“Let’s go down to explore,” Enrique says, still staring out at it.
“Are we allowed?” I ask, already feeling the itch to do as he suggested.
“I’ve done it before,” he says, before leaping down the small crest to the clearing below. He turns around, reaching his arms out to me. “Come on.”
I laugh and leap into his arms. He sets me down on the ground next to him. After taking my hand, he leads us the few yards toward the first rows of vines. Small bluish bunches of grapes hang, nestled among the vibrant green leaves.
“Go ahead,” Enrique says. I look up at him to find an amused smirk on his lips. “You know you want to try one.”
I laugh to myself and reach out to pluck a grape and pop it into my mouth.
“Blech!” I almost immediately spit it out. “It tastes terrible.”
Enrique laughs. “I made the same mistake the first time I came here. The skin is too thick, especially this time of year.”
“It’s a wonder how anyone thought to make anything out of them,” I say, looking around. At least they present a visually stunning picture.
“These vines can’t all be from the same winery. It’s so vast.”
“No, there are several in this region. Some huge. This is one of the smaller ones, operating more like a family. The others are interesting, though. People come to this region specifically to see the architecture for a few of the wineries. In September, after the harvest, there’s a festival in town. We should come back then. It’s an even nicer time of year.”
He’s still walking, leading me down one row of vines, but the silence that follows what he’s just said is like a locomotive running full steam in our direction, waiting for us to dodge out of the way.
We.
“I’d like that,” I say quietly.
Enrique finally stops and turns to look at me. Instead of responding, he reaches out to push a stray strand of coiled hair away from my face. I sense a kiss coming, one that would make the wine-infused session from last night at the tapas bar seem like a tiny snippet of the main course.
“There’s a spot I want to show you,” he says instead, taking my hand in his.
We walk until we reach another rise, then climb to the top of it. By the time he invites me to sit down on the ground next to him, the sun is at that point where the sky is lit up in vivid colors. It’s a warm and blazing contrast to the cool hues of the earth below us.
It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
From here, I can view a large house in the distance that’s probably as big as Dad’s mansion in Los Angeles. Although it’s a ways away, I can see that it’s made out of stone, giving it a slightly medieval feel. But the lights shine through beveled glass, presenting a more homey and comfortable image, almost like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Beyond that are even larger buildings that must be where the wine is made.
“What made you stop here of all places?” I ask as we watch the sun set.
Enrique doesn’t answer right away, and I assume he’s simply enjoying the last of the technicolor show before us.
“I just happened upon it in passing one day. Some instinct had me pulling over to explore. I’ve only been back to this part of Spain a few times, but I always make a point to stop here before heading into the city.”
The sun finally falls beneath the horizon, and it doesn’t take long for the sky to go from shades of pink and orange to shades of violet and indigo. From there, with no light to obstruct them, the stars pop into the sky like microscopic fireworks that don’t fade away.
“How are we ever going to find our way back to the car?” I ask, suddenly getting worried.
“We can just follow the rows of the vines.”
I’m just imagining tripping over some stray root and twisting my ankle, not to mention the climb back up that crest.
“But let’s head to the main building instead,” he says, probably picking up on my reservations about his initial idea. “I’m sure there are some workers still there who would give us a ride back. They are friendly here.”
“They won’t care about us trespassing?” I ask with a soft laugh.
Even in the dark, I can sense his smile. “No.”
“Let’s go before it gets too late,” he says. I hear him more than see him as he rises up beside me and reaches out his hand for me to take.
I take it and he lifts me up, holding onto it as he leads me down the backside of the hill toward the buildings. It’s an easy enough slope to traverse, even in the blinding darkness.
As we get closer to the large house, which is nearer, I note the beautiful yard in front, lit up by lanterns and hanging lights. There are pathways and benches to take a rest on.
Enrique stops suddenly, and it takes me a moment to figure out why. On one of the quaint benches, sitting in the warm glow of the lights is an older man.
“I thought it was you. Only one person has a habit of visiting through the back way. It has been a while since I last saw you,” he says in that slightly thick Spanish that I’ve become used to in this part of the world.
Enrique doesn’t respond, seemingly caught up on what to say.
I peer closer at the old man, wondering why the hesitation. Even in the dim light, certain things are glaringly apparent, all combining to form only one conclusion.
This man is his grandfather.
Chapter Forty-One
Enrique
I stare at Sebastián Abaroa, as usual, stunned into uncertainty.
I’ve never told him who I am. If he has any indication, he’s never given it away. As far as I can tell, to him, I am simply a young man who enjoys trespassing on his vineyard every once in a while. It’s something that I’ve been assured he’s open to from any idle wanderers, so long as they have no ill intentions on his land.
It was Sister Clara, my mother’s cousin who told me about this winery where my grandfather lived. The first time I visited, I came through the front. I was awed at the place that my mother had been born and raised. How could she have left all of this for a man like Richard Coleman?
That first time is when I met the man now rising up to greet us. I had no idea who he was until he gave his name. There weren’t many similarities between us. His eyes are a clear blue, and his thick head of hair fully gray now. He’s also shorter than I am by a few inches.
“Señor Abaroa,” I say respectfully.
He laughs and waves that away. “It is Sebastián, as I told you last time. I see you have brought a friend this time.”
“Very nice to meet you…um, Sebastián?” Leira says, hesitantly using his first name.
He laughs again. “See? Your friend has no problem. Though I don’t have a name?”
“Leira Montoya.”
“Montoya,” he repeats, nodding as though appreciating that. “Though…not from Spain?”
“No,” she says. Even I note the testiness in her voice.
A grin spreads Sebastián’s mouth. “It’s the accent. American?”
“I am,” she says in a more relaxed tone.
“Ah,” he says, looking away with a slight grimace. He seems to remember himself and turns his attention back to us with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I have a complicated relationship with America.”
“So do I,” Leira says, quick as a whip.
This gets a hearty laugh out of him. “I think I might like you.”
“I think I might like you too.”
This is the most Spanish I’ve heard out of her since we met. So she’s more fluent than she first let on.
Frankly, this might be the longest conversation I’ve had with Sebastián, at least on a personal level. The first time we met, it was in passing when he happened to be in the winery where guests usually enter. The second time, he remembered me and we mostly discussed wine and winemaking. Since then, it’s mostly been along the lines of “hello, old friend.”
“So you are in town for a visit?” he inquires.
/> “Yes, but we left our car up on the side of the road and we have to go get it.”
“Ah, I can have Miguel drive you before he heads home. In the meantime, perhaps your friend here can help us get started on dinner as I am officially inviting you both to dine with me tonight. Indulge a man with too much food and wine for just one person.”
“I’d love to!” Leira replies before I can even open my mouth.
“Good, good!” Sebastián says, his face so filled with joy it surprises me.
Leira lets go of my hand to skip over and join him, slinging her arm through his.
I watch them go, wondering what just happened. I wasn’t expecting this. There is a deliberate reason why I’ve never told Sebastián the truth. These visits are meant to be brief, impersonal treks along the branches of my family tree. Nothing that would give anyone any reason to think I do more than visit a beloved winery.
Now, I’ve put us all in danger.
* * *
By the time Miguel has driven me to my car and I’ve parked it out front, then headed back to Sebastián’s home, he and Leira are practically old friends. I knocked, and with no answer, I simply opened the door and followed the sound of them talking loudly in the large kitchen.
“We hid the guns with the pigs. They would have never stooped to searching in the muck and shit.”
Leira laughs and slaps him playfully on the arm.
“Sebastián was just telling me about his time spent fighting with the Basques.” She walks over and pours me a glass of Riojas wine, naturally from the Abaroa vineyards.
“That was a long time ago,” he says as he pours olive oil into a very large frying pan and places it on the stove. “Spain is always in conflict with itself. These days it’s the Catalans.”
I silently sip my wine, absorbing every word.
After adding chopped garlic, he turns to us, looking at me specifically. “But in the end, we are all Spanish, no?”
He returns to his pan, pouring what looks like tomato puree into it.
Leira catches my attention and raises her brow as though she’s just as fascinated by all of this as I am.
We nibble on almonds and olives as Sebastián cooks and continues to regale us with stories from his active youth in this region. Apparently, looking for trouble runs in our blood.
When the meal is done, cod in a Rioja tomato sauce, Leira sets the table and he instructs me to open another bottle of wine to go with it.
The dining room is large and oddly, both rustic and grand at the same time. The walls are covered in rough stucco in a warm, gold color. Paintings of landscapes in heavy frames hang around us. The table is large and sturdy, seating eight people. Although it’s dark right now, the picturesque windows would have a perfect view of the vineyards beyond in the daylight.
“Salud,” Sebastián says, lifting his glass of wine. Leira and I both do the same and echo his toast.
“This house is amazing,” Leira comments as we dig into our meal. “Don’t tell me you live here all alone.”
Sebastián gives a soft laugh. “My grandfather started this winery. Back then, it was normal to have many children. I came along after the war, the one with the Nazis. I had many brothers and sisters. They all went about their lives elsewhere. But I am the oldest and this—” He looks around with a fond smile. “—this was my burden.”
“Please tell me you don’t hate it!” Leira says in surprise.
He laughs and shakes his head. “It is a blessing as well, my dear. My last name, Abaroa, is taken from the Basque language. Abaro, it means refuge. I always found that significant. When my father entrusted me with this land, it was meant to be just that, a refuge that any one of my kin, or even a stranger could come to and find a home.”
Both Sebastián and Leira are staring at me, both with the same intent in their gazes. I find myself taking a page from Leira’s playbook, hiding my truth behind that glass of wine.
When they break away, I feel a sharp pang in my gut at the look on Sebastián’s face. Leira’s is dramatically exasperated.
“Did you ever have children?” She asks, no doubt hoping to bridge this obvious gap I’m determined to keep between my grandfather and me.
That only seems to compound his morose expression.
“I’m sorry,” she quickly backtracks. “That was personal.”
“No, no,” he says with a smile, waving away her concern. “I loved my wife, Carla, very much. We were both Catholic and wanted a large family. In the end, we had only one daughter, Daniela. Such is God’s will. But she was like me more so than my sweet wife, God rest her soul. She wasn’t meant to stay here, tied to the land of her birth. It was always somewhere she dreamed of going. Madrid. Paris. Rome. Then finally, America.”
That erases any hint of a smile from his face. “When she left, it was not on good terms. I always thought she would eventually return. She was an Abaroa, after all. Unfortunately, that is where she…died.” The bitter way he spits out the last word isn’t lost on us. “Carla died a year later, from the grief I’m certain of it, though the doctors called it a heart attack.”
“I’m so sorry,” Leira says.
I’m far too enraged to let grief take a starring role. This is the grandmother I never knew, never even met in the first place, no doubt due to Richard Coleman’s complete dominance over his wife. And thanks to him, I will never know her.
We eat in silence for a brief moment, while Leira surreptitiously casts glances between the both of us. I can read her like a book, and I know what she’s itching to do, but I can’t bring myself to stop her.
“Do you mind telling me more about your daughter? I’ve lost several sisters of my own, along with my mother. Sometimes it’s nice to talk about them, if only to hold onto the memories. My father likes to tell me stories I never knew about them.”
Sebastián’s smile returns and there’s a spark in his eye as though he knows what she’s doing.
“I would like that very much.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Leira
“…and when she returned, she was grounded for three months. I thought even that was too lenient.”
I’m laughing, covering my mouth so I don’t spit out any wine. “Honestly, that is something I could see myself doing. Hitchhiking to see a concert?”
Sebastián shakes his head as he gives me a mild scornful smile. Enrique’s grin is a bit more conspiratorially wicked.
Any misgivings I had about bringing up Daniela have long-since evaporated. This night of good food, wine, and reminiscing has definitely been worth it.
We’re all well into our cups, finishing off the last of the wine as we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the moment.
“I know you usually stay in the city, but I would be negligent if I did not invite you to stay here tonight. As this lovely young lady has mentioned, this house is big, too big for me not to share. I must stay true to the Abaroa name.”
“We would love to,” I reply, giving Enrique a smirk.
“I’d like that,” he adds, first returning an indulgent smirk to me, then a gracious smile to the man situated at the head of the table.
“Good, good,” Sebastián says, clapping his hands together with pleasure.
“Although there are many bedrooms here, the one right above us has a beautiful view of the vineyards. Might I suggest that one?” He says, a cryptic smile spreading his face. “I am not so old fashioned as you might think. You are free to both use it, or separate for the night as you wish.”
I laugh into my glass, partially out of amusement and partially out of embarrassment. I’m sure the heat that rises to my face must be evident, especially in the warm glow of the dining room. My avoiding eye-contact with Enrique must be even more apparent.
I haven’t completely forgotten how I threw myself at him last night. Not quite the begging he told me I’d do, but close enough.
Tonight, there’s almost as much wine flowing through my veins, but instead of the heady
blur that leaves me sloppily giddy, I just feel…heated.
My eyes finally land on Enrique sitting across the table from me. The intensity with which he stares back is enough to shock me into temporary sobriety.
“I’ll take care of the dishes.”
I turn at the voice of Sebastián interjecting itself into the moment.
“Nonsense,” I protest. “You cooked for us. The least we can do is—”
“No, no,” he says, raising his hands up. “It is custom in this part of Spain for the host to do all the work. I would be offended if I made you help.”
I twist my lips into a smile. “I doubt that is true.”
He returns a teasing grin. “Then consider it my house rules.”
I laugh softly and dare to give Enrique a glance. His gaze is no less penetrating and dark as it was before. I swallow my laughter and finish the last of my wine.
“Thank you, Sebastián,” I say.
“Yes, thank you for dinner and your hospitality,” Enrique says, breaking that gaze to address his grandfather.
I use the momentary relief from his attention to wonder yet again why the two of them are playing this game, each pretending they don’t know who the other is.
I know for a fact that Enrique knows Sebastián is his grandfather.
Based on everything I’ve seen tonight, Sebastián knows that Enrique is his grandson.
So why avoid addressing it?
My curiosity fades as Enrique rises and stares down at me expectantly.
Why do I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter?
And why do I so violently wish to be slayed?
I rise and give one last, parting smile to Sebastián. His eyes dance as they dart between the two of us on either side of the table. Interestingly enough, any hint of self-consciousness is gone. It’s been completely consumed by the anticipation running through my body.
If I was hesitant before, I’m more sure than ever now.
Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance Page 18
