A purple thumb, Grandpère had called it. Not everyone in the family had it. Certainly not Olivier. No, his half brother had been gifted with his father’s money-making prowess. Funny how it always seemed to be one or the other. Wine or money. Money or wine. You couldn’t have both. How disappointed everyone had been when it turned out that Luc was the gifted grower in the family. L’Américain. Le Paysan. The half-Polish American peasant. What a perfect cosmic joke, giving the gift to the only person in the family without the DeLaurier name, the one who was only half-French and all mutt. Well, they’d kept him in his place, hadn’t they? Always the grower, never the winemaker. Only grudgingly permitted in the cellars. Blood, after all, is thicker than wine.
He glanced subconsciously up the mountain toward the barn with its winery and shook his head, clearing away thoughts that served no purpose at all. He wasn’t a winemaker. Just a farmer—that was it. And if he’d tried his hand at making wine last year, well, that was just for fun. An experience. No. No, in English, the word was experiment.
“Why’d you pick that one to cut?” the woman asked, giving him a break from his thoughts.
“This grew two years ago. Thick and gnarled, yes? I cut here and cut this one down to two buds.”
“That’s a bud?”
“Yes, and these other knobs coming up. Also buds. They will grow into these…shoots or canes, and the bunches of grapes grow from there.”
“Oh, I see!” She smiled with understanding, and he looked back at the vine, ignoring the tightness in his belly, the nerves building there. Why? Human contact? Had it been so long that he didn’t actually know anymore how to talk to a woman without getting wound up?
Not that he’d ever been able to talk to a woman.
In search of distraction, he held out the pruners and indicated the next spur. “Try it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Careful not to cut off your finger. I don’t have time to take you to the hospital.”
She struggled for a bit. “On a diagonal,” he prompted before she figured out the angle and cut.
For a strange moment, the snipping sound reminded him of being young, the whole family out pruning together. Neatening acres and acres of vines, preparing them for the upcoming year. He remembered the cold—not so bitter as this—and the camaraderie. Burning canes in the brouette, and flasks of hot wine that Grandpère let them drink, against Maman’s wishes.
He missed that—throwing branches into the brouette de taille with its trail of smoke, the warmth it offered.
“Good.”
Abby stepped back and handed him the pruners, her brow creased as he cut into a more crowded area. “Why’d you cut that one and not the others?”
“If there is a doubt, I keep the healthiest spur.”
“How can you tell which is healthier?”
“Bigger, stronger-looking. Larger diameter. And this one, the puny one? I snip. The healthy one is also closest to the trunk and the cordon, see?”
“What was that word?”
“Cordon?”
“Yes. I like that.”
“In English, you call it an arm. This is the trunk, and these are the two arms. Spurs.” He pointed to the knobs that grew along the cordons, to last year’s growth, dead and messy and held up with wires. “Canes.”
“So, the weak and the old get cut out? That seems so…unfeeling.” The idea didn’t appear to please her, and he didn’t bother responding. Of course the runts had to go. When he’d arrived here, the vines had been a mess. Left to grow wild for years, the weeds rampant. He’d almost turned around without making an offer at all. Luc’s gaze lifted again to the barn, nestled just beneath the precariously perched boulders at the top of the mountain.
You didn’t buy a vineyard for a barn, much less a rock. He knew that. Everyone knew it. You bought for the location: the soil, the health of the vines. But while the real estate agent had gone on and on about the barn and its potential as a tasting room, Luc’s attention had slid right over it, over the top-of-the-line equipment. The temperatures were ideal inside the odd structure, which was built into the actual mountain, its backside carved straight from the granite boulders. It reminded him of the troglodyte caves in France. And Grandpère had always told him to look for rocks like these.
After months searching this country where his father grew up for just the right place to make his own, it was that barn and its boulders that had decided him. Stupid, likely. Just more of his grandfather’s superstitions, but…
“What about that little stump here?” Abby broke into his thoughts.
He looked at the spur she indicated. Older growth, without any visible one-year wood. “That goes.”
He caught a glimpse of her face—the concentration as she watched, doing her own work but more interested in his. Learning. She looked good in his oversize Aran sweater. Although he wouldn’t have had time to notice that if he were working as hard as he should.
A glance at the sky told him it was nearing the end of the afternoon. They’d worked straight through, both of them soaking wet. His boots squelched in the mud that was no doubt sucking at her pathetic shoes, and just as he wondered what awaited her back home, her hands dropped to her knees. She inhaled deeply.
“What is it?”
“I…I guess I should have had breakfast.”
“You’ve eaten nothing?”
She shrugged.
“That’s…stupid.” The words were too harsh, he realized as soon as they were out. More proof that he wasn’t fit to spend time with people, especially in America, where everyone was so nice. He avoided her shocked expression and set his pruners down. “Come. I’ll give you something to eat.”
“No. Thank you, sir. I…I should leave.” She threw a look over her shoulder, toward the top of the mountain where she’d first appeared.
“You have far to go?”
She shook her head again—more to clear it, he thought, than any sort of denial. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
He made an effort to soften his voice. “Why didn’t you eat?”
“I…I was in a rush.” It sounded like the truth, but he didn’t quite believe her. “Is it all right if I… I mean, I need to be getting back.”
“Of course. Come in, and I’ll pay you.”
“Could you hold on to it for me?”
“Hold on to your mon—”
She reached for the bottom of the sweater she wore, and Luc, who’d opened his mouth to ask…something…lost his train of thought. It came off—up and over her head, leaving her underdressed and cold in that odd-looking gown. A bit frantic, he averted his gaze from the sight of her nipples, perfectly outlined by the clinging material of her dress.
He concentrated instead on her hands as she pulled the gloves off—worn and full of holes, probably gritty on the inside from this summer’s work—and handed his things over. They were still warm from her body.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanek,” she said with a smile, putting her small, frigid hand out for another awkward handshake before turning away. From behind, her thin form was made shapely by the cut of fabric, tight at her waist and flaring at the hips. It should have expanded from there, leaving her bottom half mysterious and sexless, as he assumed was the intended purpose of that type of garb. Instead, the wet dress hugged her in a way that was decidedly appealing.
Rather than continue to watch the sway of her backside, Luc’s eyes snagged on the straight, proud angle of her shoulders—which, though painfully thin, appeared strong. And if he wasn’t mistaken, stubborn.
A few steps away, she turned back to catch him staring. “Can I come back tomorrow?” she asked, her eyes full of hope.
“Not if everything is covered in ice.”
“Oh.” She lost her smile. “Right. So…”
“Come if it isn’t,” he sa
id in an effort to put the light back in her face.
She nodded before heading off again, leaving him to finish his vines cold and alone and hoping, despite himself, that she’d return the next day.
4
There was a different kind of excitement as Abby headed out into the frosty morning. The buzz of fear and anxiety hadn’t subsided, despite the hours she’d spent praying for forgiveness the night before. But beneath that, a bubble floated in her chest, and it felt an awful lot like happiness.
It must have been the idea of leaving again—on her own terms. It could have also been the work, which, though difficult, had been satisfying, the view so lovely and new. It couldn’t possibly be Grape Man himself—the way he didn’t waste words or movement, the way his eyes, an icy gray-blue that was almost warm, met hers. How he’d insisted on giving her the sweater and the coffee.
Out of habit, she sped up as she passed Brigid and Benji’s cabin. Things had gotten unbearable with Brigid recently and the last thing she needed was a confrontation.
She’d just let her shoulders sag with relief when the door opened behind her. Too late.
Abby’s shoulders tightened as she veered slightly off her path. If it was Brigid, it was best not to lead her to the hole in the fence. But maybe, if she was lucky, it was just Benji heading off to work.
“Heading over to the fence?” came Brigid’s voice. No such luck.
Abby slowed. “It’s my job.” She forced a placid smile to her face and slowed her steps. If she stayed calm, maybe the woman would leave.
“I’ll bet you enjoy it, don’t you? Walking around all day with your head in the clouds.”
Abby stopped, breathing hard, and gave the expected response. Brigid would, after all, report any mistakes to Isaiah. “There’s nothing to enjoy. It’s my duty. I do it because Isaiah decrees it.”
“You’re just too good for the kitchens, aren’t you, Abigail? And the nursery? You’re above the rest of us, aren’t you? Wed to Hamish, your mother joined with Isaiah? You must feel special.” The words were spoken so kindly Abby could almost pretend she’d misheard.
“Special? No. No, I didn’t ask to work alone like this.”
“Of course not. You’d have preferred working with the men,” Brigid said with false innocence. It felt like a punch to the gut every single time.
“I’m not…” She searched for the right words to say. “Why are you… I never hated you, Brigid, the way you seem to hate me. I only wish that you could see—”
“Hate? Oh, no. No, you’ve got it all wrong, Abigail. There is nothing but love. I love you…Sister.”
They had seemed like sisters, once upon a time. Back when Abby’d first gotten here, they’d been kids, singing together, loving each other. So proud to be part of this important mission here on the mountain. Something so much bigger than themselves.
The knowledge of everything she’d lose when she left was suddenly crushing, heavy and sad.
Stepping forward, Abby put a hand on Brigid’s arm, that place where this woman had also received the Mark. “We’ll always be sisters, Brigid. No matter what happens. You know that, right?”
The woman’s blue eyes focused on Abby’s hand where it touched her sacred brand, before lifting to narrow on Abby’s face. She pulled away with a jerk.
“Are you pure of soul, Abigail Merkley?” The censure behind her words made Abby blink and lurch away. How could Brigid possibly know what she’d done? Maybe she had seen Abby cut through the fence. Seen her speak to the neighbor. “Eve in her garden of evil, tempting my husband from his righteous path. And him just a child.” Brigid advanced, hissing, her words ridiculous in the face of reality—that Abby and Benji were the same age, that they’d both been fifteen when they’d done…things together. And that he’d been just as present as she. He’d touched her body as surely as she’d touched his, no matter where the blame had been cast.
“You don’t deserve the Mark,” Brigid continued, her face livid with anger that Abby couldn’t understand. Why hold on to it after all these years? Why seek her out, if it was to express this kind of hatred? “Now a childless widow, with no man to tame your tongue, to beat your baser urges from you. Even Hamish, God rest his blessed soul, succumbed to your power. How’d you do that to him—make him change his mind in the end? Was it even the Almighty who took him, or did you—”
“Don’t you say another word,” Abby broke in. She took another step back from the woman, whose hostility was like an infection, worse than the cancer that had sickened Hamish before the end. “I swear to everything that is holy, I’ll…” Gracious, what would she do? She had no threats in her. There wasn’t even hatred when she looked for it, just a deep sadness for everything they’d lost.
Brigid stood, mouth tight and white around the edges, while her cheeks shone like two angry red flags.
“I’m sorry you lost your first baby, Brigid. But it wasn’t my fault. Now you and Benji have little Jeremiah, who’s—”
“Hush your mouth,” hissed Brigid. “Don’t you mention my son’s name.”
“I have work to do,” Abby said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “And so do you, I’d imagine.” She started to walk away before turning back. “And I did my duty by Hamish, Brigid. Till the end, I did my duty. In ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” She stopped, something occurring to her. “Things not as good as they should be with your husband? That why you’re harassing me instead of heading off to your job in the kitchen? You’re the one who got Benji in the end, you know. And I’m the one they gave to a fifty-five-year-old man. A marriage is what you make of it, isn’t it, Brigid?”
Another pause while Abby thought of where she was headed—escape, right over the top of the mountain, so close she could taste it. For the first time, it felt as though she wasn’t just leaving for Sammy.
Voice softer, Abby said, “I hope things are good between you and Benji, Brigid. I do.”
It was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Succubus,” Brigid hissed before Abby turned around and gave the woman her back.
It took a while to simmer down—probably a good half hour, during which Abby walked along the fence line in case she’d been followed. By the time she arrived at the top of the rise, she’d calmed enough to feel pity for Brigid’s plight. The woman’s miscarriage had been terrible.
It was God’s will, she knew, that she’d never had a baby with Hamish, but there were other factors she’d begun to suspect. Perhaps old men weren’t meant to sire children.
From this side of the mountain, looking out over the neighbor’s land with the potential of everything the world had to offer, Abby understood that it was a blessing not to have borne a child within the Church.
Closing her eyes, she remembered arriving here with Mama, a half-starved seven-year-old. After those months of sleeping together in the back of their car, Abby had felt so alone when Isaiah had taken Mama in marriage—another couple without offspring—and sent Abby to the dormitory with the other children. Goodness, how that had hurt. Much as she’d loved the Church—the singing and the togetherness, the specialness of being a Chosen One of the Lord—she’d cried herself to sleep every single night, missing the warm, soft feel of Mama like a front tooth.
Sucking in a breath to push away those memories, she looked out over the valley, toward Blackwood and Charlottesville and everything that awaited Sammy and her beyond. She thought of the infinite potential of a life lived on terms that weren’t this God’s. And despite the heaviness in her gut that told her this was wrong, she felt full of life and hope and the thrill of possibility.
When she caught sight of him—the man who’d given her this chance, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and did her best to be strong.
* * *
The man greeted her without enthusiasm. He did, however, have the gloves and sweater she’d worn the day before. After she pu
t on the sweater, he thrust a thermos of warm liquid into her hands.
She took a sip and—ecstasy.
“Is this coffee again?”
He nodded.
“Tastes different.”
His face, already pink from the cold, flushed, the color concentrating high along the ridge of those sharp, wide cheekbones. His answer came out on a mumble. “Better stuff.”
“Oh” was all Abby could manage as she took a second swig of the creamy, nutty brew. “Delicious.”
Another sip brought out something close to a moan, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. Abruptly, he bent to pick up his pruners and went back to work.
They’d been at it for over an hour when Abby finally dared open her mouth.
“Guess we didn’t get the weather everyone’s all worked up about,” she said.
“Apparently not.”
“They said we’d get ice, but there’s also talk of a couple feet of snow.”
His only response was a grunt.
Wordlessly, they worked their way through three more vines, Abby’s mind full of thoughts it shouldn’t have. Of the man and his coffee—both earthy and dark. She didn’t think she’d tasted anything earthy and dark before. Or quite so rich. She had a yearning, suddenly, for rich things: foods, tastes, smells, experiences that no God-fearing woman should want.
Experience. Even that word had her thinking of the man beside her, his broken voice and sad eyes. She didn’t need to look to feel him right there, the two of them working in quiet, easy tandem. She unclipped the branches from the wires and pulled, over and over, with nothing to stop her mind from crawling on.
Are you pure of soul? She thought of Brigid, snide and knowing. Eve in the garden of evil.
Maybe the woman was right.
She remembered when they’d been caught, her and Benji in the orchard, their drawers around their ankles and their hands hesitantly exploring.
Mama’d been angry, but Isaiah…he’d seemed forgiving. Poor Abigail Merkley. Always battling against your true nature. With such tenderness, Isaiah had told her he understood—and she thought maybe he had. We cannot help our sins, can we? We are the victims of our own transgressions, child. For years, she hadn’t even understood that word. Transgressions.
In His Hands Page 5
