by Nupur Tustin
The man reddened as did the bride’s mother. The groom’s father sputtered into his wine, his question forgotten.
It had been a momentary indiscretion, Celine knew—embarrassing to both parties in the clear light of day. She wouldn’t have exploited it, but she’d been left with no choice.
She turned to the young couple. “Why don’t we drink to that with our next wine—a lovely Viognier with notes of ripe melon and fragrant pear?”
Celine was about to introduce the bridal party to Mechelen’s red wines when her winemaker called.
“The man you wished to meet is here, cara.”
“What man?” She didn’t recall having made any appointments.
“A sculptor.” Andrea’s voice rose, making it seem like a question. She saw him in her mind’s eye shrugging and spreading out his palms. “Referred, he says, by the lady from the Gardner Museum.”
“Penny. Oh, yes!” The details rushed back into her mind. She’d agreed a few weeks ago to meet a sculptor Penny had recommended. A rising New England artist the Director of the Gardner had insisted she meet.
“A bronze or marble here and there would liven up the place, my dear. And I know just the right person.”
“He’s here now?” Celine glanced at the wine-tasting party in dismay. She couldn’t abandon them halfway through the tasting.
“For a few hours, yes.” Andrea sounded regretful. But she knew he’d draw the line at taking her place to discuss artworks with their visitor.
“Damn,” she softly cursed. She’d known the man would be flying in that week, but she hadn’t realized it would be that morning. She scanned the bar.
Wanda was busy attending to another group. Annabelle knew nothing about wine. No, Celine couldn’t leave. The meeting would have to be delegated.
“It’s Andrea,” she said, catching Julia’s eye. “Penny’s sculptor is here.”
“No problem. You go on.” Julia fished out a black apron from under the bar counter, looping it around her neck before Celine could voice her request. “I can manage this lot.”
“No, Julia, I—”
But Julia had already swooped up a bottle of Grenache and was approaching her guests.
“Alrighty folks, we’re moving on to the funky reds now.”
“Funky?” The bride asked doubtfully. Her eyes skittered toward Celine who lingered midway between the horseshoe-shaped bar counter and the door, watching nervously.
“It’s not funky at all,” Celine assured her. They’d lose customers if this continued. But Julia seemed blissfully unaware of the effect she was having on the tasters.
“A little more earthy, harder to like.” The former fed sloshed a small quantity of the dark red wine into the bride’s glass. “Higher alcohol content, on the plus side. So you get more of a buzz.”
The bride took a tentative sip. “Mmmm.” She licked her lips and glanced at the tasting menu. “It says here it has cherry notes.”
Julia nodded sagely. “Black cherry. Word to the wise?” She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Those cherry notes come out a lot stronger with a packet of Equal.”
Oh God! Celine groaned. Julia hadn’t really suggested adding artificial sweetener to their wine, had she?
“Equal?” The bride’s mother sounded just as scandalized as Celine felt.
“Sure. Brings out the sweet tones. Makes it more palatable. I do it all the time.”
“Julia!”
The former fed looked up. “Shouldn’t you get going?” She wiggled her fingers, gesturing toward the door. “You’ll be late for your appointment. Trust me, I got this.”
She pushed a glass caddy filled with tiny packets of sweetener toward her guests. “Wanna give it a try?”
“Uhmm.” Jordan eyed the caddy; his gaze slid guiltily to his bride-to-be. “Sure, why not?”
All right, there was officially no way to salvage the situation. Celine pushed open the heavy glass door and fled.
Chapter Eleven
The phone rang as Celine sped away from downtown Paso Robles. Reluctantly, she brought it up, resting it against the wheel before lowering her eyes to the screen.
Penny Hoskins. Celine’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t in the mood to talk. Not to Penny. Not to anyone else, for that matter.
She’d been looking forward to a quiet drive.
Away from the narrow streets of downtown Paso Robles, the road opened up, areas of undulating green stretching out on either side of her. It had promised to be a restful drive.
Her ringtone—the opening section of Vivaldi’s Summer—completed its allotted segment and looped back to the beginning. Shriller and louder on its second rendition.
Celine was tempted to ignore it. But she owed Penny an explanation.
“Penny!” She answered the call, putting herself on speaker. “I’m driving,” she said by way of apology. “I’m really sorry about—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Penny’s breathy voice interrupted her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m furious. But I know you had nothing to do with it.”
True. But she couldn’t help feeling guilty all the same. A whiff of cologne filled the Pilot—a psychic sensation from earlier. She was certain the mysterious male presence she’d felt was connected to the heist—behind it, possibly.
But she couldn’t be certain—as Julia now was—that he was connected to the Gardner—a powerful figure on the inside.
Inside job, her consciousness whispered, contradicting her certainty.
Julia had shown her the transcript. There was no denying that the images she’d seen had been triggered by Jonah’s use of those words.
After she’d heard them, her mind had gone straight from the scene outside the museum to a different place, a different time.
But . . . she hadn’t mentioned that before. Hadn’t told the Massachusetts Post about it either. Where had they gotten that from?
“Celine?”
She started guiltily at the sound of her name. Penny had been droning on, and Celine had tuned her out. She tuned back into the conversation.
“Sorry, I, eh . . . I was concentrating. There’s a bend in the road.”
There was. But she’d driven this route thousands of times and could take the turns blindfolded.
“I was just saying that I think you’ll like Tony Reynolds.”
“Reynolds?” She was about to ask who he was when Penny filled her in.
“The sculptor I was telling you about. He should have arrived by now . . . Hasn’t he?”
So that was the guy’s name. Reynolds.
“He has,” she informed Penny. “I’m on my way to meet him now.”
“Brilliant. Hope it goes well. I think you’ll love him!”
Celine smiled as they exchanged goodbyes and she hung up. Penny’s ebullience was as potent as a psychic defense charm. It buoyed Celine’s sagging spirits.
She pushed the pedal to the floor, enjoying the ride. She was on Linne Road now, passing through neighboring wineries. The first signs of Veraison—that exciting moment when the grapes begin to show their colors—were visible. Clusters of grapes tinged with red dangled from leafy vines.
The leaves would have to be pruned back, poorer clusters taken off the vine. The added sunlight would enable the best specimens to ripen to an optimal level of sweetness.
But as she approached the Mechelen—the vineyard and winery she owned now—the sight of workers in gloves and boots moving through the rows of vines failed to cheer her.
A black cloud seemed to brood over the vineyard. The dark memory of being held captive in a Boston shed returned. She felt like a fly walking into the General’s web. Only this time there would be no escape.
Be careful whom you trust, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine warned her. Be careful.
Her Pilot entered the gates of the Mechelen, scrunching slowly over the gravel-strewn driveway.
She clutched the wheel, her palms clammy. This wasn’t a fight she was prepared for.
A car parked outside the Mechelen Estate Tasting Room caught her eye. A red Mustang.
The same red Mustang she’d seen twice before outside the Delft. She rubbed her eyes. Another vision?
Celine climbed out of the Pilot. Her palms were sweaty. She rubbed them down the sides of her black jeans and stepped gingerly toward the sports car.
It remained where it was. She was inches away from it now. Slowly she stretched her hand toward the door, half-expecting her fingers to go through.
But the vehicle’s smooth red metal stopped her probing fingertips, the heat from its sun-warmed surface penetrating her skin. Definitely not a psychic experience.
“That is our visitor’s car, cara. Mr. Anthony Reynolds.”
Celine pulled her hand back with a start.
Andrea was standing on the stone porch of the Tasting Room.
“He is waiting inside for you.” He gestured toward the double wood-and-glass doors behind him.
“Thanks, Andrea.” She walked briskly toward him, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that enshrouded her like a fog. Forcing a smile on her face, she stepped up alongside him on the porch. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Cara?” Her winemaker stopped her. “Have you given any thought to the vineyard on sale?”
“Yes, I—” Celine paused, unsure how to continue. Her gaze shifted away from her winemaker’s eager face.
The small vineyard nestled in the foothills of the Santa Lucia mountains was ideal for the kind of wines Andrea wanted to develop. It was some minutes north and west of the Mechelen, but it wasn’t the distance between the properties that bothered Celine.
The Mechelen was doing remarkably well at the moment—business was booming. It was tempting to expand, to buy new properties. But Celine sensed a cloud of impending doom. The estate would weather the storm, but only if they conserved their financial resources.
Her eyes returned to Andrea’s face. “I don’t think this is the right time, Andrea.”
His face fell.
She reached out and gently squeezed his hand.
“Trust me, it’s not. If we buy the property now, we’ll find ourselves in deep trouble.”
“It’s a steal at the price,” he protested. “Someone else will take it”—his arm swiped forward and upward—“out from under us, cara, and—”
“And they’ll be eager to sell it next year.”
He straightened up. “You are mistaken, cara. It’s not bad land. The soil is rich, the grapes will get plenty of sun.”
“It’s not the land,” Celine cut him short. “It’s the economy. It won’t last.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw the silken red folds of a five-starred flag fluttering in the wind. A dark cloud hung over it, spreading outward.
It will come from China, she murmured.
“What will, cara?”
Andrea’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. She wasn’t aware of having spoken aloud.
“The illness that will imprison us in our homes,” she said. The image had vanished. But it was replaced by a sense of nausea so strong, she nearly doubled over.
“Cara?” Andrea gripped her arm.
“I’m okay.” She swallowed hard. “Let’s not keep Mr. Reynolds waiting.”
Chapter Twelve
The man who greeted Celine—“Hello, I’m Tony!”—as she emerged from the Tasting Room into the garden behind it was in his forties. Tall, muscular, a carbon copy of the phantom man who’d stepped out of his phantom vehicle outside the Delft and headed straight for her.
Tony’s arm was extended out to her, not quite bridging the distance between them. She ignored it, wondering why she’d been shown a vision of him—not once, but twice—before they’d even met.
To a psychic, a prevision like that was usually indicative of a warning. But what kind of warning did Tony represent? Death?
The sculptor had been nowhere to be seen when Celine had followed Andrea into the Tasting Room. She’d glimpsed him in the garden, instead—restlessly pacing the narrow flagstone path that meandered through it.
He’d leaped forward the moment he caught sight of her, hand outstretched—like a leopard that had sighted its prey.
“Afraid of germs or do you just not believe in shaking people’s hands?”
Tony Reynolds smiled down at her. A friendly smile that held no menace.
Aware she’d been gaping at the sculptor, Celine closed her mouth.
“Umm, sorry.” He didn’t seem particularly threatening now.
Although she’d flinched when he initially homed in on her.
Her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. Beyond it, she saw the corner of his bulging leather briefcase sitting on the grass.
If he represented some sort of danger to her, she couldn’t identify it. Yet, she’d seen him twice before encountering him in person. Why?
“Ms. Skye? Everything all right?” Reynolds kept his hand out, still waiting for her to clasp it.
Her own arm moved stiffly forward. Her fingers encountered his warm palm, feeling the fine brown hairs that covered the back of his hand and muscular wrist.
Images jolted through her almost immediately—like an electric shock through a circuit she was powerless to disconnect.
A large, furry, gray spider crawled along a slender bronze vessel. The real thing, Tony had thought when he’d grasped it, oblivious to the spider’s presence.
Green-patterned wallpaper—where had she seen it before? A gold-framed portrait of a young man in a plumed cap. Tony was drawn to the work, she could tell.
A jagged fracture slashed the painting. The spider hoisted itself out, lifting one furry leg, then another out from behind the ragged edges. It crawled onto the wallpaper.
Snatches of words from a cold, familiar voice.
A liability . . . you must eliminate . . .
“The General?” As her mind felt its way to the interpretation, her gaze collided with Reynolds’. “You know him?”
The voice she’d heard belonged to the General’s assistant. Although if Reynolds had been hired by the man, surely he knew the General as well?
Was that why she’d sensed his presence, seen him gunning for her? Had he been sent to eliminate a liability? Her?
“You do know the General.” She held Reynold’s gaze. “You work for him. That’s why you’re here, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The sculptor’s eyes were cold. He abruptly pulled his hand away mid-shake.
Out of the corner of her eye, Celine saw the Lady—Belle Gardner—shimmer in and out of the noonday sun.
A warning for her? Or for Tony Reynolds?
On the sunny patch of grass between them, their shadows intertwined. That meant their paths were connected—flowing together for however short a time.
Celine squinted suspiciously up at him. “Why are you here?”
“Penny Hoskins thought you’d be interested in my work. But if you’re not”—the smile was gone, his tone brusque—“I won’t bother wasting any more of your time.”
Reynolds swept up his leather case and brushed past her, ready to leave.
“No, wait.” Celine caught his arm. If he was on the General’s payroll, she didn’t want him leaving. Not before she had a chance to find out more.
“I know Penny sent you,” she said. “But that’s not the only reason you’re here, is it? There’s something else . . . ?”
She let her voice trail off, certain the sculptor had sought her out for a purpose other than the works she was going to commission.
Reynolds faced her. A flicker of uncertainty shot through his eyes—green like her own.
You’re psychic.
She received the thought foremost in his mind. The rest of it was blocked to her.
“Whatever it is, you should get it off your chest,” she urged him.
Before it’s too late. The words crossed her mental screen, but she didn’t utter them.
Could she persuad
e him to break his silence?
Reynolds turned away. “Trust me, there’s nothing.”
He’s nervous, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said softly. You’ll need to put him at his ease first.
“Fine. Let’s talk about the work.” Celine forced herself to smile at him. “You’ve had a chance to see the grounds. Most people gather here behind the Tasting Room or in that area there.” She pointed to the gently sloping area to the left of the garden.
Trees dotted it and a scattering of round stone tables encircled by benches and shaded by green umbrellas spread far into the distance.
“We’d like our sculptures to be displayed here, out in the open. I want the pieces to be a testament to Dirck and John, the men who started the business. I have some ideas, but I’d like to hear your thoughts first.”
“I’d be happy to show you what I’ve got.” His tone was polite but something in him had shut down.
You’ll need to win his trust back, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine reminded her.
I know, Celine thought. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she said out loud, lips curving into what she hoped was an inviting, hospitable smile.
“Can we sit there?” Reynolds gestured toward the umbrella-shaded stone benches beyond. “I like to spread out my drawings and scale models.”
“These are really good!” Celine marveled at the large-scale, three-dimensional drawings spread out on the table before her.
She raised her eyes toward Reynolds and repeated her praise: “Really good!”
Her smile this time was genuine, not forced upon her face to put the sculptor at his ease. His draftsmanship was truly excellent, although when she’d complimented him on it, he’d confided he’d never been good enough to make it as a painter.
Now Reynolds smiled back at her. “I thought you’d like these ideas. I like to research my clients and their backgrounds before coming up with anything.”
The tension had eased out of him as he’d shared his drawings with her, but he still seemed cagey. His mind remained closed to her. Celine knew because she’d attempted to probe it—feeling like a peeping Tom for doing so.