Midway down the trail, the horse threw a shoe and stumbled, and Harlow landed in a pile of smoldering ashes. He paid no heed as he got to his feet and started the climb down to the foot of the ravine. The dying embers of isolated lowbrush fires were stomped on with hardly a glance. He was coming down here for a reason; he just had to remember what it was. He’d gone too long without sleep. Watching the vines night and day always took its toll on him. No one seemed to care. No, that wasn’t true; Chelsea cared. She was always pampering him with cool cloths for his brow, asking if he was tired and could she fetch him this or that. Cooking meals and putting flowers on the table. He liked that. Chelsea preferred his wine to Tanner’s. She’d said so on more than one occasion.
He was at the bottom of the ravine now and stopped for a moment to get his bearings. His eyes narrowed in the smoke-filled air … and he remembered. His rifle hung loosely from its strap on his shoulder, and his hand sought the barrel. How comforting it felt.
Gabrielle chattered to herself in the backpack Tingari had fashioned for her. There was no smile on the Aboriginal’s face as she began her climb down from the mountain. As soon as she’d smelled the smoke, she had known what had happened. And the moment the wind had shifted, carrying the billowing black smoke in a southerly direction, Tingari had started her trek back—praying she wasn’t too late. The surrounding calm soothed her as she spoke to the child who had been entrusted to her care. It wouldn’t be long now. Searching for a path known only to herself would save her many hours. When she found it, she quickened her step as though she heard some urgent message. Her stride was long, purposeful, and Gaby jostled happily in her backpack.
The Aboriginal arrived at the river’s edge directly on Harlow Kane’s heels. Her dark eyes sought out the footprints in the ash along the river bank. Unmindful of the heat searing her bare feet, Tingari ran in search of her Mitjitji.
It was the sound of Gaby’s gurgling that forced Harlow Kane to turn, from his quarry—the lovers sleeping in each other’s arms on the river bank.
“Tingari!” Chelsea cried, suddenly awake. “Give me my baby.”
“Don’t move. That goes for you, too, Tingari, you black witch,” Harlow said menacingly as he backed off a step. “Give me the child.”
“Tingari, no! Harlow, please, she’s just a baby!” Chelsea pleaded. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you want! Please, Harlow, don’t hurt my baby.”
Luke Tanner had eyes only for the laughing baby on Tingari’s back. His daughter. His and Chelsea’s. God, the reality was so awesome he could almost forget about Harlow and the gun he was pointing at them.
“No, Boss Kane. The child belongs with her mother. Come back with me to Bellefleur. I will show you the way. Boss Kane, listen to my words.”
“Why should I listen to a crazy old woman like you? Give me that brat and get out of my way.”
“No, Boss Kane.”
Chelsea had inched over beyond Luke and was almost to where Tingari stood. She was ready when Tingari slipped her arms from the vines that had been fashioned as straps for the makeshift backpack. She caught Gaby as the child slid to the ground. Later, she could never say how it happened, nor could Luke, who was busy trying to take his child from the confining backpack. But they were both dead, Harlow Kane with a broken neck and Tingari with a bullet through her heart.
Chelsea sat in the shade on the veranda at Clonmerra. Beneath the spinifex tree on the side yard, Gaby played, serving little cakes to her tea party of dolls. The air was clear, the sky bluer than blue. At Chelsea’s side was a cradle, and she rocked their son gently. Young Luke, three weeks old, slept peacefully. Soon the young seedlings she had planted to replace those destroyed by the drought would be in bloom. Clonmerra had survived, and now it flourished. Vine cuttings that Jack Mundey had saved would grow into new harvest. The winery would be filled with the heady scent of clarets and ports and a new vintage laid.
Even Bellefleur was enjoying a new prosperity. Franklin had returned to take his place as rightful owner, and there was a young woman who, it seemed, would soon be the new mistress of Bellefleur. And Emma had had her wish granted; she’d joined Martha in England.
If happiness could be harvested and pressed into wine, Chelsea thought to herself, she would be drunk with it.
Her eyes caught a movement along the drive, a whirlwind of red dust as it spewed out from behind Luke’s horse. He was coming home, coming to her, and as allways, her heart beat for joy. Hatless, the sunlight dancing in his dark hair, he dismounted and walked toward her, his arms already opened and welcoming to receive her.
This would be theirs forever, this life they shared. They would laugh through the good days and suffer the bad, but they would have each other. Life was like wine, Luke had told her once. It could be bitter or sweet. Chelsea’s smile was as bright as the light of a thousand candles as she lifted her face for his kiss. All of life was a lesson, she reflected, but one thing she knew: However bitter the wine, so sweet the rapture.
If you enjoyed To Taste the Wine, you won’t want to miss Fern Michaels’s brand-new stand-alone novel,
SOUTHERN COMFORT
Turn the page for a special preview.
A Kensington Hardcover, on sale in May 2011
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia
March 2002
Detective Patrick Kelly—Tick, to his friends—signed out of his precinct and headed to his car, an eight-year-old Saturn with 120,000 miles on it. It purred like a baby when he turned the key. Then it sputtered and died. He’d given it too much gas and flooded the engine. He knew the drill—wait five minutes, try again, and if he was lucky, Lulu would get him home.
Sally, his wife, had named his car Lulu but never told him why. She’d just giggle and say it was a lulu of a car. Sally drove a ten-year-old Honda Civic. The only good thing about owning two old cars was not having to make car payments. Everything was about cutting corners, saving for college for the kids and doing without.
Tick sighed, leaned back against the headrest, but didn’t close his eyes because, if he did, he’d go to sleep. He’d worked a double shift because Joe Rollins had a ruptured appendix, and he’d filled in for him. He couldn’t wait to get home to Sally and the kids, take a shower, maybe eat something Sally had kept warm for him, and go to sleep with her spooning into his back. When he felt his eyelids start to droop, he turned the key, and, miracle of miracles, Lulu turned over. He was on his way to his family, whom he loved more than anything on earth. He loved them more than he loved his job, and he dearly loved his job. There were days when he hated the job, but the love always won out. He truly believed he made a difference. Where his family was concerned, there was no doubt, he loved them 24/7, unconditionally.
When he worked the late shift, he always let his thoughts go to his wonderful little family as a way of unwinding on his way home. He’d met Sally in the seventh grade, when she transferred from out of state. He fell in love with her that day when she stood in front of the class and said, “My name is Sally, and I’m new today.” He’d seen the sparkle of tears in her eyes and knew instinctively that she was afraid. Afraid the kids wouldn’t like her, afraid she’d make a mistake, and they’d laugh. He never did figure out where or how he’d known that, he’d just known it. Then, when he found out she had moved one street over from his own street, and they’d be walking to school at the same time, he’d almost done cartwheels. Later, Sally said she didn’t fall in love with him till they were in the eighth grade. He’d been heartbroken at that news but had covered it up well. She loved him, and that was all that mattered.
Married for fifteen years now, and he loved her as much as he did that day in the seventh grade when she introduced herself. He hoped and prayed nightly that his two children would find mates as wonderful as their mother when it was their time.
Sally Pritchard Kelly was the wind beneath his wings. She was the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he was still sane considering the fact that he wa
s a homicide detective. Because of Sally and the kids, he didn’t carry his work home with him. When he walked in the front door of his mortgaged-to-the-hilt house, he was in another world. Worn, comfortable furniture waited for him. Sally always waited at the door for him, a smile on her face and smelling of a summer day. Always. He couldn’t remember a single day in all the years they were married that she hadn’t greeted him with a smile and a kiss on the lips. A real kiss that said she loved him, missed him, and now things were the way they should be because he was home. There would always be a warm meal in the oven if he was late. Didn’t matter how late he was. Sally would curl up on the couch and wait. Sally was the constant in his life.
Prettier than a picture, he always said. He loved the freckles that danced across her nose, loved the crooked eyetooth she refused to have straightened. There wasn’t one thing he didn’t love about his wife, because in his eyes, she was perfect. At this point in his reverie, even if he was so tired he couldn’t think straight, his eyes always misted up. He’d just curl up and die if anything ever happened to his beloved Sally. Well, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon; they had at least another fifty years to look forward to. Both he and Sally came from families where longevity was the rule.
Tick could feel his eyes start to droop again, so he pressed the stereo unit and turned up the volume. His and Sally’s favorite song was burned on every inch of the CD so he could play it over and over. “Mustang Sally.” He started to sing along with Wilson Pickett at the top of his lungs, “Ride, Sally, ride!”
He was two streets away from where he lived on David Court when he saw the strobe lights shooting upward to the sky. Blue, red, white—just like it was the Fourth of July. But it wasn’t the Fourth of July. He knew what the lights meant. Good cop that he was, he knew he was going to have to stop to offer any assistance if needed. Sally, the kids, and sleep would have to wait just a bit longer. He turned off the CD player and turned the corner, and his world came to a screeching halt. He saw the barricade, the yellow tape, the crazy arcing lights, the crowds of people, and too many police cars to count.
All parked in front of his house, in the driveway, on the lawn and sidewalk. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and lunged forward. He heard his name being called from all directions, arms trying to reach him, someone trying to tackle him. He plowed ahead, driven by an energy he didn’t know he possessed. And then he was in a vise grip, unable to move. The more he fought and struggled, the tighter the hold became. He looked up to see the face of the man holding him and was stunned to see his captain, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Easy, Tick, easy.”
Tick ground his teeth together. He had to show respect to the captain. “Did someone rob my house? Where are Sally and the kids? Captain, I asked you a question.”
“Tick … I …”
Rising onto his toes, Tick reared upward, loosening the hold his captain had on his arm. He sprinted forward as fellow officers rushed to prevent him from entering the house. He evaded all of them.
The house was deathly silent. The crime-scene personnel took that moment to stop what they were doing and stare at the man who looked like the wrath of God. “Where are they?”
Someone, he didn’t know who it was, pointed to the second floor. Tick took the steps two at a time. It looked to him like there were a hundred people in his small upstairs. He bolted down the short hall to his bedroom. In his life he’d never seen so much blood. He saw her then, his beloved Sally, lying in the doorway leading to the bathroom. He knew it was her because of her nightgown and robe. And her wedding ring. There was little left to her face. How could that be gone? Those beautiful freckles dancing across her pert little nose were gone. Her throat was a gaping hole. Tick’s knees buckled. Strong hands held him upright. “Ride, Sally, ride,” he blubbered.
“Get him out of here. Have the ME look at him.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Not now, Tick. Please,” his captain said.
“Where are my kids?” Tick roared.
“In their rooms. Tick, please, let us handle this. I’m begging you, don’t go there.”
“Get the hell away from me….”
Tick found them huddled together in the closet, which was full of toys and balls. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood for two tiny little creatures who once carried his life’s blood. Now it was a river on a hopscotch-patterned carpet. He wanted to bend down, to scoop up his children, to hold them close, but they wouldn’t let him. He wanted to run his hands through his daughter’s curly hair, which was just like her mother’s but was matted with blood, and he couldn’t see the curls. He looked at his son and fainted dead away. He felt himself being carried someplace, heard voices he couldn’t identify, then he felt something prick his arm. Ride, Sally, rideeee.
The Governor’s Mansion
Tallahassee, Florida
August 2009
Thurman Lawrence Tyler checked himself in the mirror one last time. He adjusted his Hermès tie, examined the crease on the French cuffs of his custom-made shirt, brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his imported Italian suit, inspected the shine on his shoes, and smoothed a thick white errant hair in place before stepping into the foyer, where Elizabeth waited. At six foot one, he had an athletic build, and sharp blue eyes that rarely missed a beat, and she thought her husband still as handsome as the day she had met him. Maybe even more so.
“Thurman, dear, you look as handsome as you did the day of our wedding.” Elizabeth Tyler, his wife of forty-six years and right hand of Governor Thurman Lawrence Tyler, looked every bit the elegant wife of a dignitary. Perfectly coiffed blond hair, her grandmother’s pearl earrings and necklace glowing next to her porcelain skin. A pale blue Chanel suit brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Both were tall, slim, and in excellent physical condition, and they appeared almost perfect as they scrutinized each other.
“And you, my dear, look like the innocent that you were.” Thurman studied his wife for a moment longer. She’d aged extremely well, unlike many of her friends. Elizabeth was always careful to protect herself from Florida’s punishing sun, never smoked, and rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of white wine. She played tennis three times a week, had a facial once a week, and her hair touched up every third Thursday of the month. Of course he wasn’t supposed to know this, so he pretended her blond locks were as natural as those of a newborn.
“You’re too kind,” she replied.
“Nonsense,” he responded.
Without another word, he escorted her to the elaborate dining room, where they had their breakfast. Each consumed two cups of coffee, his with skim milk and hers black. Both had one half of a Florida ruby red grapefruit with one slice of homemade dry wheat toast. After they’d consumed their meal, they took their daily doses of vitamins with a bottle of mineral water imported from Switzerland.
Their morning routine was like clockwork and had been ever since Thurman was elected governor of the fine state of Florida almost eight years ago. With his second term coming to an end, both were preparing for the next step of their career: president of the United States. Yes, it was their career because Thurman never made a decision without first consulting his dear wife.
When they finished their meal, the governor went to his office and Elizabeth went to hers, where she spent the morning going over the menu for an upcoming gala they were hosting. With nothing more on her agenda, she went to the personal living area that connected their offices. Knowing her husband would be occupied for the rest of the day with his lieutenant governor, she placed a phone call to her son, Lawrence. Hanging up after several rings that went unanswered, Elizabeth called an old high school friend. They made plans to have lunch soon. Free time was rare, and she decided to take advantage of it and relax with a book. She’d spent her life promoting literacy and was very involved with the public library system, but never once in all her years of reading had she told anyone of her love of horror novels. Today she planned
to read Stephen King’s latest.
Settling into a Queen Anne chair next to the window overlooking the garden, Elizabeth spent the next two hours immersed in her novel. Later, when she heard Thurman shouting on the phone to Carlton, she hid her book beneath the chair’s cushion and hurried to the door, where she stood silently, listening to her husband’s private conversation.
She and Thurman had done everything in their power to see that Lawrence never found out. It would ruin him and his father if the public got wind of this. Elizabeth thought she had done the right thing by keeping him. No, she had done the right thing. He was her son, the only child she would ever have. Whatever it took to ensure that he wasn’t ruined by her and Thurman’s past mistakes, Elizabeth would do it. After all, she was his mother, and if he couldn’t count on her, then poor Lawrence had no one.
Every hope and dream they had ever imagined was about to be destroyed. They had worked too long and hard for this moment. Elizabeth refused to allow anyone to ruin the future that was just now within their reach.
She’d made numerous sacrifices throughout her life in order for Thurman and Lawrence to be successful. Now that someone threatened her life’s work, she wanted to fight back in anger; but that had never been her way, and she would not start now.
She went to her private office and sat down. She removed a sheet of creamy personalized paper from her desk. Lawrence would have to know this someday. If neither she nor Thurman were around to tell him, then a letter would suffice.
My Dearest Son,
If you’re reading this letter, you must know that your father and I are no longer of this earth. There is something I have wanted to tell you since you were a little boy, but the time was never right. Then as you got older I thought it would be a disservice not to tell you, yet I could never find the right time. If you hate me or your father after reading this, know that I will understand and love you in spite of it. The first time I laid eyes on your father, I fell madly in love …
To Taste The Wine Page 36
