The Moment Between

by Nicole Baart

  compromised. The extent of her distraction did not go unnoticed at Johnson, McNally & Bennett.

  “Go,” Colton told her almost harshly. “Take a vacation; join a support group; spend some time with your dad. Don’t worry about us. Your job will be here whenever you get back.”

  Abigail didn’t know if she found that thought comforting or threatening. But she did everything she could to transition her clients into Blake’s and Colton’s more than capable hands, then promised herself she wouldn’t be gone long. She had every intention of picking up where she had left off, of using the indulgences earned by her upcoming atonement to buy back the life she had become so comfortable living. However, the truth was, when she left her office for the last time, she looked at it long and hard as if she wanted to memorize each and every detail. She didn’t know when, if ever, she would return.

  As for her friends, Abigail’s relationships were somewhat limited and rather shallow. She hung out mostly with two women who worked in the same block of upscale offices that housed Johnson, McNally & Bennett. Sarah and Elle were both cosmetic dentists, professionals like Abigail and too focused on their blossoming careers to commit much more than the occasional dinner out or early morning jog to a relationship with Abigail. Other than more flowers and a few awkward messages on the answering machine, Sarah and Elle didn’t have much to offer Abigail when Hailey died. Abigail accepted those friendships for what they were: temporary and one-dimensional. Dealing with the suicide of a sister blurred the parameters of a trio that was supposed to be lighthearted and fun. By the time Abigail left for Canada, nothing much remained to try to salvage between the three of them.

  The only other thing that tied Abigail to Florida was Lou. But Abigail’s father was already well established at the Four Seasons Manor Home, and his nurses knew better than to expect a lot from Abigail. Making the necessary arrangements to stay in Revell consisted of two short phone calls: one to Marguerite, the secretary at the accounting firm, and the other to the Four Seasons. Abigail kept both conversations vague—”I need a few more weeks”—and wasn’t surprised when no one fussed or complained.

  After she clicked the End button on her phone a second time, Abigail couldn’t help but feel cut loose. She was floating into a half-life, a charade that she could have never imagined playacting in. There was only one last thing to do. Cutting herself off from the rest of her life required Abigail to turn off her phone and toss it in the bottom of her luggage. The little device thudded against the sides of her suitcase and Abigail knew she was officially unreachable. With an air of determination, she donned a thin smile, put on a pretty outfit, and dived right in.

  †

  When Abigail drove up to Thompson Hills just before six the next morning, Eli was waiting for her on the wide front steps of the main building. He was leaning against the open door of the stately structure and smoking a cigarette. The sun was a sliver of light on the horizon, and it bathed the winery in a creamy early morning glow that was accented by the orange disk of Eli’s burning cigarette when he inhaled. Abigail found it a little unsettling that he watched her closely as she parked her car. He didn’t take his eyes off her for a second as she collected her purse and started across the parking lot toward him.

  “That a rental?” Eli called when Abigail was within earshot.

  “Yes,” she answered. “That a cigarette?”

  “What does it look like?” Eli replied, dropping the last inch of the savored du Maurier at his feet. He ground the cigarette to ashes and then kicked the remainders into the bushes beside the step.

  “You’ll get lung cancer, you know.” Abigail said it just to annoy him.

  But Eli laughed. “I quit years ago.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Abigail indicated the butt he had discarded a moment before.

  “Oh, that doesn’t count,” Eli scoffed. “I have three-quarters of a cigarette every morning. No more, no less. It’s just enough to remind me of what I’m not missing.”

  Skepticism etched itself across Abigail’s face.

  “Besides, I’d be more concerned about you and your rental car. Those companies will bleed you dry. How long they been tapping you?”

  “Less than a week,” Abigail admitted.

  “You better ditch that car, ‘cause I’m not paying you enough to keep it.” Eli turned abruptly and headed into the building.

  Abigail wasn’t about to tell him that she had more than enough money to pay for her ridiculous rental car, so she merely followed him inside the cool interior of the winery.

  Much to her surprise, Abigail found that the central great room, the same tasting room where she had eaten brunch only days ago, was buzzing with people. There were probably fifteen or so men and women milling around, pulling tables together and overturning stacked chairs to make an enormous banquet table. The laughter, the cheerful feel of the room was disconcerting to Abigail. She had expected anything but the partylike atmosphere of the winery at 6 a.m. on a weekday. Was this a private celebration? Was Eli expecting her to wait on all these people? Dread filled Abigail at the thought.

  Just as she was about to grab Eli’s arm and quietly demand an explanation, he whistled sharply and the whole room stilled. A few people dropped into chairs, but the rest froze where they were and turned as one to Eli.

  “This is Abby,” he introduced, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

  “Abigail,” she corrected instantly. She was horrified that all those people were looking at her, but still she couldn’t let him introduce her as Abby. She hadn’t been Abby for over a decade.

  Eli glanced at her, obviously put out that she had reproached him in front of everyone. But he obliged her and said, “This is Abigail.” She chose to ignore the edge in his voice.

  A few people waved, but mostly they just stared at Eli and waited for more instructions.

  “Where’s breakfast?” he asked. “Whose turn is it?”

  “Meg and Natalie,” someone answered.

  And then there was a scuffle of activity as two young women emerged from the kitchen behind the bar at Abigail’s left hand. They were each carrying a huge pan of sticky buns that were obviously straight from the oven. The aroma was divine, and the group began to moan in anticipation as the women approached the group. Abigail saw someone set a few stacks of mismatched plates and two old coffee tins full of silverware at different intervals along the makeshift harvest table. Everyone found a seat, including Eli, who had already abandoned Abigail to her own devices.

  “Over here!” A voice rang out above the chatter, and Abigail looked up to see a cute girl with short, tomboyish hair pull out a chair and motion her over.

  Abigail smiled gratefully and took her place at the table next to the woman.

  “I’m Paige,” she said, dipping her head toward Abigail since the room was already quieting down.

  “Nice to meet you,” Abigail whispered back. “What’s going on?”

  Paige looked meaningfully at Eli, who was now standing at one end of the table, head bowed and hands folded. She did the same and Abigail followed suit.

  When Eli began, “Our Father in Heaven,” Abigail gulped down her breath and held it. She hadn’t heard that prayer since her childhood, since the days when Lou sat at the head of his own table and boomed out the Lord’s Prayer as if the louder he recited it the more likely God would hear it. Abigail found that she still knew every word. By the time Eli made it to the end, she was mouthing along with him almost against her will. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and forever. Amen.

  Everyone echoed amen with varying degrees of intensity, and then the table jerked back to life. Abigail was left trying to shrug off the remaining sense of unrest that Eli’s prayer had draped over her shoulders. But she barely had time to think about it—someone started cutting the rolls and plopping one caramel monstrosity on each of the plates. Before she knew what was happening, Abigail had breakfast in
front of her as well as a mug of the strong, black coffee that two guys were passing around.

  “We have breakfast together every Monday morning,” Paige explained in response to Abigail’s implicit question. “Eli has us take turns making it, and he uses the time to—” she assumed a deep, stern voice—”prep us for the big week ahead.”

  “There’s a big week ahead?” Abigail asked.

  “There’s always a big week ahead during tourist season. But it depends on what you’re doing. What did he hire you for?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail admitted. “He didn’t really tell me.”

  “Well, Thompson Hills is an estate vineyard—that means it’s a winery and a vineyard,” Paige said, her tone sprinkled with mock condescension. “You’d be surprised how many wineries actually buy their grapes from separate vineyards. Appalling, eh? Anyway, you’ll either be farming with Josh Ellens—he’s the grower, our viticulturist—or you’ll be working with Eli.”

  “What does Eli do?” Abigail asked around a bite of caramel roll.

  “He’s the owner, general manager, winemaker, and cellarman. Basically, he does everything, including drive the rest of us crazy.”

  Abigail frowned. “That bad?”

  “Yes,” the girl on the other side of Abigail hissed. Then she bit her lip self-consciously. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “You weren’t. It’s not a private conversation.” Paige motioned between Abigail and the pretty brunette with her fork. “Abigail, meet Natalie. Natalie, Abigail.”

  The two girls shook hands, and Abigail realized with a start that Natalie had been her waitress when she first came to Thompson Hills.

  Apparently the same thought struck Natalie because she snapped her fingers and grinned. “I know where I’ve seen you before. I think I waited on you last weekend.”

  “Got me,” Abigail said, putting up her hands.

  Natalie regarded her with narrowed eyes. “You had the . . . the fruit platter and a mimosa.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Don’t be impressed,” Paige interrupted. “That’s what she recommends to everyone.”

  “And the smart clientele always take my recommendations,” Natalie joked.

  Abigail was almost beginning to enjoy her conversation with Paige and Natalie when Eli stood and clapped twice.

  Everyone shut up instantly and gave the older man their full attention. The transformation from lively chitchat to utter silence was so complete that Abigail hardly dared to swallow lest she make too much noise.

  “Vineyard crew is dismissed,” he said directly. “Josh will meet you at the service shed.”

  A handful of people crammed the last bites of breakfast into their mouths and then shoved back from the table. Abigail noticed that the group of workers wasn’t limited to men, and she wondered if she was supposed to join them when she looked down at her understated taupe sweater and remembered that Eli had told her to wear something nice. Surely he didn’t mean for her to be a part of the vineyard crew. A glance around the table reassured her that the remaining employees were smartly dressed, the men in chinos and collared shirts, the women in skirts or something equally pretty and feminine. It also struck her that Tyler was nowhere to be seen. Had she missed him when he rose to join the vineyard workers? Or was

  he gone again? Was she sitting at Eli’s improvised family table in vain?

  Abigail felt a band of disappointment settle around her heart, and she struggled to make it beat past the feeling of failure that threatened to dam her chest. She was trying to formulate a casual question about Tyler’s whereabouts when Eli looked past her and settled his features into a dour smile.

  “About time,” he said to someone just over her shoulder.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find the chardonnay-viognier. It wasn’t where you said it would be.”

  Abigail felt something slide past her and turned to see Tyler’s handsome profile only inches from her face. He settled a wooden crate on the table directly in front of her and then shot a flirty grin at the girl across from him.

  Eli began removing the bottles from the crate, surveying the labels and appearing to take a mental tally as he spoke each name aloud. “Chardonnay, cabernet, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, merlot . . .”

  Abigail barely heard him. Tyler was still close enough to touch.

  “How many is that?” Eli asked, losing count.

  “Five,” Tyler said. “The chard-viognier is the sixth.” He produced it from behind his back and handed it to Abigail with a flourish. “You must be the new girl,” he whispered, arresting her with a gaze so intense she blinked to break eye contact. It didn’t even cross her mind to respond. She just sat like stone as he threw her a wink and then settled into a chair on the other side of Natalie.

  “We have a new white,” Eli said, taking the bottle from Abigail’s hands. “Josh tried a viognier grape a number of years ago, and our first harvest didn’t go too well. So we blended it. I think the end result is quite fine. Natalie, glasses.”

  Natalie jumped up from the table and came back carrying a tray of tulip-shaped glasses with delicate stems.

  Abigail watched her go, then tracked her progress as she set a wineglass in front of every remaining person at the table. Following Natalie, even if only with her eyes, helped Abigail live with the knowledge that there was nothing between her and Tyler but an empty chair. She focused on Natalie’s movements, resolutely ignoring the growing suspicion that Tyler was studying her.

  “Someone tell me about our chardonnay,” Eli demanded, extracting a small corkscrew from his pocket and turning it into the neck of the bottle in his hands.

  “Oak-scented and dry,” someone offered.

  “Buttery.”

  “Hints of vanilla, pear, and toast.”

  From the corner of her eye, Abigail could see Tyler open his mouth. “Full-bodied, long-legged, and . . . sensuous,” he said, his voice exaggeratedly mellow and deep.

  A few guffaws erupted around the table, but Eli put a stop to them with a hard look. “Thank you, Tyler. Your observations are . . . insightful as always.” Getting back to business, he shot out, “Food pairings.”

  “Lobster, white meat, or salmon.”

  “Cream sauces and Italian food.”

  “Goat cheese.”

  “Predictable,” Eli muttered, finally popping the cork and lifting the bottle so he could sniff it. “Surprise me.”

  “Japanese,” Paige called out. “Chardonnay goes great with sushi.”

  “Good,” Eli said, and there was a hint of pride behind his begrudging compliment. “Now, what do you know about viognier?”

  The table remained silent and Abigail took the opportunity to look around. When her gaze slid over Tyler, she was stunned to find that he was still looking at her.

  He smiled faintly and then directed his attention to Eli. “We don’t know anything about viognier, Uncle. Enlighten us.”

  Eli rolled his eyes to the ceiling but complied. “Viognier is a powerful wine, very complex and best known for its aroma rather than its bouquet.”

  “Bouquet?” Abigail murmured without thinking.

  “The scent created by the winemaker during fermentation and aging,” Paige whispered back hastily, keeping her head turned toward Eli.

  “Aroma?”

  “The naturally occurring fragrance of the wine.” Paige’s voice dropped even lower as Eli’s eyes swept over her. “Determined by the type of grape and terroir.”

  Abigail furrowed her brow in confusion, but before she could ask another muted question out of the corner of her mouth, Eli continued. “It’s quite dry but more creamy than acidic and perfectly paired with a good, bold chard.” He poured an inch of the golden wine into the nearest glass. “I’ll let you taste for yourselves. Let’s see if you can pick out the fruit.”

  He wandered up one side of the table and down the other, measuring a bit out for everyone. There was just enough to go around. Abigail could see the
dregs of wine like liquid sunlight sloshing about in the translucent bottle.

  All over the table, people picked up their glasses by the stem, swirling the contents and scrutinizing the wine inside. Though Abigail had enjoyed a glass of wine before, she certainly wasn’t a connoisseur and she had absolutely no idea what to do. Thankfully, Paige bumped her arm and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Like this.” Abigail copied her every move, holding the glass to the light so she could first examine it. Then, taking her cues from Paige, she breathed deeply of the wine, swished, sniffed again, and finally sipped. The wine was distinctive and rich on her tongue but also unexpectedly sweet and smooth. Like Eli had suggested, Abigail could sense a hint of fruit, but she couldn’t quite place it. She took another sip.

  “Good grief, Abigail!” The harsh words sliced through the room.

  Abigail swallowed almost guiltily and met Eli’s shocked stare. “Don’t swallow it, girl! You’ll be drunk before we open the third bottle.”

  Chastened, Abigail watched as Paige lifted her empty coffee mug and spit a mouthful of wine into it. Around the table the others did the same.

  Eli sighed heavily through his nose and turned with deliberate disdain from Abigail. “Aroma?”

  “Pineapple?”

  “Tangerine?”

  “Apricot!”

  “That’s it: apricot. Overripe apricot.”

  “And oranges.”

  “Orange blossoms,” Tyler corrected.

  The room burst into laughter as if relieved to have something to giggle out loud about. Abigail had watched a few people bite their lips when Eli admonished her, but there wasn’t time for her to be humiliated. She wasn’t permitted to swallow the wine, but she forced herself to swallow a lot of other things: her pride, her uncertainty, her apprehension.

  By the time the final bottle had been decimated and Abigail had tasted and spat out six different varieties of wine, her head was spinning and she was exhausted. Thompson Hills opened to the public at eleven o’clock, and she was expected to be a veritable wine expert, handing out samples and answering questions about vintage and tannins, legs and food pairings.