“Nothing,” she said, although words burned the inside of her mouth, trying to get out. Questions begging for answers.
“Come on in and help me make dinner,” Mama ordered with that look that said she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Abby followed her inside. And then, because she couldn’t help it, she asked, “What was it like for you? When you first met my father? Or Isaiah? Was it special?”
Mama set down her knife and covered the onion bowl with a towel before focusing on Abby. She set her hands firmly on the table, head tilted at an odd angle.
“Why do you ask?”
Abby should have guessed, from the stillness in the air and the forced quality of Mama’s voice, that things were not as simple as they seemed.
She forced a shrug. “I was… Now that Hamish is gone, I was thinking about who I’d be joined with next. I wondered if—”
“You wondered what, Abigail?”
Abby blinked, surprised by the edge to her mother’s tone.
“I wondered how it would feel to choose a husband.”
“Choose?” Mama’s face puckered in confusion.
“Well, like you picked my father and—”
“Look no further than our Savior, Abigail, for the answer to your questions.”
“But, Mama, you wanted to be with Isaiah, right? You chose to come here. I mean, you could have—”
“Where, may I ask, is this curiosity coming from?”
Mama’s breathing was loud in the silence that followed. There was a moment—just a second or two—when she’d have told the truth, perhaps. Whatever that truth might have been. That she’d changed, or the world had, and she wasn’t sure she knew how to change it back.
“Just wondering who God will pick for me, is all.” Or if, perhaps, God had already chosen.
“It is not your job to wonder, child.” Mama’s jaw was hard, her words crisp. “It is your responsibility to submit.”
“Yes, Mama,” she mumbled.
It wasn’t long before Isaiah arrived, opening the door to the cabin and letting in another draft of that icy wind.
“I’ve got to go,” Abby muttered. She made to move past him, and he stopped her.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching to touch her.
“I don’t—”
“Got something in your hair here, Abigail.”
He touched her hair and came away with a dry leaf on a branch. He squinted at it, hard, before looking at her.
“Grape leaf?” he asked.
“Must have blown over from next door,” said Abby, throat tight with fear.
He examined it, and her, before tossing it to the wind, muttering something about the weather. Abby didn’t wait before following one step behind. She had to get away from his all-seeing gaze and Mama’s all-knowing one.
At her own cabin, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, shaking. Why, oh why, had she spoken of this to her mother? Why had she gone into their cabin tonight at all?
She shut her eyes hard against the memory of that leaf crunching in Isaiah’s hand, his yellow eyes on hers.
In the dark, something moved.
“Who’s there?” She scrambled to light the candle beside the door, hands trembling so hard she needed a second match to do the job.
A moan, followed by a thud, led her to the kitchen. Dread heavy in her stomach, she turned the corner to see Sammy, curled up on a floor stained with blood and vomit.
Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. No, no, no. Please don’t do this. Not to Sammy. Please, not Sammy. She dropped to her knees, heedless of the filth seeping into her skirt, and pulled Sammy’s soft, golden head into her lap. His hair was matted brown, and crusty. Was he breathing? Yes. Yes, he was breathing, but—
His eyes opened, sweet and lucid. Oh, thank you.
“Sammy.”
“Abby.” His voice was thin as a thread, but his smile was real. Good. Thank you, Lord. Oh, thank you. She loved that smile, loved his gentle face with its high forehead and button nose. He was different, she knew. She’d seen people like him outside. But it didn’t matter to her. There was no one in the world she loved more than this boy who couldn’t be mean if he tried.
“What happened, Sammy-Boy?”
“Don’t know, Abby. Don’t know.”
“Did you fall?”
“Uh-huh. Fell, shaking like the last time. Hurt my head so bad. Hurts bad.”
He tried to sit up, and she held him tighter, stilled his body. “Hold on, pumpkin. Just hold on for a sec. Let’s make sure you’re in one piece first, okay?” He was getting worse. Just a week ago, he’d had one of these episodes, and she’d had no idea what he needed. No idea how to help. An image of Hamish flashed into her mind, so real it blinded her: those last dark months when his begging had gotten to be too much to bear and she’d finally done something about it.
Help me, he’d tried to scream over and over again. Only he’d lost his lung power, so the sound had been a howl, quiet and breathy and insufferable.
The voices blended in her mind—Hamish’s becoming Sammy’s—and she came close to weeping. So close. But it wouldn’t help him if she cried, would it? It would do nothing but worry him, and that was pointless.
“Hurts, Abby,” he said, a scared little boy with a man’s voice. “My head.”
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” she said, scared, truly scared. “Everything’ll be just fine. I promise.” Abby rocked him in her arms and wondered how she was going to make it better when she didn’t have the resources to get herself away, much less another person.
Fear filled her chest, nearly drowning her. The only thing strong enough to push it back was shame. At her own behavior—the way she’d fallen so quickly into her own sensuality, forgetting why she’d left this place to begin with.
What kind of person let herself get distracted from a mission that could mean life or death for Sammy?
She got him up and cleaned the wound on his head, fed him, and set him up in her bed for the night. All of it hiding behind a mask of serenity while her insides were a mass of turmoil. How would she get Sammy out? And once out, how would she take care of them?
Once he’d fallen asleep, she got down on her knees and prayed. For Sammy. For absolution and understanding. But mostly, she prayed for an answer. She refused to think of Luc and the things he stirred up in her—it was too complicated to untangle. And not important enough when faced with Sammy’s worsening situation. God might not forgive her for leaving Him behind, but if she didn’t succeed, she would never forgive herself.
7
Luc had no more work for Abby. The day she’d spent away, working at the market, he’d gotten through the last vines, and there was nothing left for her to help with. Luc didn’t look forward to seeing her face when he told her.
But, jerk that he was, he didn’t want her to stop coming. He wanted her here, the antidote to his anxiety instead of the cause. What was it about the woman that made him miss her when he usually couldn’t get away from other people fast enough?
She didn’t arrive first thing that morning, so he took off up the mountain to work on the stupid tractor. Le Dog, trotting beside him, had changed—his gait light and springy, limp nearly gone. They had a checkup with the vet next week, but Luc hardly needed the doctor to tell him the mutt was worlds better. That was what happened when you fed and took care of a creature instead of treating it like dirt.
His thoughts skipped back to Abby. The new curve of her hips, the slight roundness at her cheek, where before it’d been hollow. Like the dog, she’d developed a glow. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Not exactly ownership, but…a sort of pride. As if he had a stake in her survival.
He passed through the barn to get to the back. In the room on the right, dozens of bottles lay on their sides, awaiting a verdict. Beside them
sat big, round barrels, full to bursting with juice that should have gone elsewhere—missed income.
He ignored them, moving instead to the back of the barn and out through the rear door, to what he called the graveyard. Le cimetière. Where the previous owners had left their machinery to die. An old tractor sat in the grass, with a rusted-out array of parts he had yet to go through. He had to get this tractor up and running now, especially if his newest idea took root.
Which it would. Luc knew. He’d have to buy plants—another expense he couldn’t afford. But…if, against every expectation, his wine was drinkable and he sold it, he’d earn more than what he’d get from just selling the grapes. Grapes were practically worthless compared to a decent vintage. He’d seen what they sold bottles for around here, and although he’d never open up his place to visitors, he could sell at the local grocery stores. Maybe work out a deal with restaurants.
Idiot, he thought, climbing up into the tractor. Nobody’s going to want this wine.
He clambered into the front seat and found a key in the ignition. He couldn’t believe it. For a moment, he stared, dumbfounded. There was a goddamned key. He turned it, but nothing happened.
No surprise there, which pleased him in an odd sort of way. This was a challenge Luc enjoyed—taking a mess of metal and making it work again. He went back in for his tool belt and returned to the cimetière to revive some old souls.
Time passed as he worked. A lot or a little, he had no clue. But at some point, as the afternoon light began to fade, Le Dog barked—not something he did often.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? Hein?” He asked what it was. The dog, as proficient in French as in English, barked a happy response.
After a bit, he heard it, too. A voice. Abby. Finally. With a nervous leap of his pulse, he set off to find her.
* * *
“I didn’t think I’d see you today.” Luc’s voice came from the shadowy barn interior.
“Sorry I’m late.” She paused, nervous. “I brought you something.”
Now that she was here, thrusting her quilt into his unsuspecting hands, it was awkward and strange. The look on his face, which had flushed red, brought home the fact that Abby had just about no idea what was acceptable behavior in society and what wasn’t. Maybe, she thought, this had been the wrong thing to do. Maybe…
“You should not have done this, Abby.”
“I shouldn’t?” she whispered, avoiding his eye.
“Did you make it?”
That brought up a laugh, straight from her belly and up through her chest and throat. “Why? Is it that bad?”
He blinked. “No. Not at all. It’s…it’s lovely.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not much good with my hands. My work is nowhere near as good as the others’.”
“No?” He considered her for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Well, you’ve done good work for me.” He paused. “With your hands.”
He held the quilt, probably catching fibers on his rough skin and hating it. This had been the wrong thing to do. She wanted to continue working for him without more tension between them, but she’d gone and done this, which would only make things worse.
“Where would you recommend I put it?” he asked, looking…pleased, perhaps?
“I thought in your cabin. Wherever you spend the most time. You could use it if you ever got cold. Or not. If you don’t like it, you can give—”
“I like it.”
“You do?”
“Thank you, Abby. It’s…” He swallowed and looked away, his scar tight. “I’ll take it inside. In a bit.”
After a pause, Abby said, “I saw the vines. You’re done.”
He nodded.
“Must feel good.” The thought made her frantic, not just because she’d have no more work, but because this would be taken from her. This place, this man. What on earth would she do now?
She waited for a few seconds, breathing hard until he turned and flipped a switch, illuminating the large space they stood in. Tools hung on one wall—pruners like the ones he’d used for the past week, gloves, and other things that she couldn’t even begin to understand.
Behind him, at the far end of the barn, was a door—open and showing what looked like a scrap heap outside. Here, they stood in a room with big, metal tanks. It was massive and dark, even lit as it was. The tanks lined up like sentinels along one wall.
“Come,” he said, leading her through a door, which opened up to…
“Oh my…” She wished she had more words—better words—to describe this place.
The room was immense. One entire wall was made of glass—the long one, facing down the side of the mountain, almost overhanging the valley. She’d seen it from the outside and had wondered what this much glass would be like.
Inside, it was extraordinary. She’d never seen anything so expansive. Never. And the windows didn’t end at the wall. They continued up and bent to become the ceiling. It was the biggest, most open place she’d ever seen indoors. At the opposite end—yards and yards away—was an enormous fireplace made of stone. You could fit a person in there. You could fit a bear. The other wall held a long, empty bar. Beyond it was a room filled with wooden barrels. Everything was warm with wood and stone and so bright you could almost taste the light.
Her breath was audible in her ears, like someone else’s. Like putting her head underwater. Like looking so far out that you actually saw inside yourself. She didn’t wait for him to lead the way but walked ahead. Everything was muffled by the drowning of her mind, tamped down by the light and the view and the thin, thin air.
“What…what is this?” she asked.
“It was supposed to be the tasting room.”
“Was?”
“The previous owners. The couple who started the winery and planted the vineyard. They had plans.”
She shook her head. “Why did they leave? How could they leave this?”
“I don’t know. A death in the family is what the real estate agent said—an inheritance or someone to take care of? Although…” He trailed off, leaving a heavy weight hanging between them, drawing Abby’s attention back to him. Oh, his eyes. So blue in the setting sun, so pretty in that finely etched face. Something about the glass made the light in here brighter than outside. Sharper.
“Although?”
“I think it was you.”
“Me?” Abby said, instantly horrified.
His mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes softened, filling her middle with something squishy and good. “I wonder if perhaps they weren’t comfortable with their neighbors.”
“Ah.” She turned toward the view and took a dozen more steps into the room, her undivided attention on the glass that overlooked…everything. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“Is it?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“It’s not?”
“Honestly, I hardly notice. It’s the…” He paused. “The other side that interests me.”
Looking at him, Abby had the distinct feeling he wasn’t telling the truth.
“The other side?”
“Outside. Where I grow my grapes.”
“But in here… This room. This is where people would come to taste wine? Buy it, too?”
“Yes. And back there, for making wine.”
Abby took a turn around the big, empty room. “Through there?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s the barrel room. In those barrels, the wine ages before bottling. Beyond that, where we first came in, are the tanks where the wine becomes…well, wine. And through that door, outside—not toward the tractor, but straight through—is the porch. Under the overhang is where the grapes are crushed and destemmed. That is where the real work happens. In a winery anyway. Harvest and crush. No sleep.”
“Luc, this is…” Abby shook her head. She felt the hu
ge hole in her vocabulary.
“I didn’t make this,” he said with a shrug, although there was something like pride on his face. “Come,” he said, opening the door into the barrel-filled room and letting out a waft of pungent, earthy air. It smelled like blood and dirt, like this man’s soul: wood and minerals and the mountain and something too human to describe.
She followed Luc between the rows of barrels to the other end of the room, where he gathered two stemmed glasses and a long instrument also made of glass.
“I thought you weren’t a winemaker. Just a farmer, you said. That’s it.”
“I’m not a winemaker.”
“Then what’s this?”
Shrugging, he said, “An experiment. Here, I show you.”
He handed the glasses to Abby and led the way to the barrel closest to the door. It had what looked like a small, round, plastic cork in the center. Slowly, carefully, Luc worked it out of the hole, which was ringed in purple. Once it was open, he slid the long glass implement inside, finger raised. She watched as he expertly pressed his finger to the dropper, lifted the entire mechanism from the hole, and put it over a glass, emptying the contents by lifting his finger again. He stuck the top back in, screwed it down, pounded it a few times, and moved to a barrel on the other side of the room to do the whole thing over again, into the second glass.
“What is that?”
“It’s called a wine thief.”
“Because it steals from the barrels?”
“Precisely.”
“This must all be so…scientific.”
“Yes?” He smiled. “There is some chemistry. Making wine is temperature dependent. Fermentation and aging and so on. But there is some alchemy involved, too, I think.”
“Alchemy?”
“That mysterious blend of things. You know, like”—he sniffed—“the air. Mountain air versus flatlands. Instinct, earth. Not particularly precise.” He waved his hand in the air. “Maybe Mother Nature or Bacchus or—”
“Bacchus?”
“The Roman god of grapes. Wine and eu—how do you say—débauche?”
“What’s… Oh. Debauchery?” Abby asked with a jolt of excitement. “There’s a god of debauchery?”
In His Hands Page 8
