told me he was a big fan of Frank Lloyd Wright. She loved the mountain homes out west where they’d vacationed in the past, so the house was some compromise between the two. Gilbert was a retired surgeon and Sarah was a horticulture illustrator. Some of her work is still in the house.”
“Are those the prints in my room? They’re lovely. Wow. I’ll have to look her up now. That’s really something.”
Seth nodded. “She was also an heiress, modest money, or at least that’s what she said. So, between the two, finances were never a concern. The vineyard was really sort of a retirement dream of Gilbert’s, and Sarah had always wanted to play around with event planning, weddings and the like. Gilbert’s ideas were far more modest than Emile’s. I think the Bianchis envisioned it more as an event venue.”
“I’m glad you kept the stone barn,” she said. “It’s a beautiful structure.”
“I think so, too,” Seth said. “I have Gilbert to thank for that. He was a history buff and respected the land and what came before. He’s responsible for renovating both the bluestone barn and the round barn, or hiring the companies who did. He used local labor where possible, which endeared him immediately to the folks here. I named the winery Bluestone & Vine in part because of that barn. It’ll be the tasting room, eventually.”
“How perfect,” she said, delighted. “And the round barn? You mentioned it last night. Where is it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.”
“Down past the stone barn. It’s the original dairy barn, built in the early nineteen-hundreds, when the Dinwiddies came and started their farm. The lower two levels are still designed for cows and milking, but the upper levels have been renovated. Gilbert liked the shape and thought the main levels, which are accessed on the back side, would make unique places to store the wine casks. The top level is built around a grain silo, which is empty now. His plan was to set up that area with the grape press and oak barrels so visitors could stomp grapes as well. I’ll follow through on his plan. It’s a good one all around.”
Her eyes widened. “Is that real? Like, with your bare feet?”
He glanced at her. “Until they developed wine presses, that’s how wine was made. Well, that and natural pressing, where they piled the grapes up and let the weight of them force out the juice.”
“Have you done it? Stomping?”
He nodded. “I have.”
“And?”
He grinned then. “It’s . . . an unusual feeling.”
She barked a laugh at that, then gasped and quickly covered her throat.
Seth immediately braked the truck. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, rolled her eyes at herself, and waved him to keep on driving, feeling like an idiot. “I’m fine, truly. I’m sorry. It’s . . . a reflex. Too many months worrying about sneezing or coughing or doing anything that might set back the results of the surgery.” She tried to pass it off as no big deal. When, of course, it was a very big deal. Sitting-in-a-truck-half-a-world-away-because-she-was-too-chicken-to- sing big deal. But he didn’t need to know that. Hopefully, other than Katie, no one would ever know that.
Seth drove on up the winding dirt and gravel road. Even though his property was right up the mountain from Mabry’s, the road connecting the two seemed to wind back and forth all over the place. The snowmobile path had definitely been quite a shortcut.
“Moira mentioned you were coming here to rest, but you told me yesterday that it’s all good now,” he said after a minute or two had passed. He glanced at her, then back to the road. “So, why come all this way then?” He flashed her a smile, lightening the sudden serious shift in conversation. “Leaving your star-ish entourage behind and everything.”
She smiled at that. Seth Brogan was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger to her. And yet, it was surprisingly tempting to tell him everything. He was a caretaker by nature, of everything from ten-year-old girls to traumatized llamas. Her instincts told her she could trust him. But telling anyone that she was afraid to sing, that she might not ever make another album, or set foot on stage again, thereby possibly putting the entire cottage industry that was “Pippa MacMillan, Singer” in jeopardy . . . she couldn’t risk that news getting out.
There was no decision to be made about whether or not she wanted to sing. She loved making music, loved performing. Being personally responsible for the livelihoods of those who now worked for her added to the stress, but she loved her star-ish entourage, every last one of them, like the family they’d truly become.
“Perspective,” she said, at length, which was truthful, if not exactly specific. “It’s been a roller-coaster ride this past year since the surgery, and I needed to gracefully step away and sort through it all. I can’t do that in Ireland, or anywhere in Europe, actually. It’s such a bizarre thing, celebrity.”
He glanced over at her again. “I can’t say I know anything about what that’s like. My job before this was as an Army Ranger.” He shot her a fast smile. “We worked very hard not to be seen.” He looked back at the road. “I imagine it must feel like a kind of out-of-body experience. Like you’re just you, but everyone around you suddenly sees someone worthy of the kind of attention a celebrity draws.”
“I never thought of it that way, but you’ve got it exactly right,” she exclaimed. “It’s true, you know. You’re literally the same person you’ve always been, nothing much special. You can sing a bit, and write a catchy tune, maybe play a fiddle half decently. But through some magical potion of right time, right place, right ... something, those things catch on with this group, then that, and then it grows and grows, and suddenly everyone knows your name. But not you. Not really.”
“A household name and a complete stranger, all at the same time.”
“Exactly. Even looking back, I honestly can’t track it. I suddenly went from sitting on stage in a dank and smoky pub to walking out on stage in front of more people than I’ve ever seen in my life. And they are shouting my name and singing my songs right along with me. Words I scribbled on the back of this napkin or that mobile bill, mind you. It’s the oddest thing, really, but at the same time, wonderful and amazingly gratifying, to see my music bringing joy to so many.”
She shifted her gaze from him back out to the wintry white landscape. “But I still climb into bed at night, as I always have, get up in the morning, wash my face, pour a cup of tea, and I’m exactly who I’ve always been, at least inside my head. And I think, well then. Okay. This is a bit of fun, isn’t it? I can sing and folks can enjoy it. I can actually make a decent living from it all, but nothing much else to see here, right? Then I’ll open the morning paper, and there’s my face splashed all over the front of it, with some huge headline proclaiming I’m snogging this poor actor—who only stepped backstage to get an autograph for his young daughter, mind you—or I’m pregnant with triplets. Again! Or any other thing that will sell a tabloid, and I shake my head and think ... who in the world is that girl? That’s not me. I’m just Pippa MacMillan from Donegal.” She settled back in her seat again. “Out-of-body. That’s the perfect way to describe it.”
He chuckled and she glanced at him, smiling, too. “I can’t say I can even imagine most of that,” Seth said. “Is the trade-off of your pleasure in singing, and making a living—a very good one, it seems—worth the intrusion into every part of your life? It must be one hell of a mind game, seeing people making up lies about you, wondering who believes it, or if that even matters, since they don’t know you, or you them.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d want to imagine it, much less live it.” He glanced at her. “No insult intended.”
“None take
n,” she said honestly. “I must seem like a spoiled brat, complaining, but I’m not really. Complaining, I mean. Just trying to convey it all, and the hard work it takes. Even though it’s working at something I love doing, it’s still work.”
“That part I do understand. I do complain,” he added. “Ask Dexter. He gets an earful daily. Just because you love something doesn’t mean it doesn’t frustrate you. Often, at times. The rewards outweigh that though. That part I can identify with. Or, in my case, I hope the rewards will make it all worthwhile,” he added with a short laugh.
“For me the music is the reward. The success, lovely as it is, is a bonus on top of that. I’d still be singing in pubs if the rest hadn’t happened.” She realized the truth of that as she said it, and it was a bit of a jolt. She filed that away for later examination, too. “I would have said I wasn’t spoiled by success, but a few hours with Mabry and I’m not so sure I haven’t been more seduced by this new life than I realized,” she added with a laugh. “Maybe my coming here will be good for me in ways I haven’t even begun to comprehend yet.” She looked at him, her words sincere. “Thank you for putting me up. Mabry told me how busy you are at this time of year, and I want you to know, I do plan on helping out. I’d like to cook. Oh, and it’s possible I may have invited Mabry over for some shepherd’s pie, but no date on that. And I’ll help in the barn, too. I’m sure I can find a way to—” She broke off as he turned the lumbering truck into a recently cleared driveway and pulled up in front of a small log cabin. So that’s why the drive had seemed inordinately long. She looked from the cabin, to him, then back to the cabin, and felt her shoulders slump. Her heart did a little of that, too. “Oh,” she said softly.
“Pippa, I’m sorry.” He looked truly chagrined. “I just—”
“No,” she said, looking back at him. “I completely understand. Actually, I was going to offer to find a place, but Mabry had me more or less talked out of it by the time you arrived. Maybe I just wanted him to.” She pasted on a smile. “It was kind of you to go to the trouble of finding me a spot. Is this yours, too?”
He shook his head. “A friend of mine owns it. Noah Tyler. He owns the inn in town and uses this mostly for clients who come up here to fish or hunt.”
She nodded, trying to cover her disappointment. It stung, though, even if she understood why he’d done it. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t. “Mabry mentioned him, too. If you’ll give me Noah’s contact information, I’ll handle this directly with him.”
Just then Seth’s cell phone went off, sending it vibrating across the top of the console between them. She saw the name on the screen before he picked it up. Mabry Jenkins.
“Hey, Mabry,” Seth said. “Did we forget something?”
Pippa couldn’t hear what Mabry said, but Seth’s face went momentarily slack, then he immediately shifted into full on commander mode. He’d mentioned being an Army Ranger, and in that moment, she fully believed it.
“You stay put,” Seth told him. “Don’t move anything. We’re coming right down. No, you’re not all right. Stay put, dammit!” he said, his voice rising. “I’m putting Pippa on the phone. You talk to her until we get back down there. Don’t hang up. Talk to her.”
Seth didn’t ask her, he just handed the phone to her, then jerked the truck into reverse. “Mabry. He’s gotten himself pinned under part of his tractor. I think he’s having a heart attack. Talk to him. Try to keep him calm. Do you have a phone?”
Heart thumping now, Pippa put Seth’s phone to her ear and fished hers out of her jacket pocket. “Mr. Jenkins?” she said into the phone as she handed her own to Seth. “If you’d wanted my company for a bit longer, you didn’t have to go to these lengths,” she said, trying to sound teasing, as if everything would be fine. “I’d have been happy to keep handing you tools, you know.”
Seth nodded at her, urging her to continue. He got the truck turned around and they were heading pell-mell back down the curving mountain road as he punched 9-1-1 into her cell phone.
Chapter Six
Pretty much the only thing that could have wiped the image of Pippa’s crestfallen expression from his mind was the sound of Mabry’s voice wheezing in pain. Somehow, both things were still stuck in his head fifteen minutes later when he pulled back into Mabry’s long driveway. There was only a footpath plowed from house to barn, so Seth drove as far as he could go and killed the engine. “Go into the house and get as many clean towels as you can find and meet me in the barn,” he told Pippa, who had slipped down from the truck by the time he was out and around the front. What he hadn’t told Pippa was that Mabry was pretty sure the tractor had broken a few bones, though he hadn’t said where or how badly, so Seth had no idea what they were about to encounter.
Pippa didn’t question him, just nodded and ran toward the screened-in back porch, phone still at her ear.
“Keep talking to him,” Seth called over his shoulder as he took off down the mud- and snow-packed path to the barn. He could hear the first strains of sirens whining in the distance. Thank God. He was one of the fortunate few who, despite having seen more than his fair share of combat, had managed to find a way to make peace with his memories so they didn’t haunt his every waking or sleeping hour any longer. However, he’d be a liar if he said the sound of those sirens, mixing with the drumbeat of his own pulse, didn’t rouse a few long-buried memories he’d just as soon leave in the past. He tried not to flinch when he heard the screen door to the back porch slap shut a minute later—failed, but kept on running.
“I’ve got towels,” Pippa shouted hoarsely from far behind him, and he flinched again.
He wanted to turn, tell her not to yell like that, to protect her voice, then shook his head and kept on moving. Not my problem. But he was coming to believe it was still a problem for her. Something wasn’t quite adding up with her tidy little story about being all healed and just looking for a little downtime. A continent away. Also, not my problem. Her animated expression as she exclaimed how beautiful the countryside was, excitedly telling him how she was planning to earn her keep at the vineyard, mixed with the sound of Mabry telling him to take care of her when they’d left the house earlier. I am taking care of her. And myself. The only way I know how.
Seth made it to the barn, where the sight of the old man, pinned under the side of the tractor, mercifully wiped his mind clean of everything except for the scene in front of him. “Hey, Mabry,” he said, panting a little as he pulled up, then knelt beside the man’s head. He took Mabry’s phone from his shaking hand. “I’ve got him, Pippa,” he said, and hung up, knowing she’d be in the barn in a few seconds anyway. He dropped the phone in the dirt and turned his attention to the old man. Mabry was pale as a ghost and looked as if he’d aged another ten years since they’d seen him less than a half hour ago. “If you wanted to do some weight lifting, I have a set in my basement, you know,” Seth told him, keeping his tone light as he quickly assessed the situation.
It looked like Mabry had been working on the axle, or maybe trying to take the wheel off—it was hard to tell—but whatever the case, the jack system he’d rigged up had failed. One side of the tractor had dropped down, pinning the lower half of his body under part of its weight and probably fracturing one or both of his legs. Mabry had said it might have “banged his legs up a bit,” and he wasn’t kidding. More worrisome, a piece of the jack had impaled Mabry in the upper thigh. The metal shaft was still in the wound, sealing it, and while Seth was no doctor, he had seen his fair share of shrapnel wounds and far worse. He suspected the moment that thing moved, there was a good chance the old man could bleed out in a blink, if the femoral artery had been punctured.
“If you’d just . . . get this thing ... off me . . . I’d appreciate it,” Mabry wheezed, each word sounding labored and painful.
Seth pressed his fingers against the pulse in Mabry’s wrist and counted. “Yeah, well, I left my Iron Man suit at home, unfortunately, but we’ll have help here in a jiff. Try and take sl
ow, shallow breaths,” he told him. “In and out. Does your chest hurt? Any pains in your arm?”
Mabry shook his head. “I told you . . . not having . . .”
“That’s okay, don’t talk. Save your breath. I believe you.” That was the one bit of good news in all this. Mabry didn’t appear to be having a heart attack after all.
The sirens grew quite loud as Pippa raced into the barn, her arms full of bath towels, and a roll of paper towels clutched in each of her hands. “I wasn’t sure,” she said, panting, “which kind you meant.”
“I think the cavalry is here,” Seth said. “Hold on to them, though, just in case.” He’d asked for the towels in case they’d needed them to help stanch any bleeding. Seth had already slipped his belt off on the run in, to use as a tourniquet, only there was no way to get to where the problem was without moving the tractor, and he was going to need a whole lot more than a stack of bath towels when that jack shaft shifted.
Seth closed his eyes in thanks when the siren went silent. He leaned back to look out the open barn doors, and saw the big Blue Hollow Falls volunteer fire truck, followed by their EMT truck, and another emergency vehicle all rumbling down the drive. More sirens howled in the distance, and he suspected Turtle Springs was sending up their finest, too. The more the merrier, he thought. We’re going to need it.
Pippa came around and sat cross-legged in the dirt next to Mabry on his other side. She put her hand on his forehead, then his shoulder. “You’ve given us quite a scare,” she told him, sounding like a cross headmistress, even as she stroked his arm and laid her palm once again over his forehead.
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