“Do you drink?”
“Well, we have wine—”
“Selena!”
They had almost reached the outer row of tables when two stable hands and a middle-aged cowgirl strolled toward them. One of the hands had a cheek full of chew, and he turned to spit. The other, the one who had called, held the woman’s hand. Selena ran to them and motioned for Jarret and Roland to join them.
Jarret kept walking, his sights set on a female server with a full tray of colorful drinks. Roland could meet all the stable hands he wanted. He was getting himself a drink.
The server stopped at a table, unloaded two drinks, and picked up two empty glasses. She turned away and Jarret stepped up behind her. As she handed a drink to another guest, Jarret snagged one for himself. He had meant to keep walking, so as not to catch anyone’s attention, but it looked so cool and good. He took a sip.
“Is that for me?”
Jarret shuddered at the sound of Papa’s voice coming from so close behind him, but he forced himself to appear calm as he glanced over his shoulder. “No, but I’ll get you one.”
Papa reached around and stole the drink, tipping his hat as he did so. “Don’t get any ideas. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“It’s a party. Can’t I have one little drink?”
Papa gave him a sideways glance as he sipped the drink. “Don’t you remember what happened last time you tried that?” He had the hint of a smile and his blue eyes twinkled in the light from the nearest tiki torch.
“What makes you think that was the last time?” Jarret gave a smug grin.
Papa waved a brow. “Remember, I got my eye on you.” He tipped his hat again and walked away, drink in hand.
“Killjoy,” Jarret muttered under his breath as he watched Papa stroll among the other guests and sip on that drink. Papa was right, though. It was the last time he’d had a drink. And he remembered it sure enough. Strangely, whenever his mood sank, he had been able to think of little else but his time at the monastery.
A faint breeze kicked up. It felt good in his hair and on his neck, but it hastened the turn his mind had begun to take. There had been a strong wind then a rainstorm that night, the night he had gone to explore the monastery winery.
❖
Dark clouds rolled in, stealing the last traces of color from the sky. The wind blew strong enough to raise a monk’s habit.
Jarret leaned against an outside wall of the guesthouse and stared at the winery. Goose bumps formed on his arms. He stuffed his cigarette between his lips and rolled his sleeves down while his mind took a stroll through the wine cellar, past endless shelves of wine. Jarret had noticed that, after dinnertime, the monks rarely came this way. And Papa had lost himself in the task of creating tunnel sketches. No one would notice if Jarret were to . . .
Did they lock the door to the winery?
Jarret pushed off the wall, took a last puff off the cigarette, and tossed the butt. He skulked across the grounds, glancing behind him as he neared the large, brick building.
The winery had several garage doors on the front, but he went around to the little door on the side. With hope and crossed fingers, he grabbed the knob.
It turned easily.
“Yes!” He glanced in either direction then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Darkness blinded him. Windows rattled. The odor of oak and sour grapes overcame him.
He shivered and gagged, breathing through his mouth. His eyes refused to adjust no matter how hard he tried to peer into the inky darkness. Five heartbeats later, he remembered the flashlight he had brought.
He swung an arm back to get it and bumped the corkscrew, which was also stuffed in his back pocket. The corkscrew slipped free. He jerked his hand out, grasping at air, hoping to catch the corkscrew before it—
Corkscrew and flashlight clattered to the floor. They both rolled a good distance and clanked against something hard.
He huffed, disgusted, then squinted at the floor. Unable to see, he peered up, searching for a light fixture, a window, anything.
Gray light seeped in through the cloudy windows high on one wall, but it didn’t come close to reaching the floor.
“Just my stinking luck.” He dropped onto all fours on the cold stone floor. “Freakin’ flashlight . . .” He crawled to where he thought the things had rolled. “. . . probably stuck in a spider’s web.” He groped in every direction, finding nothing.
Ready to give up, his hand brushed it.
“There you are.” He wrapped his fingers around it, found the corkscrew nearby, and tried straightening up. His head banged against a metal desk or cabinet, sending a shockwave through him.
“Son of a . . .” He crawled backward a few feet, stood, and flicked the flashlight on.
The beam fell on two desks, a long table, a low refrigerator, a locker, and then doors on either end of the room. The doors probably led to the wine presses and fermentation tanks that Papa had told him about.
Aiming the beam to the far corner revealed a big, open service elevator with exposed pulleys, gears, and ropes. It looked old and rickety, not that he would risk the noise it would make if he used it. The stairs would do. He swept the beam in the other direction and found them.
As he descended the steps to the cellar, the eerie rattling of the windows faded, but the darkness grew thicker and unsettled his soul.
He shined the light to either side, the beam grazing over something white. He jerked the light back to it, his mind presenting an unreasonable thought. What if he found a silent monk down here?
The light found the white thing again. It was an apron, hanging on the wall.
Despite feelings of foreboding, he crept further into the cellar, heading opposite the hole in the wall that led to the tunnel.
Pallets of sixty-gallon oak barrels lined the farthest wall. Twenty or so rows of wine racks stood before him.
With his eyes on the goal, a smile stretched across his face. It was stupid to think he’d find a monk down here at this hour. He was all alone, just he and the wine.
Feeling fly, he strutted down the rows, shining the flashlight on bottles along the way. He stopped, pulled a bottle from a slot, and brought the light to it. Syrah, the label said. Never heard of it, but yeah, he’d find out for himself how it tasted. Deciding to sample two varieties, he grabbed a bottle from a different row and returned to the steps.
When his foot landed on the first step, a tapping sound came from the room above. Rain pelted the windows. A kink in his plans. He’d wanted to find a spot outside where he could drink without anyone seeing him. Now what?
He turned and found himself heading toward the hole in the wall, toward the tunnel. As much as it freaked him out, it would be the perfect place. Absolutely no one would find him there.
Jarret grabbed as many lanterns as he could carry without dropping the wine bottles. Then he stepped into the tunnel.
❖
Draped in the white sheet that once hung over the hole in the wall, Jarret sat with his back to a cool tunnel wall and his legs stretched out before him. He hugged a near-empty bottle of Syrah. It was good, sweet but not too sweet, and its flavor improved with every swig.
He had left a trail of glowing lanterns, placing them every ten or twenty feet between the hole in the cellar and here, where the tunnel branched off. The light drove the shadows away, enough to comfort him. After half a bottle of wine, the chill in the air left too. His mind floated above him, and his muscles felt like rubber. He had even come up with his own version of a familiar drinking song.
“A hundred bottles of wine on the wall, a hundred bottles of wine. Take one down, pass it round, ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall . . .”
The full bottle lay by his feet. He leaned forward and, barely reaching, spun it around. It stopped with the cork pointing to the tunnel that branched off to the right. Still singing, Jarret pulled himself up, snatched a lantern and the bottles, and staggered down the designated tunnel.
>
“Twenny-five bottles of beer on the wine, twenny-five bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it round, twenny-more bottles a beer on the wine . . .”
He brought the near-empty bottle to his mouth, tipped his head back, and drained it. Wine dribbled down his chin. He wiped himself with his arm and flung the bottle. It clanked from the wall to the floor and rolled, but—to his disappointment—didn’t break. He had wanted to hear the sound of shattering glass echo in the tunnel.
Staggering down the tunnel, he resumed his song, trying hard not to lose his place. “Twenny-more bottles-a beer on the wine, twenny-more lobbles a beer. Take one down, pass it round, uh, ninety-nine, no . . .” He wiped his numb face and tried to think. “Nineteen, nineteen more bobbles a beer all around.”
After staggering along for some time, he reached a stone wall at the end of the tunnel and slid down to rest. He glanced at the full bottle in his hands. What had he done with the corkscrew?
After pondering that for a second, his mind turned to home. What was Zoe doing now? . . . Probably with Caitlyn, talking baby stuff. What about Keefe? Roland? They had probably become friends. Maybe they were out riding horses together, sharing their secrets, not thinking about him at all.
“And here I am!” he shouted, liking the way his voice echoed off the tunnel walls. “All alone. Keefe went to Italy, and I get to go here. A boring old monastery. No one to talk to, nothin’ to see, nothin’ to do . . . except drink. . . . I’m drunk!” He laughed so hard his eyes watered. “Does anybody care?”
His gaze traveled down the tunnel he had come through, to the blurry light of the distant lanterns. He sighed and leaned against the uneven wall behind him. His head scraped something sharp.
“Ow!” Rubbing his head, he turned to see what he’d bumped.
The wall resembled the one they had broken through in the cellar, stones of different sizes held together with thick, gritty mortar. In the sunken area where the stone wall met the smoother wall of the tunnel, something metallic shone in the lantern’s light.
His hand went to it by impulse. The object budged at his touch. He poked, pulled, pried, his fingers numbing in the process, until it finally came free.
“Gotcha.” He lifted it and dangled it before his eyes. It was a three-inch, tarnished crucifix on a thick chain.
“Well, whaddya know?” He put the chain over his head and stuffed the unopened bottle into the sunken area between the walls. Wanting to get up, he pressed his back to the wall and pushed with his legs, but then he saw something out of the corner of his eye.
Something in the distance moved.
He slid back down, squinting, trying to make sense of the vision.
A white-robed, hooded figure walked in and out of light from the distant lanterns, drawing near. Even as it got within a few yards, the figure was blurry and tilted. Was it . . .? It was. It was a monk, one he hadn’t met.
The monk stopped and hovered over Jarret. At a distance, they’d all looked the same, but this one had a chubby, egg-shaped head, half-moon eyes, and white hair.
“Hello, there, massster monk.” Jarret peered up at him.
The monk squatted, his gaze on Jarret’s chest. He touched the crucifix, his grim mouth forming a child-like smile.
“This yers?” Jarret wrapped his fingers around it and lifted it over his head.
The monk tugged it back down, keeping Jarret from removing it. He patted Jarret’s hand.
“You want me to keep it?” Jarret put a hand to the wall, deciding to stand, and tried to get his feet under himself. His foot slipped, and he slammed down on his rump, the world around him tilting again.
The monk grabbed Jarret’s arm.
Jarret pulled away. “I got it.” He planted his feet on the cold, stone floor. “Yer rat probably drug it down here.”
The monk tilted his head as if he didn’t understand.
“Your rat, you know, the one you found in the winery. Papa said you were chasin’ a rat, made a big ol’ hole in the wall.” He chuckled. “That you? You make that hole?”
The monk nodded, smiling sheepishly. Then he grabbed Jarret’s arm and yanked him to his feet.
The world tilted. Jarret staggered to one side, bumping into the monk. “How’d ya find me down here?” He draped an arm over the monk’s shoulder to maintain balance. “Papa lookin’ for me? I told him I was gonna hang out in the library. I didn’t think he’d care. I ain’t been gone more than half an hour. What time is it? ‘Zit still raining?”
The monk wrapped his arm around Jarret and walked him a few yards.
The air had grown colder, now that he stood. Jarret shivered. He stopped, pushed away from the monk, and scanned the ground. “You see a sheet? I had a sheet.”
The monk squinted to either side then removed his outer cloak and draped it over Jarret’s shoulders.
Made of thick white material, wool maybe, it had some weight to it. Jarret pulled it closed, longing for warmth. “Uh, don’t be getting any ideas. I ain’t becoming no monk.”
The monk laughed, his half-moon eyes waning.
Before long, the monk had helped him back through the lantern-lit tunnel and into the cellar. Soft yellow light greeted them. Not a soul in sight; Jarret was glad. He’d like the drunk feeling to pass before Papa laid eyes on him. How long would that take?
The monk led the way again, his black scapular making him blend in with shadows. Before Jarret realized it, they ended up in the old elevator and the monk was tugging on a rope. As the creaky elevator rose, it tipped to one side.
Jarret’s head spun from the motion. His stomach churned. He clung to a wooden rail and groaned. “I think, I think I need to lie down.”
When the elevator finally stopped, the monk pried Jarret’s hands from the rail and helped him to the door. The wind had died down, but rain fell steadily, its drops pelting Jarret’s face with a numbing effect.
Jarret dragged his feet.
“Hurry,” the monk said, tugging Jarret’s arm. “You’ll catch cold.”
“Gotcha.” Jarret grinned, staggering. “You ain’t allowed to talk, are you?”
The monk tugged harder, forcing him to run and leading him through rain and darkness, gravel crunching beneath their feet.
They arrived at the guesthouse all too soon. The monk lifted his fist but hadn’t even pounded on the door when it opened to Papa’s mean face.
“Where’ve you been?”
Papa pulled and the monk pushed Jarret inside.
Jarret stumbled and landed on his knees by the couch. A wave of nausea overcame him. He held his gut. Maybe he should’ve eaten more for dinner. Maybe he shouldn’t have downed the wine so quickly.
“Give Brother Maurus his cloak.” Papa’s hard tone softened when he spoke again. “Thank you. I hope you’ll come see me tomorrow when you’re free to talk.”
Someone removed the cloak from Jarret’s shoulders. The door closed, cutting off the soft pattering sound of the rain.
Jarret crawled onto the couch, head spinning. He wanted to lie down and hold his gut. Papa grabbed him by the arm and made him sit.
“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” Papa stooped by Jarret’s feet and untied his shoes. “I don’t know what you’re thinking sometimes. Here we are the guests of—”
The contents of Jarret’s stomach lurched. “I’m gonna be sick.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BE NOT AFRAID
Monettello
“Awake, my dear boy.” Monettello flapped his wings to create a gentle breeze.
Keefe, who had been taking slow, barely-detectable breaths, suddenly inhaled deeply. He squinted into a beam of sunlight then rolled over and hid his face in a pillow on the Brandt’s couch.
Monettello leaned and whispered in his ear, “Listen, my child. The friars are awake. Listen.”
Bedroom doors on the guests’ side of the house opened and closed. The friars processed down the hallway, their sandals padding softly. Once they reached the glass p
atio door that led to the backyard, Keefe should hear them.
Last night, Monettello had seen to it that Mr. Brandt forgot to check the glass door that separated the family’s side of the house from the guest quarters. Toby had been sliding it open and shut for half an hour after the last guest passed through. He had left it open a bit, enough to let sound carry through.
The patio door slid open. Friars began filing out.
Keefe’s eyes shifted under closed lids. He inhaled. As the door rolled shut, his eyes snapped open. He bolted upright and jerked his face to either side. Appearing to regain his bearings, he exhaled. Then he yawned and stood, turning toward the kitchen as the last brother passed by the kitchen window.
His eyes popped open wide again.
Monettello laughed. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go see what they’re up to. It’s the reason you stayed the night, isn’t it?”
The friars had remained in the company of the Brandts and other guests for an hour and a half after dinner, sharing stories and the goals of the brotherhood. Brother Leo, the eldest, had everyone laughing at one point, teary eyed at another. With his deep voice and way with words, he had a gift for moving hearts. The youngest, Brother James, was asked to share his story and, specifically, how he recognized his calling.
All that he had heard, but especially Brother James’s story, had moved Keefe deeply, though he still doubted his own calling.
Drawn as he was to their lifestyle and curious to learn more about them, he couldn’t get himself to leave the Brandt’s house even after the friars had returned to their rooms for the night. He readily accepted Peter’s invitation to shoot pop cans with a pellet gun in the backyard. They had stayed outside for hours, talking about nothing and wandering the trails in the woods behind the house. It was after midnight when they came inside so Mr. Brandt, at the prompting of his guardian angel, offered Keefe the couch.
“Well, go on,” Monettello encouraged.
Keefe stumbled around the couch. On his way to the window, his socks slid on the smooth kitchen floor.
The friars were no longer in view.
Keefe dashed to the sliding glass door and yanked it open. He reached the patio door as the last brother disappeared into the woods.
Battle for His Soul Page 12
