The car—a pristine, white SUV—swung up the last curve, spitting gravel, and paused at the fork in the drive. Another cop, late to the party? Don’t see me, he prayed, keeping himself as still as his livelihood’s charred remains. When the car started a three-point turn, he thought his wish had been granted, only to be proven wrong when a deputy pointed the driver up here. It reversed and struggled up the steep slope to where he stood beside the winery. The only thing left standing.
The windows were tinted, but suddenly he knew, with a certainty as dead as his vines, who was in that car. Olivier. His half brother, whose impeccable timing proved, once again, that he had worked out a deal with the devil.
How messed up was it that the first thing Luc wanted to do was cry? He turned away, choking back the tears from where they stabbed his sinuses and clogged his throat. Christ, when had he last cried? Ever? Not when his father or Grandpère died, or when he’d cut off that stupid finger. Not even last night, as he’d watched his vines burn. No, it took his brother showing up, out of the blue—at exactly this moment—for him to almost shed a tear.
Olivier got out of the car, took off his glasses, and took in the vineyard—not theatrically, the way their mother would have done, but nonchalantly. As if he saw shit like this every day.
And as if he saw Luc every day, Olivier came to stand beside him without a word, looking for all the world like the landowner, the winemaker he was supposed to be. Unlike Luc, who’d always been a peasant.
“Must have some amazing insurance” was all Olivier said.
Luc, expecting a question, an insult—some judgment—surprised himself by laughing. “Insurance? Oh putain, mon vieux. You have no idea.”
“You have some kind of blight? Something you had to burn out?” He raised a brow at Luc.
That sounded about right, didn’t it? Luc wasn’t sure what would happen to his closest neighbors, but he was fairly sure the blight would leave him alone from here on. Too late, of course.
“Hein?” Olivier prompted.
“Not exactly. Neighbors burned me out.”
With some satisfaction, Luc watched shock transform his brother’s features.
“Someone did this to you? On purpose?”
Luc nodded.
“Jesus. I’ll bet it was your winning personality.” They stood in silence for a minute. “Nice view. I can see why you picked it.”
“Wasn’t the view.”
“Oh?”
Luc indicated the boulders lurking just above and to the side of them. “Granite.”
Olivier’s brows were still up, still confused.
Luc shook his head. “Did you ever listen to a damn thing Grandpère said? About growing grapes?”
“No. Why should I when we had you for that?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
Olivier smiled. “Yes. Well, the asshole’s here to beg.” He paused, eyes on Luc, looking less confident than he ever had. “We need you. Please come back. Your rules.”
Luc searched inside himself for some sort of elation or excitement or something victorious. He came up with nothing.
Still, though. Look at this place. Nothing but devastation. Was the universe telling him something? For once, maybe Luc Stanek should listen.
His thoughts flew to Abby, being made to tell her story again, down there with the deputy. Maybe it would be best if he left. For both of them. She’d be better off without him and his special brand of fucked up.
You couldn’t ask for a fresher start. For either of them.
“Tell me more,” Luc said, leading his brother into the barn to show him the dregs of his American life.
* * *
Abby was exhausted by the time she made it up to the barn, where Luc was talking to a man—handsome, like Luc, but without the rough edges. In fact… She squinted at them and saw the resemblance. It was in the strong line of their noses, the sharp cut of their cheekbones, but where Luc’s face was wide, his brother’s was long and thin, bony and elegant.
“Abby, this is my brother, Olivier.”
“Good to meet you,” she said.
“Enchanté,” Olivier said with a lift of an eyebrow, a kiss to the back of her hand, and a smile that should have dropped her on the spot. “You are…”
“Abby is…my friend,” said Luc.
Abby couldn’t look at him. Her knees threatened to give out, but she steeled them and forced a smile. Of course. A friend. Just that. “Olivier is trying to get me to go back to France,” he went on.
“I’m asking you to come back to your rightful home. To take over the vineyard. I’m asking for help.”
Abby swallowed, finally turning to Luc, whose eyes burned into hers. “Are you going?”
“He has to,” interrupted Olivier. Then, to Luc, “You were always the heart and soul of the place. I was too blind to see it.”
Luc said, “I haven’t decided yet,” then turned to her. “What do you think I should do?” It was the hope in his eyes that did it. He wanted to go. And now that she’d destroyed his life, he deserved a fresh start. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? When he’d spoken of France, he’d always sounded resentful but also…homesick, maybe?
Blinking back the tears that threatened to push their way out, she said, “You should go.”
“Yes?” All was silent except for the sound of Sammy banging on metal out back.
“What’s left for you here?” she asked, swallowing hard. And then, to put that final nail in the coffin: “Lord only knows where Sammy and I’ll end up. No reason for us to stay here, is there?”
“You’ll go away, then?”
“’Course,” she lied. “I promised. Besides, it’s always been the plan.”
Luc asked, “Would you like to come with me?” and Abby almost caved. Almost. But then she remembered this man’s sense of responsibility, the way he’d feel obligated to take care of her and Sammy and the dog, and she understood. This was duty speaking.
She forced out a tough laugh. “Me and Sammy? And what, we’d learn French? No, he’s got people here.” She tried to sound flippant, as if she did this sort of thing every day, and said, “Maybe I’ll visit you sometime.” Avoiding his eyes, Abby smiled hard and looked between the men. “You couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ll tell you that, Olivier.”
“So I understand,” he said with a satisfied smile.
From out back came the rumble of an engine coming to life, and the three of them followed the sound to where Sammy sat atop the ancient tractor.
“Hi, friends!” he yelled cheerily. “Got it fixed!”
Forcing a smile, Abby nodded. “Good job, Sammy-Boy. Good job.” She let her eyes meet Luc’s and, for just a moment, saw something there that gave her a foolish spark of hope.
Maybe he’ll stay, she thought, until his eyes slid to his brother, and she realized exactly what that hope was about—not her, not here, not a stupid, old tractor coming back to life a day too late. No, the hope was for a different kind of second chance. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see herself in that picture. She held it together long enough to grab Sammy, pile into Rory’s truck, and drive back into town.
But it wasn’t until she and Sammy returned to her tiny, pathetic room above the Nook and she’d taken Le Dog out for a few minutes, that she locked herself into the bathroom and let go with long, hard, silent sobs. Because, while she’d released Luc, giving him a much-deserved second chance at life, there was nothing left for her to do but go on. Even if it meant grieving the loss of the only man she’d ever loved.
* * *
The roots of a grapevine grow down and out. Almost, but not quite, mirroring the branches above. They go deep, and they can spread, although the majority of the roots stay right there, close to the plant.
The best wines don’t come easy. You don’t plant in
wet soil where the roots take hold and grow dense right away. No, you want that plant to struggle, to work hard, to produce fewer grapes. But those grapes… Luc knew from experience that the best wines came from ambitious plants. Plants that overcame obstacles to develop their flavor.
Hardy and sweet. Exactly like Abby Merkley. She’d been given nothing, absolutely nothing in life, and yet she’d reached far and wide for what she’d needed.
Olivier had surprised Luc when he’d offered to stay for a bit and clear away the mess left by the fire. He’d known, somehow, that Luc couldn’t leave the place like this—devastated and burned. That whole first day after the fire, the men worked, making plans for a future that Luc couldn’t seem to build any excitement around. As they talked, France felt different from before—far away, almost mythical and completely without challenge—drab compared to this place.
As the day drew to an end and Luc thought about spending tonight camped out in front of the tasting-room fire, Olivier approached him, filthier than Luc had ever seen him.
“So, are you going to let me taste it?” his brother asked, handing him a bottle of water.
Luc chugged, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and narrowed his eyes dumbly. “What?”
“Your wine, you idiot. All those fucking bottles in there. And the barrels. I’d try one on my own, but that’s not really done, is it?” Eyes intense on Luc, he went on. “So, you give me a taste?”
Luc didn’t want to give his brother the wine. He didn’t want to hear what he’d have to say about it and certainly didn’t need the criticism.
But what was the point of refusing? At this point, throwing in the towel meant letting go of all his old anger, didn’t it?
With a sigh, he grabbed a couple glasses and the thief. He led Olivier into the barrel room, where the wine worked, if not toward greatness, at least toward something.
He eased the bunghole open and served a good helping into the first glass, because what the fuck difference did it make now anyway, if the barrels weren’t topped up?
Trying not to think of that day he’d gone through these same motions with Abby, he went to the other side of the room and served up the second wine for comparison, then handed the glasses to his brother.
“Come on. I want to get a good look at this wine. Can’t see a damned thing in here.” Olivier led him out into the tasting room, where the last of the day’s light illuminated the vintage to a rich, ruby red.
Luc had to force himself to blink and look away as his brother went through the practiced motions of tasting the wine: putting his nose fully in the glass, swirling it, and watching the progression of the legs down the sides.
He heard the sound of slurping as Olivier let his breath float over the liquid in his mouth, humming with what was no doubt disapproval. Bordel, why was he this nervous? He’d decided to leave, so what did it matter?
When Olivier finally deigned to speak, he shocked Luc by asking, “Are you planning to say good-bye to your friend?”
“Who?”
“I’m talking about your girlfriend. The one who’s going to keep you in this fucking place as surely as this wine will.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you staying here,” said Olivier.
Luc started to shake his head and then stopped.
“Wait. You like it?” He flicked his eyes to the glass.
“It’s young.” His brother’s lips turned down in disapproval. God, how very French. “But it’s interesting.”
“Give me that,” Luc demanded. He reached for the glass and took an uncontrolled swig of his own wine.
And it was interesting, wasn’t it?
Another exploration, slow this time. Luc enjoyed the finish, which was more complex than anything his grandfather had ever managed to produce, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a bright splash of color, out of place here in the tasting room. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the blanket—no, quilt—that Abby had given him. He hadn’t listened when she’d told him to bring it to the cabin the day she’d thrust it into his hands. The day he’d lost his soul to a kiss.
He barely managed to shove the glass at his brother before bending down, hands on his knees, breath harsh and out of control. On an inhalation so deep it burned his lungs, Luc knew that Olivier was right. I can’t leave.
The room straightened, and he managed to stand up again, focusing hard on Olivier.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, and Olivier just nodded.
Luc saw with crystal clarity how different they were. His brother was the barely rolling hills of Bordeaux, so green and easy, with its neat patchwork of well-behaved vines. But Luc was this place. He was his mountain, wild and rough, its rock belly blown out into the open by tectonic shifts older than human memory. He was broken, splintered, and sullen like this carbonized hillside he’d thought he could leave behind.
Difficult terrain at the best of times, but add in pests, blight, tropical summers—not to mention the neighbors from hell—and you had…a challenge. The thought made him smile, an image of her rising up in his mind: the biggest challenge of all.
“I’m staying.” His voice came out too loud, and his brother startled.
“I know. Don’t worry. We’ll survive without you. Somehow.” Olivier smirked and then poofed his breath out in that blasé French way that Luc actually missed. “And all for a fucking woman.”
“Yeah,” breathed Luc, feeling lighter than he had in days or months or ever. “All for a woman.”
Olivier handed the glass to him and clinked the second one against it.
“Cheers, my brother,” he said, shaking his head. “And good luck.”
29
It was three days after the fire. Three days since they’d seen each other. Three days, and Luc was likely gone forever. She’d thought he’d come and pick up his dog. Or at the very least, say good-bye, but she hadn’t heard a peep. With everything else that had happened, she’d hardly found time to sort things out, much less worry about the man.
Oh, what a lie. Worry was all she’d done. Aside from waiting tables, setting up doctor’s appointments, and finding people to help with Sammy, all she’d done was dwell.
While her life had been turned upside down in more ways than she could possibly imagine, all she could do was think about that man.
She still didn’t understand what had happened last night, with the biggest surprise coming in the form of a lawyer—Hamish’s lawyer, to be exact. He’d shown up out of the blue during last night’s shift at the Nook, to tell her that she, Abigail Merkley, was the sole owner of the Church of the Apocalyptic Faith. Well, of the land and its buildings, because she had absolutely no use for the Church itself.
It’s my mountain.
She got dizzy at the mere idea.
According to the lawyer, the land had belonged to Hamish all along. He’d started the Church in the eighties, and though Isaiah had tried to usurp the older man, he’d never gotten him to sign over the deed.
It was hers.
And then had come the realization that Isaiah probably wanted her for that reason alone. A puzzle solved.
Standing at the east-facing window, she looked out at the mountain. Her mountain.
She should feel triumph. Not this soul-deep sadness. She had saved Sammy and gotten the kids out, broken up the Church that had taken on a life of its own. What was next? Maybe she’d go to college or travel. She’d had this idea, after talking with the Child Protective Services workers, of starting a nonprofit to help people like her, who wanted to start a new life and didn’t know how.
None of it felt right, though. Not right or whole. Not the planning or the future or the mountain.
Because she didn’t, it turned out, want the mountain without the man.
What she hadn’t pictured as she opened the door was Luc, holding a small, brown suitcase in one hand and a stack of skinny, wide books in the other.
“Oh” was all she managed to say.
“Can I come in?”
Abby didn’t move, at least not on the outside. Inside, though, her body was fizzing and bubbling, full of hope and excitement.
“What’s that?” she asked, indicating the suitcase.
“Record player. And records,” he answered. “Music.”
“Seems rather old-fashioned.”
“That’s funny, coming from you.”
Unable to stop herself, she smiled, feeling her eyebrows rise. “You think we didn’t have CDs over there?”
“You did?”
“In the Center. We listened to music. I told you Isaiah always loved music.”
“But not dancing.” After a pause: “Can I come in, Abby?”
Not quite trusting him—or maybe herself—she backed up one step and then another until he could brush past her. He put down the records and got the player set up while she looked at them. Jacques Brel, Edith Piaf—words she could barely make out, much less understand. “These all in French?”
“Bien sûr. But of course.” He pulled one from the pile, opened it up, and slid out the wide, shiny black disk. “This is how people listened to music once upon a time.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “When you were a kid?”
“No. Before that. These were my grandfather’s.” Judging by the way he handled the object, he cared about it. “I’ve bought a few since then, but they’re mostly his.” He glanced at her. “I never took them out of their box. Left them in the barn. They’re the only thing I have left.” He paused. “That and a quilt made by an incredible woman.”
In His Hands Page 32