“What happened to your finger?” she asked, as if reading his mind.
“Are you all so curious in your…” What was it? Not a village, although it sort of looked like one from afar, with its log cabins and big, ugly central building. And calling it a cult to her face didn’t seem right. “Your group?”
“Oh, goodness. I’m sorry.” She seemed abashed.
Luc felt a rush of shame at picking on her. This was why he didn’t do this conversation thing. He always managed to say the wrong thing.
“I cut it off. With secateurs. Battery-powered ones that my broth—” He stopped himself from telling her the whole story, took in a couple of deep breaths, and blindly trimmed a spur he should have left. Merde. He breathed in slowly, out slowly, the way he’d learned to do whenever faced with strangers. “It was a cold day like this. You see? It is too dangerous for you to help.”
“You could cut and I could pull the branches out, to save you time and—”
“No!” The word came out sharp and loud enough to echo off the cliff face. It sounded, if possible, angrier in the retelling.
She stiffened, her hand dropping from the canes he’d already cut. She took a step back and, head low, whispered, “Thank you, sir. For your time.”
Bordel, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d… Just let her go.
As she turned and made her way up the row of vines, Luc looked at the shadowy rocks above her. Their faces, normally benevolent as they oversaw his progress, exuded something different today—something forbidding. Ominously biblical shards of sunlight shone through the roiling clouds. None of this was good. She needed to leave him alone to his work and go back to her side of the mountain, but he didn’t like this dirty feeling the encounter had put in his gut, like a film that needed rinsing.
He called out to her, “Good luck,” hating how badly he wished she’d turn back for one final glimpse.
When she didn’t respond, irritation rose up in a childish burst.
Why the hell had those cult people sent her to him? What kind of maneuver was this? And if they hadn’t sent her and she was…escaping, or whatever it was, she should just leave. The woman was old enough to know better. If a person didn’t want to be part of a religion, she should take off. Simple.
He’d learned from experience that if you wanted it badly enough, you could rip your roots from any soil, no matter how deep they’d grown.
Or how much it hurt.
* * *
As she crawled back through the fence, jobless, Abby’s head was bowed, nerves and excitement replaced by the weight of failure. How would she find help for Sammy now?
Her dress snagged on the sharp edges, adding one more item to the pile of mending she’d ignored since Hamish had passed. Everything, from her back to her hips to the space behind her eyes, ached with defeat.
It was time to walk the fence. A ridiculous job created just for her, since she couldn’t be trusted with anything else—too restless to work in the kitchen, too friendly to work with outsiders. The day Isaiah’d taken her off market duty, she’d lost some faith. Just a tiny bit, but enough to chip away at the steadfastness inside her.
There’d been other things since, her late husband’s suffering high among them, and now Sammy. Poor Sammy. They’d come back to the Church once he was cured.
I have to get him out first, don’t I?
Her shoes cut a noisy path through the yellow grass, skirting the chain link that separated the Church from the rest of the miserable world. She tried not to think of Grape Man’s face. How badly he’d wanted to be rid of her.
It was so different from the encounter she’d imagined. Probably because she’d pictured him like a member of the Church or one of the farmers who sold at the market: soft-spoken and civilized. Instead, he’d been as wild as this mountain, sharp as the craggy rocks above. Those hands, rough and missing a finger. Even his voice had been unpolished enough to prickle her skin, like rubbing an animal hide the wrong way. Uncomfortable.
After two long hours—about half a circuit of the fence line—she headed back toward the empty cabin she called home. Not for long, she knew, since Hamish was gone and some other man would be assigned the place. Possibly even the woman. Her stomach tightened at the notion. Who would she be given to this time? Daniel, whose beady eyes trailed her all the more relentlessly since she’d become a widow? Or James, another old man, even less suited to the duty of getting her with child than Hamish had been? No. There wasn’t a single palatable option among them.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this, doubting God’s will.
Seeing someone suffer would do that to a person, she thought as she skirted around Mama’s cabin, where she could usually find a warm meal. But not tonight. Not when she couldn’t possibly hide these feelings of betrayal and disillusionment.
So, of course, the door opened and Mama stepped out to call, “You coming? Made chicken pot pie. Pickled beans. Isaiah’ll be home soon. Come in and help me set the table.”
“Can’t tonight, Mama. I’m not—”
“What? You got something more important to do? Someone you gotta see?”
“No, I’m just tired.”
“Come on, girl. ‘They will greet you and give you two loaves of bread, which you will accept from their hand.’ Don’t make me ask twice.” Knowing she’d made her point, Mama disappeared inside her warm cabin. How could Abby refuse its pull when all that awaited in her own home was the lonely stench of sickness? It was still Hamish’s cabin to her mind, no matter how often she’d aired it out over the past weeks.
Giving in to Mama’s invitation was easy, although she knew acting normal after what she’d done wouldn’t be.
“Wash up and set that table,” Mama ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.” Abby didn’t mind doing as her mama asked. Better to be occupied, she supposed.
They worked in silence for a bit, the smells of pot pie taking her back to a time before she’d been wed to Hamish.
There’d been so much good when she and Mama had arrived at the Church. So much better than life before. As a poor, starving seven-year-old, Abby had gone from having one struggling mother to a whole family, where everyone pitched in for the greater good. All servants of God, preparing for the Day.
But then they’d taken her away from Mama and that… Lord, that had been hard after sleeping tight against her side all Abby’s life. No matter that they’d been snuggled in the back of their old station wagon. At least they’d been together.
“Got your head in the clouds again, girl? Always someplace else, aren’t you?”
“Just remembering how it used to be. Before we came here.”
“Why would you do that?”
Abby shrugged. “Just feeling sad, I suppose.”
Regretting the impulse to share, she looked away as her mother straightened her face, taking on that look she got before a lecture.
“Did not God choose the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom?” she asked, her earnestness breaking Abby’s heart. “Your husband, Hamish, was a Chosen One, honey. You know that. It was his time.”
“He didn’t have to suffer like that,” she whispered. As expected, displeasure stormed across her mother’s features, but Abby couldn’t help it. Nobody else had nursed Hamish through the worst moments. It had been her duty as wife, and she’d done it gladly. Until he’d begged her to help him. That was when her own faith had begun to flag. That exact moment when Hamish, the most devout man she’d ever met, had turned his eyes from the savior he’d built his entire life on and laid them fervently upon her.
“It was God’s will for him to suffer, Abigail. You know that better than anyone.” Mama lifted her arm and bared the scar, the Mark of the Chosen. “We suffer for our Lord, and when the day is nigh, he accepts us unto him and we will be saved.”
Make it end, Ha
mish had whispered—the man who’d lived life as her better. The man who’d beaten her when she’d eyed the clothing of a modern teenager covetously. The man who’d done his duty by her in their bedroom without taking an ounce of pleasure from the experience. If God could withdraw from so devout a man in his moment of need, how could she hope for understanding?
“Yes, Mama,” Abby said, but her mother wasn’t done. Those hands, only slightly lined from work, grabbed one of hers and yanked Abby’s sleeve back. The act of baring another’s skin was shocking, despite it being her own flesh and blood. Abby couldn’t remember the last time another human’s eyes had landed on any piece of her besides her face. Even Hamish, in his couplings, had ensured she remain modestly covered.
“This, this was your suffering. You were chosen, and you endured gladly. Hamish was chosen and gave of his life. Would you not give of yours, Abigail?” Mama asked, so close the spittle rained gently on Abby’s face.
Abby hesitated. Her eyes widened, huge and dry, her insides not quite as full of that easy conviction as they’d once been.
Finally, on a shaky breath, she said, “Yes, Mama.” It felt close to a lie. It wasn’t her first untruth, and she had the miserable expectation it wouldn’t be her last, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated the distance between them. Perhaps hardest of all, she hated her own skepticism. If a true servant such as Hamish had been deserted by God in his moment of need, what of Sammy, who needed help now? And what of Mama, whose belief was steadfast and strong?
She pulled her hand away and shut her eyes hard against the fear such thoughts let in. Only, behind closed lids, she was swamped with shame. I should trust in Him. I should believe.
When she’d calmed enough to open her eyes again, she was startled to see Isaiah standing stiffly in the doorway.
“Evening,” he said, doffing his hat. As he walked in, he eyed them in a way that made her think he’d heard a goodly part of their conversation. “Smells good.”
With a loud inhale, Mama bustled to the wood-fired oven, from which she pulled out a perfectly golden pie before setting it on the table. “Come serve Isaiah, Abigail,” she said in that bossy, pious voice.
Wonderful. Just what Abby needed. Their fearless leader delivering another sermon written expressly for her. It wouldn’t be the first time, she supposed. Although, in a moment of sadness, she knew that if she managed to get Sammy out, it might well be the last. If only Mama would come with her.
When they sat down to grace, she searched her mother’s face and resigned herself to the fact that, as with most things, it was best not to ask.
2
Luc would have finished the row he was on if the sky hadn’t opened up and pissed down on him, the rain close enough to freezing to be dangerous. It had been on this sort of evening that he’d lopped off his finger. He’d been seventeen when it happened, thanks to the combination of cold and the brand-new battery-powered secateurs his half brother had forced on him. In the name of efficiency, Olivier had claimed. Always more, faster.
Luc had pruned the vine with that thousand-euro tool—and his ring finger along with it. Christ, that wasn’t something he felt like doing again. Grandpère had been off on a sales trip, and Luc would never forget how he’d had to find the finger and bring it to Maman and Olivier. How unmoved they’d been. The trip to the hospital, his hand, his life, changed forever. That was the day he’d decided to get the hell out of there, his determination a secret thing he’d nurtured and fed until it became him.
The very next day, Luc had gone back out there, cutting vines the old-fashioned way, electric pruners relegated to the back of the toolshed until some other poor ass decided to give them a whirl. From that day on, he’d had something to work toward. It was brutal, but he’d pushed himself. Worked and learned everything he could, mostly from Grandpère. But after the old man died… Well, if Luc couldn’t be in charge of the vineyard—if they wouldn’t do things his way, the right way—he’d leave. And he had, the moment he’d saved up enough money.
As grumpy as the chickens in their coop, he stomped inside and took a quick, hot shower. Once dressed, he grabbed his keys and wallet before heading out to his truck. Since pruning wasn’t possible, he’d get his weekly shopping over and done with. It was always better at night, when the store was empty.
As he drove past his last row of vines, he breathed in deeply, resisting the urge to tap the steering wheel twice and kiss his fist. He’d left so much superstitious shit back in France. Things like always pruning from east to west, or the same unwashed beret his grandfather had worn for every one of his sixty-eight harvests.
He headed down the steep part of the drive, through the wooded section, and back out into the open. The crunch and pop of gravel under his tires announced his arrival as he downshifted into the last steep curve before the neighbors’ land. Camp Jesus they called it in town, although he hadn’t seen much actual worship on the other side of this fence.
He took one deep breath in, to prepare for the sight that greeted him here most days—the blood and gore of a… Merde, he couldn’t remember the word. It was abattoir in French, but what the hell was it in English? Weird how some words escaped him in one language or the other. Funny how he felt so French in this place, but in France, he’d been too American.
Today, no carcasses greeted him as he passed their open air…killing shack. What was the stupid word? Nothing there, except—
What the hell? He skidded to a halt, the gravel taking a few seconds longer than the tires to still. In the middle of the drive in front of him stood an animal, its eyes two bright dots in the night. He waited for his lungs to crawl out of his throat and let some oxygen into his brain.
It didn’t appear confident enough to be a wolf. Was it a coyote? Did coyotes even live around here? He’d never seen one before, but the way it moved—cautious, low on its haunches—made him think of that. He could picture it feeding off the animal carcasses next door.
After a brief standoff where he thought he’d have to get out and shoo it away, the animal slunk from the fence to disappear into the underbrush and the woods farther beyond. An eerie sound rose up to meet Luc in the quiet.
Ignoring the creature’s howl, he lifted his foot from the brake—although not too far, since the three hairpin turns down the mountain kept him from going fast. Once the road straightened out, he gave in to his desire to pick up speed. It was good to let go, get some distance. He accelerated too fast down the last section of drive and fishtailed dangerously at the bottom before skidding to a halt right where gravel met asphalt. One meter beyond the front of his truck, a car sped by, shocking his nerves with a long blast of the horn.
“Putain,” he cursed. He exhaled hard, his heart trying to push its way out of his chest. “Bordel de merde.” One inconsequential meter from death. All because he’d been spooked by that animal and those religious weirdos next door. After a good thirty seconds spent getting his breath back, he turned left and made his way sedately toward town.
As he approached downtown Blackwood, Luc squinted at the traffic. What the hell was going on? The place was more crowded than usual. People looked frenetic, and the IGA lot was almost full.
He parked, eyes hopping nervously, that familiar shake to his breath. He should go back. Barely controlling the tremor of his hand, he turned the key in the ignition, put the truck into park, and waited.
No. Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a few more people than usual. He’d go into the store, grab a few necessities, and get out of there. In and out. He could do this.
Inside the supermarket, his eyes danced around as he watched people buy gallon jugs of water, milk, dozens of eggs, and beer. He pushed through it, gathering the usual: coffee, bread, butter, milk, pasta, the sauce to go along with it, and frozen vegetables.
Beans and soup seemed like a good idea, so he moved to that aisle—only to find a dozen people crowding it. Hell no—he’d
do without. Instead, he cut up the next aisle. Beer and wine. He grabbed a six-pack of Stella and made a move to turn back rather than pass in front of the wine. But his path was blocked by a family with one of those extra-long carts for the kids to drive parked diagonally across the entrance. The clown horns squeaked like a herd of deranged geese. He had to get out of here. He headed through the wine, ignoring the itch in the center of his back and the undeniable urge to read the labels. Don’t do it, his mind screamed as his eyes took in the rows and rows of shitty vintages and—
There it was. His family’s name—although not his, which they’d never let him forget: DeLaurier et fils, emblazoned on a dozen or so bottles. A small, red-and-yellow flag indicated a sale: $9.99 apiece. Christ. Under ten bucks a bottle? He was tempted to take a picture of it to send to his brother. Instead, in a moment of pathetic pique, he took hold of the bottle beside it—another French sellout—and went to check out, calmer than he’d been on the way in.
The cashier, unfazed by the crazed masses, took in his purchases. “Hear they’re calling for a storm?” she asked, voice slow while her hands busily scanned and bagged.
Would this store ever get a self-checkout? he wondered. If there were another store in Blackwood, he’d have gone there just to avoid this weekly exchange.
“No.”
“Saying we might get a good icing.”
Luc didn’t respond, but as usual, his silence had no effect. The woman kept talking.
“You only been here a couple of years, right?” She barely paused, not waiting for a response. “Haven’t seen real weather yet. Wouldn’t be surprised if you got more up on the mountain than we’re gonna get here.”
How the hell did everybody in town know where he lived? He still couldn’t figure that out. He stared at the belt and willed it to roll his items forward faster.
“Won’t make it off the mountain if we get ice,” she added.
He finally engaged with her. “We’re not going to.”
“Weatherman Bob Campbell begs to differ.”
In His Hands Page 2
