by Nicole Baart
“I came to the Summerlands on a whim,” Abigail finally admitted. “When I got here, I didn’t have a place to stay, so Eli offered me the trailer and I took it.”
“You’re crazy,” Paige said with a crooked smile. “You couldn’t pay me to stay with Eli.”
“I’m not staying with Eli!”
“In his trailer, whatever. You know what I mean. Don’t get all defensive, eh?”
“I’m not defensive.”
Paige took a large bite of the rubbery egg casserole that was posing as breakfast. “So where are you from?”
“Minnesota,” Abigail said. At least that wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t quite the whole truth, but Abigail figured the penance for such a tiny fib was next to nothing.
“What in the world brought you up here?”
“Family matters.” Abigail bit her lip. Another perfect but incomplete truth.
“Preach it, sister. That’s why I’m here, too. Grew up in Vancouver, but it’s too rainy and way too close to my stepmom for my liking.” Paige forked another bite but stopped before putting it in her mouth. Discarding it on her plate, she said loudly, “The guys should be banned from cooking forever.”
There were cheers and murmurs of assent around the table.
“We don’t want to cook anyway!” someone yelled.
Paige rolled her eyes and shoved her plate away from her with a grunt. “How old are you?” she asked Abigail.
Abigail laughed. “That was out of the blue. How old are you?”
“Twenty-three. I’m one of the youngest here.”
“Twenty-nine,” Abigail said, matching disclosure for disclosure. She figured two years younger than her actual age was both believable and appropriate for the age range of workers at Thompson Hills.
“No way. You are not twenty-nine.”
“Yes, I am,” Abigail argued, afraid that Paige could tell she was lying. Why hadn’t she told the truth? This was one extra falsehood she didn’t need the headache of remembering. So what if her coworkers knew that she was thirty-one?
“We thought you were going to be the new baby,” Paige explained, misunderstanding the look that crossed Abigail’s face. She leaned over to one of the guys who had prepared the unfortunate breakfast. “Pay up,” she said, smacking her hand on the table to get his attention. “She’s over twenty-five.”
“No way.” He raised his eyebrows at Abigail. “Is this true?”
Abigail nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“I think you two are scheming to get my money,” the guy complained as he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a crinkled ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “Now don’t spend that all in one place,” he warned Paige.
Tyler was watching the exchange with obvious interest. “You don’t look twenty-nine,” he told Abigail.
“I think it’s rude to ask a woman her age, never mind spend time dwelling on it,” Abigail responded, trying to sound haughty. All the personal questions were starting to unnerve her. She was anxious to shift the conversation away from herself and her reasons for being in BC. “How old are you?” she grilled Tyler.
“I’m twenty-nine, too,” he replied amiably.
“Thirty at the end of the summer,” Eli broke in from the opposite end of the table.
“And I expect a huge surprise party,” Tyler said, raising his finger and leveling it at everyone in turn.
“I thought you were going to be gone by then,” Eli mumbled.
All at once the tone at the table struck a discordant note. Abigail glanced from Eli to Tyler and back again. She felt like she had been thrust into a preexisting awkwardness, something that had a long history and an even longer list of mitigating circumstances. By the way her coworkers turned to their food and averted their eyes from both Tyler and Eli, Abigail suspected that the tautness in the room was all too familiar.
“I don’t know.” Tyler looked pointedly at Eli before letting his gaze fall to his plate. Abigail couldn’t help but notice the change in his demeanor, the way he couldn’t meet Eli’s direct stare.
The moment stretched out awkwardly; then Eli took a deliberate mouthful of the bland eggs. The whole table seemed to exhale when Eli didn’t press his nephew further, and gradually people struck up their own conversations again.
When the vineyard crew was dismissed, Abigail rose gratefully to start clearing the table. She wanted to put as much distance
between herself and more inconvenient questions and probings as possible.
Abigail had overheard Eli tell someone that there would be no wine tasting today. Instead, they were all going to walk the grounds and learn how to give tours. Of course, some of the workers had been giving tours for weeks already, but Eli was very particular about what was shown and what was said, and he took it upon himself to give refresher courses every few weeks. Abigail was actually looking forward to putting the unsettling morning behind her and learning more about Thompson Hills.
†
The tour began at the remarkable entrance to the winery. Eli had designed the excursion to be a cozy, laid-back affair with casual tours being led by two workers who alternated escorting groups every half hour. There was no formal sign-up sheet and no fee for the tour. Anyone who wanted to go simply had to show up in the entryway either at the top or the bottom of the hour. Sometimes nobody showed up, and the designated tour guide was free to roam the tasting room, clearing tables as needed and answering questions about Thompson Hills’s wine.
Abigail anticipated the chance to learn more about Eli’s passion. It was obvious to her that he took his estate and his wine seriously, and she was interested to find out everything she could. Learning about Eli somehow spilled over into learning about Tyler, about their family and their ties. For some reason, Abigail couldn’t shake the feeling that, apparent coolness aside, Eli played a more prominent role in Tyler’s life than his stepfather, Murray.
Eli began by leading them out of the winery and into the vineyards below the expansive tasting room deck. From this side of the building they could see the lake in the distance and the sweeping curve of the desert valley beyond the water. The rows of grapevines ran east to west, cutting straight, regular columns into the earth and offering unobstructed views of the valley when Abigail stood between the arbors. Everything was set up for the tourists here. Each row boasted a different variety of grape so visitors could see the differences for themselves. Meticulously hand-painted wooden signs adorned the rows, indicating the type of grape and its characteristics. There was even a whitewashed arch over a wrought-iron bench strategically positioned for enjoying the vista.
“Terroir,” Eli began when everyone was gathered within earshot. He bent over to scratch out a fistful of dirt from the base of one of the vines. “Learn how to say it and learn what it means.”
“We all know how to say it and we all know what it means,” Paige muttered from her spot at Abigail’s elbow. “Terroir,” she mimicked, trying out a different accent, a different pronunciation on each variation: “terroir, terroir, terroir.”
“I don’t know what it means,” Abigail hissed.
Paige gave her a crooked smile and whispered enigmatically, “‘Somewhereness.’”
“It’s the soil,” Eli continued, “the sun, the rain, the wind, the earth below. It’s everything that happens from the tip of the highest leaf to the point of the lowest root and all the places between.”
“He can wax poetic about this for hours,” Paige mumbled, stifling a yawn. But Abigail was mesmerized.
“Terroir is the uniqueness of the where. Where the vine is planted and what is enacted upon it throughout every stage of its life will ultimately determine the end result of the wine. In a way, you could say that terroir is home. And our home is a very special place indeed to raise fine, complex, maybe even extraordinary grapes that will someday become extraordinary wine.”
It was obvious to Abigail that as far as Eli was concerned, the vineyards were much more than simply a place to produce frui
t. She couldn’t claim to understand, but something in his words breathed air into a darkened corner of her being. She realized that she had been holding her breath, trying to hear Eli over the quiet buzz of voices. Apparently everyone else found Eli’s instruction boring. She leaned in a little closer.
“The best part?” Eli asked rhetorically, dropping the soil and leaning over to find a diminutive cluster of pea green grapes. “The vines that suffer the most, the vines that struggle amidst demanding terroir and experience drought, erosion, and every difficulty imaginable often produce the best wine. They have to be strong and imaginative, willing to put down deep roots to extract what they need to survive. The end result is full of unexpected undertones and delightful nuances.”
Abigail was sure she wouldn’t have the palate to discern the different tones and shades of survival that Eli seemed so eager to discuss, but listening to him talk made her want to try. She wished he’d brought a bottle of wine along for their tour.
As they moved along, Abigail studied the gnarled vines that snaked out of the earth and thrust jade hands heavenward. If they could speak, what manner of tale would they tell? a love story? a tragedy? one of brokenness? or one of life abundant?
“This is my favorite part of the tour,” Tyler whispered, coming up behind Abigail as Eli went on about soil conditions, moisture, and sunlight. “All you have to do is read from the signs and then let people wander around and take pictures for a few minutes.”
“Mm-hmm,” Abigail murmured, not taking her eyes off Eli.
“Besides, the view is spectacular.”
Abigail was about to nod her assent and once again give Eli her full attention when it struck her that Tyler wasn’t looking off over the lake. He was facing the opposite direction. Abigail turned, trying not to be conspicuous, and followed his gaze. Behind them, the winery rose majestically. Flanking the remarkable building, two wide, curving staircases coiled up to the huge deck, and the steep-pitched, tiled roof glared in the hot sunlight. It was a sight to behold. But a glance at Tyler told Abigail that he was looking past the architectural lines and angles to the open glass doors of the tasting room beyond. There, framed behind the pillars that vaulted two stories high, was the bar where Abigail always stood, perfectly visible and strikingly
accentuated as if the designers had intended it to be a focal point from the vineyard.
“Of course,” Tyler said, “the scene improves considerably when a certain someone is standing behind the bar.”
Abigail started to feel herself bristle. Tyler watched her? What was he saying? But before apprehension could overwhelm her, Tyler bumped her with his shoulder and grinned. He was teasing her.
“Shut up,” she said through clenched teeth.
Though Abigail knew she should take advantage of Tyler’s subtle flirtation, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. For the rest of the tour, she stuck close to Paige and pretended that she was intently absorbing every word Eli had to say. There were enough people around that Abigail didn’t have to work too hard to keep Tyler at a distance.
Near the end of the morning when they were talking about the aging process in the cellars, Abigail saw Tyler take a few intentional steps toward her. But Paige stepped in between them. Though her interference was accidental, Abigail warmed to her a bit more because of it.
Hours later, the winery was teeming with people and Abigail didn’t have time to think about Tyler anymore. She was so busy uncorking bottles, pouring wine, and chatting with customers that she almost forgot about Tyler’s allusion and his tour guide vantage point from the vineyards below.
But at one point in the afternoon there was a lull in activity, and Abigail felt an uneasy prickle scurry up her neck. Someone was watching her. Unable to stop herself, she peeked past the wide, sun-drenched deck, trying to appear casual instead of intentional. Through the open windows, it was impossible to miss Tyler standing at the edge of the vineyard. He was surrounded by a small group of people who were occupied with the view, their backs turned to the winery. Not Tyler. He was staring straight at her, and when she caught his eye, he winked and waved.
†
“He’s got a thing for you,” Paige informed Abigail as she squirted orange-scented oil on the mahogany counter.
“Excuse me?”
“Tyler. I think he’s got his eye on you.”
“Yep,” Natalie agreed, turning from her task of hanging the clean wineglasses by their delicate stems. “Definitely.”
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut for a second, wondering how this should be played. What should she say? Feign interest so Paige and Natalie could spread the rumor that she would respond positively to any advance Tyler made? Or convince them that she had no intention of encouraging him in any way? “What makes you think that?” she finally asked, hoping she’d find a way to squelch the discussion quickly.
“Oh, it’s obvious. You’re the new girl.”
Paige and Natalie laughed as if nothing could be funnier.
“Sorry,” Paige explained, “it’s just that he’s been through every one of us now.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Abigail was unable to muffle the disgust in her voice.
“Not really.” Paige handed Abigail the cleaning solution so she could do the far side of the bar.
“Tyler’s just such a player,” Natalie chimed in. “He’s a nice enough guy, I guess. But he’s also an incurable flirt.”
“He thinks he’s Don Juan.” Paige rolled her eyes.
“Casanova.” Natalie giggled.
“He’s good-looking. I’ll give you that.”
Abigail watched the exchange, forgetting about the bottle in her hand. “Why is he here?” she asked. It wasn’t until after the words were out of her mouth that Abigail realized it was possibly a risky question to pose, one that could indicate she knew more about Tyler Kamp than she let on. Why shouldn’t he be here? But Abigail couldn’t bury the fact that she knew Tyler had been happily living in Florida only a few months ago. She knew he had been at the brink of putting down roots with her sister. And now she could add to that knowledge the certainty that Tyler and Eli were hardly the best of friends. What had made him move back to Canada? Why now? Why here?
Paige gave her a funny look. “He’s working for his uncle,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I heard that his mom died,” Natalie offered, glancing around to make sure that everyone else was too far away to hear.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, I think he came back here to be close to his family,” Natalie theorized.
“His uncle, you mean? I think you’re giving him too much credit,” Paige protested. “It’s obvious that Tyler and Eli aren’t on the best terms.”
Natalie shrugged. “Whatever. I just don’t think he’s as bad as you make him out to be.” She aimed a sly look at Abigail. “Besides, what if the new girl starts dating him?”
“Unlikely,” Abigail said, suddenly feeling the weight of the bottle of cleaning solution in her hand. She squirted some on the counter and grabbed the cloth to buff it out.
“I don’t know,” Natalie went on. “He seems more . . . purposeful with you. He flirts with the rest of us, but he watches you.”
“That’s comforting,” Abigail said sarcastically.
“That’s creepy,” Paige muttered.
“Oh, chill out. You’re making way too much out of this.”
Abigail nodded emphatically.
She was thankful when Natalie added, “I’m done and I’m out of here. See you guys tomorrow.”
People filtered out of the winery, and by the time Abigail was ready to go, the sprawling building was nearly empty. Without her little orange Kia waiting for her by the trailer, Abigail could hardly stomach the thought of going home. Home, she thought. What an unsuitable name for that miserable heap of metal. The truth was, just the idea of going back there and being confined by her inability to go where she wanted
to go made Abigail feel claustrophobic. Why had she let Tyler talk her into getting rid of the rental in the first place? Why had she let Eli decide what she should and should not do?
Abigail was in a sour mood when she grabbed her purse from a hook in the winery kitchen and set off for the trailer across the fields. “Granola bars and apples for supper again,” she groaned, mentally going through her small stash of food and realizing that she didn’t have much left. She’d have to borrow Eli’s car the next break she got.
Cranky about her measly rations, her relative confinement, and Tyler’s inexplicable interest in her, Abigail marched out of the winery and made it halfway across the parking lot when she heard someone call her name. She knew instantly that it was Tyler, and she didn’t even bother to turn around as he jogged up beside her.
“I’ll walk you home,” he offered, falling in step with her hurried pace.
“Thanks,” she said curtly.
“Whoa.” Tyler whistled. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” Abigail berated herself for being so transparent.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Tyler stuffed his hands in the pockets of his light khaki cords and took turns watching the uneven path in front of him and peering at Abigail. Even though she could feel his eyes on her from time to time, Abigail stared straight ahead. She didn’t trust herself to utter a single word.
Tyler broke the stillness with an artificial laugh. “No, seriously. What’s the deal?”
“No, seriously,” Abigail parroted, “nothing.”
“Well, I’m going to have to call you a liar.”
Abigail reached out a hand and trailed it along the papery leaves of the grapevines. She knew she should be happy with the way things were going. She should be thankful that Tyler continued to seek her out and that he tried to get close to her even though she couldn’t stop herself from acting peculiarly around him. But after such a long and perplexing day, Abigail simply didn’t have it in her to act anymore. She was tired, she was confused, and she was incapable of pretending. She was fully and completely Abigail, the broken woman who had found her dead sister floating in a bathtub only three months ago.
