by Nicole Baart
IX
Before the end of her first day at Thompson Hills, work proved to be so all-consuming that Abigail barely had time to think, much less contemplate, the atrocities her wounded heart seemed willing to ponder. She excelled in the art of pushing things down deep, and that’s exactly what she did—forcing all the thoughts and feelings she couldn’t quite bring herself to face into hidden recesses where they could ferment in the darkness and silence. They lurked there, hushed but waiting, and while Abigail agonized inside, she seemed to flourish on the outside.
In spite of all the things she had heard about the incorrigible Elijah Dixon, Abigail actually enjoyed working at Thompson Hills. She caught on quickly to the wine jargon and found that when she was in the tasting room, the only thing she really needed was confidence. Most of the people who darkened the doors of the winery knew little to nothing about wine and came only because the Summerlands seemed synonymous with chardonnay. Or pinot noir or merlot or whatever—the names weren’t important; the nicely labeled bottles were. Tourists invariably went home with two souvenirs: sunburns and wine. So Abigail learned early on to smile wide and tell her customers what to think.
“It’s nice and rich on your tongue,” she’d say. Or, “Notice the lingering sweetness after you swallow.” And they would nod seriously and buy a bottle or two of each at twenty to thirty dollars apiece.
Abigail also learned that Eli had, for incomprehensible reasons, set her apart from most of her coworkers. Nearly everyone she met on the first day worked a scant thirty-hour week. But Eli had made it clear when Abigail left on Monday afternoon that her hours would be longer.
“I want you back at six tomorrow morning,” Eli said, stopping Abigail just as she was about to leave the winery.
It had been an exhausting day, and Abigail turned to him slowly, too tired to argue but curious just the same. “Paige said that Monday and Saturday are the only 6 a.m. days. Tuesday through Friday we start at ten.”
“Not for you,” Eli informed her. “I need barrels washed in the cellar and bottles filled and labeled. I can’t do that all by myself.”
Abigail stared at him, deciding if she should complain, but she simply didn’t feel like it. “Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” But as Eli strode off, Abigail felt compelled to utter something that she normally would have only wondered about. “Why me?”
“‘Cause you’re new and I can still stand you,” Eli called without slowing his step.
Abigail could only laugh.
For the rest of the week, Abigail arrived at Thompson Hills as the birds were trilling their daybreak tunes and stayed until late in the afternoon. Her mornings were spent hosing out giant oak barrels so they could be filled with new wine. It was a dirty job, and Abigail was inevitably soaked by the end of the morning and in desperate need of a shower before taking her place in the charming tasting room upstairs. When midweek rolled around, her fingers were even stained a pale burgundy around the nails. Watered-down or not, the wine seemed to get everywhere, marking her hands and blooming in faded patches across her clothes.
The first day Abigail hadn’t thought to bring an extra set of clothes and had to run back to the Sunny Grove to clean up and change. After that, Eli showed her the small locker room in the service shed and instructed her to shower on the premises.
The bathroom had a concrete floor with a filthy, plastic drain at the concave center that was clotted with dirt and grass. Abigail longed to take the hose from the service shed and spray down the entire room—mirrors, toilet, shower, even the ceiling—but the bathroom wasn’t her responsibility. Yet. Instead, Abigail showered with her flip-flops on and then dressed quickly and made a beeline for the gorgeous guest bathroom at the winery entrance. She finished getting ready there, and if Eli knew about it, he didn’t say anything.
Abigail didn’t mind the setup, though she avoided the same sink and mirror where she had confronted all she seemed capable of when it came to Tyler. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to look in that mirror, even in passing. It was almost as if her obsessions were trapped in the curving glass above the middle sink, and as long as she avoided it, she could put off dealing with her demons. Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . And she knew there was a wicked witch inside. Abigail was more than happy to lower her eyes when she passed and pretend that she had forgotten what she had said.
Abigail knew she was many things, but in all her life she had never counted herself capable of even seriously contemplating what she had admitted to her own reflection. Murderess. The word haunted her. It was soft, sibilant, almost sensuous, like the warning hiss of a deadly but terrifyingly beautiful snake. She couldn’t deal with it, not really. So she decided that her bathroom confession was nothing more than a result of her anger chasing itself to the farthest possible conclusion. Backing away from that dark, unholy dead end was the only logical course of action.
By the time Friday rolled around, Abigail was used to her temporary pattern of life. In fact, she was so busy, so immersed in the facade she had constructed that she felt as if her life, her real life, had ceased to exist. This was her new reality: Thompson Hills, wine, Tyler.
Though she hadn’t said even two consecutive words to Tyler yet. Sometimes he led tours of the winery, and she only saw him as he passed through the main room with camera-carrying guests in tow. Other days he stood behind the bar on the opposite side of the tasting room.
Paige, Natalie, and Abigail had more or less claimed the counter on the south side, across from the kitchen. It afforded the best view of the deck, and beyond the cedar railings the vineyards gave way to orchards that shimmered darkly against the blue of the lake in the distance. When traffic was light in the winery, the girls leaned against the counter and talked, admiring the landscape. Tyler and the four other regulars were relegated to the bar by the kitchen and took turns as tour guides. As the most recently hired, Paige and Abigail could beg off tour guide duty for a couple more weeks at least. And Natalie acted as their supervisor, showing them the ropes and filling in the gaps when their inexperience was obvious.
Since she was a newbie, Abigail also knew enough to keep her mouth shut about Eli’s offer of the trailer on the property. She couldn’t imagine that anyone else would want to stay at Thompson Hills, yet she didn’t make the invitation public knowledge. She hadn’t even seen the trailer, but Eli had asked her one morning while they were working in the cellar when—if—she was moving in. Since Abigail had already promised to pay Jane for the entire week at the Sunny Grove, they decided that Saturday morning she would bring her things over to Thompson Hills. Not that she had anything more to move than a suitcase.
In anticipation of her relocation, Eli even gave Abigail Saturday off. She had already put in almost fifty hours her first week, but Eli implied that her complete lack of waitressing experience would only muck up the entire day and that was why he wasn’t requiring her to work. Abigail couldn’t help but suspect that his gesture was actually a feeble attempt at kindness, though she didn’t bother to aggravate him by saying so.
When Abigail went to settle her bill at the Sunny Grove on Saturday morning, Jane acted as if it was hard to say good-bye. “You’re kind of fun to have around,” she said with a grin. “I like the brooding, thoughtful type. You going home?”
Abigail paused, not sure how much she wanted to share with the nosy proprietor. “We’ll see,” she finally said.
“You’re staying!” Jane accused, a glint in her eye. “You love it here. You can’t leave.” She gasped. “You’ve found a job!”
Shaking her head, Abigail took the credit card receipt from under Jane’s fingers and signed it.
“Come on, tell me.”
Abigail held her tongue and waved good-bye.
“Well, at least come back sometime and let me take you out for ice cream,” Jane cajoled. “Coffee? Wine?”
The last suggestion made Abigail smile. “We’ll see,” she said again.
“Good luck to you!”
“Thanks,” Abigail replied, but Jane had already turned back to her TV.
It was after 10 a.m. when Abigail pulled up to Thompson Hills. She prayed that her coworkers were too busy with brunch customers to detect her unmistakable orange Kia as she pulled slowly through the crowded parking lot and continued on to the back of the property.
Abigail had noticed the dusty gravel service road that wound past the machine sheds, but she had never paused to wonder where it led. But now, following Eli’s instructions, she took the deeply rutted path and drove alongside the vineyards, away from the main buildings of the winery.
The road eventually rambled all the way to the edge of the estate, where the rows of grapevines bowed beneath the branches of a sprawling cherry orchard on the far side of the gravel lane. Eli had told Abigail that his house was off the beaten path, but she hadn’t realized just how much he liked his privacy until she had spent nearly five minutes looking for his humble abode.
Just when she was sure that she had misunderstood his directions and was nowhere near where she was supposed to be, the road rose sharply and a small log cabin came into view. It was simple but appealing, almost quaint-looking on the top of a hill. Windows lined the entire east side, stretching from the floor to the second-story ceiling and reflecting the brilliant midmorning sunshine. Abigail peeked in her rearview mirror and appreciated that the view from those windows would be spectacular—the peaked roofs of Thompson Hills were a lovely interruption amidst all the green.
But Abigail wasn’t staying in the pleasant little cabin. She was staying in the sun-scorched monstrosity beside it. The so-called trailer was actually an old motor home that Abigail was convinced could no longer motor anywhere. Below the shaded windshield it was just possible to make out the letters N and after a few spaces gator. Navigator? Abigail guessed with a shudder. The ugly heap of metal looked like it was ready for the wrecking yard, not a grand adventure.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Abigail parked beside the Navigator and shut off her car. “Home sweet home,” she mumbled, climbing out of the car so she could get a better look. Nope, it didn’t improve any on closer inspection. In fact, it seemed even older and grimier than Abigail had first suspected. She wasn’t sure she could set foot in it, never mind live in it.
“Not much to look at, is she?”
Abigail whirled around in time to see the screen door slam behind Tyler as he stepped out of Eli’s cabin. She struggled to hide the shock that she knew had exploded in crimson across her pale cheeks. Adrenaline made her feel unnaturally hot, and she touched the fingers of her right hand to her neck in an instinctive act of defense. He had said something. What had he said? “Uh-huh,” she muttered weakly, hoping that it would be enough. Then she looked back at the motor home so she didn’t have to face him.
“It’s not much better on the inside,” Tyler assured her.
Abigail didn’t see Tyler come to stand beside her, but she felt him. They surveyed the Navigator for a few moments without saying anything, and Abigail was grateful for the chance to collect herself. For the chance to breathe. Just breathe. In and out, in and out, as if she could control the situation by controlling herself. As if Tyler was just a guy and she was just . . . Abigail.
“Hey, don’t look so depressed.”
Though she tried not to, Abigail jumped the tiniest bit when he spoke. She forced herself to glance sideways at him and even contemplated faking a laugh, but she wasn’t prepared for such extensive theatrics. Nor was she prepared to find that Tyler was studying her with what seemed to be a mixture of skepticism and concern mingling in his eyes. Skepticism she could understand; she definitely acted strangely around him. But concern? Maybe she was misinterpreting the troubled slant of his eyebrows.
Before she could contemplate it further, Tyler lifted his hand, fingers slightly fanned as if he planned to trail them down the length of her bare arm. Abigail was close enough to feel the heat from his body, and the strong lines of his long hand seemed chiseled from a perfect slab of warm sandstone. She couldn’t stand the thought of him touching her. She took a step back.
Tyler looked away and used his raised arm to motion grandly at the motor home. “At least it’s clean.”
Abigail noticed for the first time that he was holding a blue bottle of Windex and a half roll of paper towels. “You cleaned it?” she asked, finally capable of stringing three words together.
Tyler shrugged. “I have the morning off.”
“But . . .” Her voice faded. She didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s not perfect,” Tyler rushed to explain. “But I used the Shop-Vac on the carpets and scrubbed through the dust on the windows. You can see out at least.”
Abigail was still struggling to find words. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know. Look, I didn’t touch the kitchen area or the bathroom. Not that you can really use them anyway. There are no hookups out here, obviously.”
“Okay.”
“As for a bathroom, there’s a little mudroom around the back of the house with a sink and toilet. There’s no shower, but Eli said you’d be using the one in the service garage.”
Abigail thought about the drive back to the winery and was grateful that she would at least have access to a bathroom nearby.
Tyler seemed to read her mind. “It’s actually faster to walk to the winery.” Pointing out over the hills toward the curving vineyards, he crossed slightly in front of her. She could smell the mineral undertones of his warm skin, and if he were a different man and she were a different woman, she would have leaned in and looked down the line of his well-formed arm. “You can walk back as the crow flies instead of going all the way around the property. It’s less than half a klick to the tasting room—five minutes, tops.”
“Do you live here?” Abigail asked suddenly.
“Yeah, I don’t call Eli uncle just for the fun of it.” Tyler’s smile was quick and brilliant, but it faded just as abruptly as it appeared. “I moved in with him a while back.”
It surprised Abigail that she actually wanted to know why. She wanted to know what had wiped the smile off his face so completely. But Tyler had already changed the subject.
“You know,” he said, stuffing the roll of paper towels under his arm and switching the cleaner to his left hand, “I don’t think we’ve properly met.” He reached out for her.
Abigail realized that her own hand still fingered the sharp line of her jawbone. Clearing her throat self-consciously, she lowered her arm to let Tyler wrap her hand in his. But at the last second she simply couldn’t do it. She whipped away from him and sneezed into her hands. “Sorry,” she whispered, shrugging, hoping her little act was convincing.
Tyler gave her a strange look, but eventually he shrugged, too. “I’m Tyler and you’re Abigail. I know your name, but it’s nice to meet you officially.”
“Yeah,” Abigail managed, unable to echo his sentiments; it was not nice to meet Tyler. She wished he’d stop staring at her, but he seemed determined to make her uncomfortable by holding her gaze longer than necessary.
“I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you seem familiar somehow.” Tyler tilted his head back and pressed his lips together as if trying to remember.
“You served me brunch at the winery a week ago,” Abigail confirmed. Her tone was even, her look steady. Nothing in her face indicated that there was any other point of connection between them.
“No.” Tyler shook his head. Abigail’s heart stuttered painfully, but before she could really panic, he continued, “I didn’t serve you. I just settled the bill.”
Relief carved a thin smile across Abigail’s face. Tyler appeared to assume the expression was a direct result of his charms. He let go of her eyes slowly, his brows narrowing for a second before he glanced away.
“Tell you what,” he said, turning back to the motor home, “I’ll run an extension cord from the house so you can have light at least. The main hookup is shot, but we can plug in a
lamp.”
Abigail hadn’t planned on this unexpected kindness. She hadn’t prepared herself for the possibility that Tyler would be anything other than a callous heartbreaker, a seedy womanizer with a proclivity for narcissism. This sort of Windex-wielding selflessness didn’t fit her preconceptions at all. Was this the beginning of a slow seduction? Was Tyler trying to win her over by playing the part of a gentleman? Or was something else going on?
“Did Eli make you do this?” Abigail blurted, thinking that was the only viable explanation.
Though he had exuded an air of contentment and calm only a moment ago, everything changed in an instant. Tyler’s chin inched up defensively and his shoulders squared. For a moment he appeared exactly how Abigail had pictured him in the days before he became her waking obsession: he was defiant yet haughty, irreproachable and arrogant. Above all, he seemed appalled that someone would question him.
But then again, maybe he was just hurt.
“No,” he said, clipping off the word abruptly. Then he thrust the cleaning supplies at her. “Guess you can finish up now that you’re here.”
Abigail took the bottle from him, but they fumbled over the paper towels and the roll dropped into the dust at their feet.
Tyler bent to retrieve it at the same time Abigail did. He stopped, raised his hands, and backed away. “Looks like you have things under control.”
She nodded and watched him leave, kicking up dust as he went and never once looking back.
†
After Hailey forced her older sister to stay in Newcastle and forfeit her unrealistic dream of freedom and Florida, Abby didn’t look back. At least, she tried not to.
The decision to stay was less the result of obligation than it was an act of intention. Of resignation. She needs me, Abby reasoned. And hidden in the agony of that unasked-for duty was a small seed of entitlement. Abby was well aware of Hailey’s codependency, and though her need was exhausting, there was also something strangely empowering about being the hero. She wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but some part of Abby couldn’t help but like feeling irreplaceable.
