by Ellen Crosby
As I tripped, I knocked into one of the torches. It went down with me and hit the ground as I did, sending sparks shooting like a miniature Catherine wheel.
“Holy Christ, you’re on fire!” I sensed rather than saw Greg in the flickering firelight, materializing out of nowhere. He stripped off his shirt as he knelt next to me, beating the glowing orange cinders that winked like tiny fireflies on my dress and my flesh. “Give me that torch,” he ordered. Dazed I watched him right it and fix it firmly into the ground again. “There’s blood all over your dress.”
I said shakily, “It’s Pinot Noir.”
“Christ,” he said again. “You’re lucky you didn’t set the woods on fire. The drought’s turned everything into a tinderbox. Are you okay, love?” He touched my hair. “You’re hair’s singed, too. Maybe we should get you to a doctor.”
The last time he called me “love” was before the accident.
“I’m fine.” The places where the embers burned my arms and legs throbbed. My dress had torn when I fell; the pinholes from the places the sparks had landed looked like an attack of moths. I winced as I tucked my misshapen leg under me so it was invisible. God help me, not a sprained ankle, too. “I lost my cane.” My voice sounded far away.
“I’ll find it in a second.” He pulled me to him and cradled me in his arms. “You look like you’re going to pass out. Let me call Ross Greenwood and get you over to see him.”
“No, don’t! I’m fine.” I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the torchlight gilding his deeply tanned skin and dark hair, turning him into a godlike burnished statue, as perfect and beautiful as he’d always been. He was too close, this was too familiar.
His kiss was swift and fierce, tasting oddly of wine and fire, blurring my senses and eroding my resolve. He wore the same musky cologne, now mingled with the scent of something charred. I kissed him back. His hand closed around my throat as he pulled me deeper into him. His hands started to move as we stayed locked in that eternal kiss. Then I tasted salt, from tears. The beginning of redemption.
What I didn’t know was whether it was his or mine.
Chapter 11
“Somebody lose this?”
Greg and I broke apart as swiftly and combustibly as we’d come together. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and tried to sit up, groaning as more pain shot through my ankle. Quinn Santori stood silhouetted against the torchlight, holding my cane like a javelin.
“Evenin’, folks. Didn’t mean to, ah, interrupt you.” He held out the cane. “Lucie, this is yours, isn’t it? You all right?”
“She fell,” Greg sounded tense. “She tripped and took a torch down with her. I caught her as she fell.”
“Holy shit.” I couldn’t see Quinn’s face in the darkness, but he sounded genuinely disturbed.
“I’m fine.” He handed me my cane and as I half-rose to take it, my ankle buckled. For the second time Greg caught me again. I noticed that he was still shirtless.
“Like hell you are,” he said. “She’s got burns on her arms and legs. Scorched hair, too. I managed to extinguish everything with my shirt but I think she ought to see Doc Greenwood.”
“Who needs to see Doc Greenwood?” Eli, out of breath like he’d been running hard, showed up with Mia at his elbow. “Lucie!” he said. “What the hell happened?”
“I tripped over a tree root in the dark,” I said. “Calm down. It’s nothing serious.”
Though I couldn’t see Mia’s face either, the anger in her voice was palpable. I wasn’t the one she was worried about. “Greg! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’re going to be late for work if we don’t leave now. You heard Lucie, she’s fine.”
“I don’t think Lucie can walk, Mia.” Greg calmly pulled on his shirt. To me he said, “What’d you do, sprain your ankle?”
“I think it’s just twisted. I’ll put ice on it. Really, I’m okay.”
“Will you listen? You’ll never make it to the studio in time! You can’t keep showing up late.” Mia, agitated, now seemed near to tears. “We need to go!”
He stood up and folded his arms across his chest, fixing Mia in his stare. Then he said so softly that the hair on the back of my neck prickled, “I’ve got it under control, baby. I don’t need you telling me what to do. Understand?”
I watched the flickering torchlight next to us lash tiger stripes across his face. His eyes glittered and the muscles in his neck were thick as ropes.
There was a long moment of silence before Mia stammered, “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
He smiled coldly. “I thought so.”
There was a new flash of fire across from me and I jumped. Quinn had struck a match, lighting one of his ever-present cigars. “Well, if Lucie can’t walk,” he said laconically between puffs, ignoring the tension that hung in the air like fog, “I’ll get the Gator and run her back to the house.”
“If you can get her to the parking lot, I’ll drive her home.” Eli seemed relieved to change the subject. “She and I need to talk about something.”
“I guess I’ll take off, then,” Greg said. To Mia he added in a curt voice, “Let’s go.”
After the others left, I was alone with my brother. “You mind telling me what that was all about?” He sounded mad.
I’d learned, over the years, to keep my cool when Eli lost his. It annoyed the hell out of him. “I was on my way over to the Ruins looking for you when I tripped over a tree root. Apparently Greg was walking down the path behind me so he caught me as I fell. And the torch, thank God.”
“Well, let me tell you, from what I saw it looked like a replay of your X-rated sessions at the Ruins. What were you doing, half undressed like that?”
“We weren’t doing anything. Mind your own business, Eli.”
It was Quinn who carried me to the Gator, a low two-seater vehicle that looked like a cross between a golf cart and a tractor. We used it for getting around the vineyard and, with a wagon attached to the back, for hauling brush, lugs, and equipment. As he set me down on the cracked leather seat, my torn dress fell open revealing my bad leg. Though he acted like he hadn’t noticed, I knew he’d seen how twisted and deformed it was. I held the fabric together as we jounced along the rutted path toward the winery parking lot. The glowing end of the cigar danced next to me in the darkness.
I suppose the main reason I hate being pitied—by Quinn or Eli or anybody—is because it’s an emotion propelled by relief rather than empathy at someone else’s plight and thank God it didn’t happen to you. It’s a cold cousin to sympathy.
When we got to the deserted parking lot where Eli waited in the Jaguar, Quinn said, “Stay right where you are. I’ll get you.”
“I can manage.”
He slid out of his seat. “Stop being a martyr, will you, and stay put. I said I’ll get you.”
He deposited me in the passenger seat next to my brother. “See you tomorrow. ’Night, Eli.”
Eli called Brandi on his phone as we drove back to the house. “No, honey…the second I get home…sweetheart, of course…absolutely…not staying one minute longer…okay, angel…” He blew kisses into the phone and snapped it shut. I glanced at him but he stared resolutely ahead at the well-known road. “You and I need to have a talk, Luce. Unfortunately it has to be tonight and, as you heard, I’m already overdue at home. Brandi likes me to massage her feet before she falls asleep. She’s retaining fluid in her ankles. So let’s get this over with as soon as we get back to the house.”
“We don’t have to talk tonight,” I said, as the saccharin cloud enveloping him began to evaporate and he pulled into the driveway. “Call off Erica and Austin, Eli.”
“That’s not an option.” His voice was frosty. “Do I need to carry you into the house?”
“No.”
“It’s like a damn oven in here, babe,” he complained when we were inside. “How come you didn’t leave the air on? Don’t tell me you roasted like this in France for two years. And what happ
ened to the clock?”
“The air-conditioning broke and we can’t afford to fix it right now,” I said. “And I sold the clock to Mac Macdonald.”
“You did what? By whose authority…?”
“Mine. I’m going out on the veranda. I’m sleeping in the hammock tonight.”
“Erica will be here first thing in the morning.”
“Call her off, Eli.”
“I’m getting a glass of wine and we’re going to settle this. You drinking something or not?” When I nodded he said, “Then go on out and I’ll bring it. I assume you didn’t sell the sideboard?” He sounded mildly sarcastic.
“Don’t be an idiot. I loved that clock as much as you did. It broke my heart to sell it. I couldn’t bear to even be around when Randy came and took everything away.”
He had started toward the dining room, but stopped and turned back to me. “What ‘everything’? What else is gone?”
“The Duncan Phyfe rolltop desk, the two Hepplewhite chairs, and the Federal mirror upstairs.”
“Oh, God. Tell me you didn’t. And I bet you probably gave them away. Brandi will be beside herself.”
He left himself open to the obvious retort about this being none of Brandi’s business, but all I said was, “I didn’t give them away. I’ll be outside.”
He brought a bottle of Sancerre, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. “Don’t sell anything else before we unload the place,” he said, opening the wine. “It’ll look too bare.”
He handed me a glass and I took a long, deep drink. “I already told you, Eli. We’re not selling.”
He nearly spat out his wine. “Don’t be an ass. We have to sell.”
“No, we don’t. I’ve got two votes. No.”
“Goddamnit, Lucie! There’s no money! We have no choice! Don’t you get it?” He banged his glass down on a small mosaic table so hard that the stem broke in his hand. He grabbed the balloon part of the glass, which was still half full of wine, with his other hand and managed to keep it from spilling on the wooden floor.
“We have to bail out while we can. And you’re not going to stop me, either. I’m not letting you ruin things for Mia and me,” he shouted. “Aw, damnit, I’m dripping blood all over the place. Get me something for this, will you? The first-aid kit is in the kitchen. These trousers are 100 percent linen. Hugo Boss, so they weren’t cheap, either. If I get any blood on them, they’re ruined.”
“God forbid.” I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up. My ankle throbbed but I’d be damned if I’d say anything to him. I went inside, letting the screen door slam behind me. “And I know where the first-aid kit is.”
He was leaning against one of the white portico columns, staring in the direction of the Blue Ridge when I returned with the first-aid kit. I could just make out the low dark silhouette of the mountains faintly illuminated by the light of a crescent moon.
“If you need the money so badly, why don’t you sell the house in France?” I said.
He turned around. “I’ll give you the house in France.” He sounded tired. “Brandi doesn’t want it. It’s too…old. Just tell me you agree with me about selling the vineyard.”
“Mom’s heart is in that vineyard. And the land’s been ours for centuries. I’m not giving it up.” My voice rose.
“Look, babe, your last name isn’t Mondavi or Gallo. What do you know about running a vineyard?”
“Plenty,” I said. “More than you think. I worked with Jacques. I paid attention. I listened to him.”
“You were a kid! It was a game!” he yelled. “Look, there’s no point discussing this any further with you in your present state of mind. Tomorrow you’ll see reason.”
I moved over to the hammock and flopped into it. “I’m going to sleep. Good night, Eli.” I closed my eyes and turned away from him. “I’m not changing my mind, so I mean it about calling off Erica.”
I heard footsteps and the screen door opening. “We’ll see about that. Good night, Lucie.” The screen door banged shut.
A minute later I heard the engine of the Jag, then the sound of a motor being revved as he roared out of the driveway. I lay in the hammock and rocked back and forth with my good foot.
The noise, sounding like it came from somewhere near the greenhouse where my mother’s rose garden had been, seemed amplified in the night stillness. I stopped rocking and lay rigid and motionless, waiting for the sound of footfalls coming closer. A cat yowled and another answered in the distance. I bolted up from the hammock and turned on the floodlights that shone out over the yard. In the unnaturally green grass, a ginger-and-white cat threaded its way through the brush and disappeared.
The bottle of Sancerre was still in the ice bucket where Eli left it. The ice had melted and the wine was warm. I poured what was left into my glass and drank it anyway. Then I sat down on the wicker love seat. The portable clock radio on the end table read ten past three.
I reached over and turned it on. Not too surprisingly, it was tuned to WLEE.
Greg was talking. I’d never heard him on the radio before. There was something different about his voice, which, in the night stillness, was as mellow and caressing as velvet. He was consoling some woman whose boyfriend had left her. They talked for a long time, their conversation floating over me and melting into the night.
I must have dozed off. All of a sudden he was saying, “You want to hear ‘I Get Along Without You Very Well’ by Billie Holiday? Sure thing, angel. For those of you who’ve just tuned in, this is Greg Knight on WLEE in Leesburg and you’re listening to Knight Moves. I’ll be with you till dawn.”
The last thing I remember was Billie, all honey and gravel, crooning about her man and Greg’s voice wrapping itself around me like smoke and seeping into my mind.
I slept.
Chapter 12
I woke, crumpled over on the wicker love seat. My empty wineglass was in my lap and the radio was still on, though now it was broadcasting the farm report. Quinn Santori was standing over me holding two mugs of coffee.
“You follow the farm report, do you?” He handed me one of the mugs.
“I’ve been known to.” I set the wineglass on the coffee table. I was still in my dress from the night before.
“Rough night?” He stared at the wineglass.
An excessively cheery voice sang that we were listening to WLEE, “the number-one station for you and me.” I turned it off. “I must have dozed off before I could get upstairs to change. Thanks for the coffee.”
He sipped from his own mug and gestured generally at my hair and clothes. “No problem. I like a woman who doesn’t care what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. The natural look suits you.”
He walked back into the house, letting the screen door bang shut.
I sat on the love seat and nursed my coffee. He’d been wearing the now-familiar combat fatigues, dirt-stained and wrinkled, yet another Hawaiian shirt—this one with dozens of monkeys eating bananas—and the customary clanking collection of heavy metal around his neck and wrists. His eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved. Who was he to give fashion advice?
I set down the coffee mug and tried to pat down my hair, which was probably sticking up so I looked like Tintin. Finally I gave up and went inside. Quinn was pacing the floor, an ear attached once again to a mobile phone. I walked past the dining room and he motioned to me. He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “I need to talk to you.”
“Fine, but I’d like to shower and change first.”
“Make it fast, then.”
I banged my cane on the floor more sharply than usual as I climbed the stairs.
I showered and changed into jeans and a yellow T-shirt, twisting my damp hair into a knot to keep it off my neck since it was going to be another scorcher. By the time I came back downstairs, I was sweating.
Quinn was still on the telephone and held up a finger, indicating that I should wait for him to finish his conversation. I pointed toward the kitchen and left.
Dominique had put some of the leftover food from last night’s dinner in the refrigerator. I lifted lids to casserole dishes and foil wrapping on platters. Cold roast pork didn’t appeal for breakfast, so I found a baguette in the bread box, sliced a piece lengthwise and put it in the toaster oven. Quinn joined me as I was spreading Dominique’s homemade gooseberry jam on my toasted bread.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the platter of meat. “There’s something I need to ask you.” He set jars of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup on the counter. Then he took out a tomato, a small dish of leftover green beans and morels, another of fingerling potatoes, and the remnants of a platter of local cheeses. “Is there anymore of that bread?”
I passed the rest of the baguette over to him. “What?”
He sliced the entire piece in half, spread goat cheese thickly on it and began laying slices of meat on top. “Are you people putting the vineyard up for sale? Because if you are, I think I have a right to know.” He dumped the morels, beans, and potatoes on top of the meat and arranged them with his fingers.
I sat down at the kitchen table. “Who said we were selling?”
“How dumb do I look?” He opened a drawer and pulled out a sharp knife. For someone who had only been here a day, he’d sure learned his way around the kitchen.
“We’re not selling.”
“You and Eli gonna work this thing out?” He sliced the tomato and laid it on top of the potatoes.
I finished chewing my baguette. “I said we’re not selling. Okay?”
“That’s not what it sounded like.” He was busy completing his masterpiece with heavy doses of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup.
“That’s not what what sounded like?” That noise in the garden. It had been a lot of noise for one cat, come to think of it. “Were you here last night?”
“I was in the area.”
