The Moment Between

by Nicole Baart

  “You know,” he eventually began, his voice artificially bright, “we really don’t mind—in fact, we totally understand—if you’d like to take some time off.”

  “No thank you,” I protested. “I want to work. I’m fine.”

  He sighed. “Abigail, we’d like you to take some time off.”

  “Hey,” I joked, “I thought I was a partner in this firm. I thought I was capable of making my own decisions.”

  “You are; of course you are. But it must be so hard . . .”

  I looked up to see Colton perched on the end of one of the wingback chairs facing my desk. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was leaning forward with such an earnest expression that I couldn’t stop myself from softening a little. He cared. He was only trying to help.

  “It’s hard,” I admitted. “But I want to do this. I want to be here. It helps me feel normal.”

  Colton’s eyes changed suddenly, and he looked down at his hands to hide his expression. He had never been very good at being subtle. “Abigail . . .” He drew my name out with unhurried deliberation, stalling on the syllables, working up to what he had come to say. “You just don’t seem okay to us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen you sometimes,” Colton confessed, “pale as a ghost and shaking. You breathe like you’ve run a marathon. And sometimes you just space out.”

  “Space out?”

  “Like you’re not even here.”

  “I know what space out means,” I said, bristling. “I’m just surprised that you think I do it. Haven’t I been a good employee? Haven’t I done everything you’ve ever asked of me and more?”

  “Yes. Oh, heavens yes.” A delicate drop of spittle formed on Colton’s lips as he rushed to reassure me. “It’s just that you recently lived through one of the most difficult tragedies that anyone could ever face, and it’s got to affect you.”

  “I’m dealing.”

  “I know.” Now that a crack had formed in the dam of Colton’s pent-up thoughts, he let his concerns freefall, tumbling out in an uncensored rush. “But Hailey was your only sister and I know you were like a mother to her. And you found her, Abigail; you found her. I can’t even imagine what you must be going through. Anyone in your situation would be so confused and hurt. . . . You must be dealing with so many emotions right now: anger and grief and uncertainty . . . guilt . . .”

  “Guilt?” The word startled me so much I had to say it again. “Guilt?”

  Colton looked horrified. “Not that you’re to blame. I don’t mean that it’s your fault.”

  “It’s not,” I whispered. But my partner had touched a raw nerve, an almost-primal fear that I had tried not to acknowledge in the days after Hailey’s suicide. I had often blamed myself before for Hailey’s shortcomings. I had wondered if there was some way that I could have done more to prevent her from making such life-altering mistakes. Love wins, someone once told me. So maybe I didn’t love her enough. Maybe I could never quite be all she needed. I was willing to accept my part in some of her suffering. But this was too big. I couldn’t shoulder this burden.

  Right there, sitting across from Colton in the soothing, air-conditioned comfort of my beautiful office, I felt one of those attacks shudder to life at the center of my being. I shivered, and then a wave of unnamable emotions blindsided

  me. The furious pulse of it was so relentless I had to breathe in desperate little gasps.

  Colton stood and reached across the desk for me. His hands found mine and held them tight. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I forced out. I was panting, helpless to prevent the attack and mortified that it was happening in front of Colton. But as each inhalation and exhalation shortened into one tiny burst of pain after another, I realized that someone was to blame. If it wasn’t me, who was it?

  I closed my eyes, I breathed, and suddenly I knew that my entire being was pulsing with the only alternative: Ty-ler. Ty-ler. Ty-ler. “It’s not my fault,” I wheezed. “It’s Tyler’s.”

  In that moment, as I gave breath to the words, my muttered accusation became my truth.

  XV

  After Tyler disappeared behind the shadowed door of Eli’s log cabin, Abigail paced the driveway. She walked as far as she dared into the darkness, letting the crunch of the gravel beneath her feet guide her path and keep her from getting lost in the black night. But when the outline of the house and trailer became dull and indistinct, just one more variation on the subtle shades of ebony, she turned back.

  Abigail knew she should take refuge in the trailer so she could try to work through her infuriatingly uneventful encounter with Tyler. But she couldn’t stop walking. She paced to the edge of oblivion feeling severed from the world around her, then turned and marched straight back to the reassuring comfort of her little trailer home. Back and forth, back and forth, Abigail wandered in circles until exhaustion overtook her and she finally mounted the rusty metal steps to the door of the ancient Navigator.

  When she woke the following morning, her legs ached with the need to keep moving. Keep moving.

  Abigail showered in double time and then took off across the vineyards in the hopes of arriving at Thompson Hills before Eli. But she had no such luck. Before Abigail had made it halfway to the creamy yellow buildings, she heard footsteps approaching from behind.

  “You over it?” Eli called, jogging lightly to catch up to her.

  She turned for just a second, framed in moving reel between the arching rows of grapevines. But she didn’t slow down.

  “Excuse me?” Abigail threw the query over her shoulder, knowing full well what Eli was referring to. She didn’t want to spend time with Eli, and she didn’t feel like being conversational. Most of all, she didn’t want to complicate what had happened—and what hadn’t happened—with her growing fondness for Tyler’s uncle.

  “Have you healed, girl? Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m fine,” Abigail reiterated when she felt the older man step beside her and match her hurried pace.

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Normally Abigail would mutter something cheeky back, and the two of them would banter. Sometimes Eli’s sharpness stung, but Abigail had become accustomed to it and was able to ignore the rough quality of his interactions—she had even learned to anticipate it. But instead of engaging his obvious barb, she lengthened her stride.

  “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I wanted to get to the winery early,” Abigail all but sang. “You know, start making up for yesterday.” Her voice was so synthetically cheerful that it dripped with sarcasm. She felt Eli stiffen beside her. And although she tried to harden her heart and be indifferent to the fact that she had stung him, Abigail was instantly seized with regret. She hadn’t meant to be so harsh. Eli had done nothing to deserve such treatment. None of her problems were his fault.

  Abigail stopped, kicking up a small cloud of dust with her sudden change in momentum. She rubbed her cheeks with her palms and sighed.

  Eli stopped, too, a few paces beyond Abigail. Then he turned to survey her with an analytical look, a disapproving tightness in his lips that told Abigail he was not at all impressed with her attitude.

  “Sorry I’m being so . . .” Abigail searched for the right word, but the only terms that seemed fitting were definitely not appropriate to say. So she met his eyes with an apology in her gaze. “I just had a really, really rough night.” She hadn’t planned on admitting that last part, and the second the hurried words were out of her mouth, she questioned them. Why was she letting Eli in?

  But he just clicked his tongue in reprimand and shook his head. “You were with Tyler. What did you expect?” Then he turned on his heel and walked off toward the winery.

  Abigail stood there speechless, surprised that Eli knew whom she was with, but also taken aback, as always, that he could be so flippant about his nephew. A faint smile passed her lips in spite of the heavy tug of her heart. She calle
d after him, “For someone who loves Tyler as much as you claim to, you sure don’t think much of him, do you?”

  “Oh, I think the world of that boy. He’s smart and he’s handsome. Got a way with people, too. But he carries old baggage around like he’s some kind of masochistic luggage handler, and he messes up relationships by encouraging obsession. Doesn’t understand healthy boundaries, that boy.” Eli paused to let Abigail catch up. He tilted his head as if considering something for the first time. “You know, I think that might explain why he’s so drawn to you. You’re probably the furthest thing from clingy he’s ever met.”

  Abigail was so stunned by Eli’s unsolicited analysis of Tyler and his motivations she couldn’t speak.

  “You’re probably the first girl that he couldn’t make obsess over him.” Eli laughed.

  Swallowing hard, Abigail muttered, “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “I think about my nephew all the time. I pray for him all the time.”

  Hearing Eli mention prayer made Abigail even more uncomfortable than she already was. She squirmed thinking of him offering prayers for Tyler—it was an intimate admission, something that made her feel the way she often had as a child: on the outside looking in. Eli spoke of prayer, and all Abigail could think about was the gun she had crammed into the cupboard of the unused trailer bathroom. It made her feel dirty.

  “Well, enough about Tyler,” Abigail said, brushing her hands together as if ridding them of dust. “I guess we’d better get to work.”

  Eli ignored her obvious attempt to change the conversation. He had settled into a subject, and it was hard to sway him when he had things he wanted to say. “I think I’ve told Tyler dozens of times about the life of a vine, the art of winemaking, and do you think he’s listened to me even once? I don’t think so.” He wagged his finger at Abigail. “If you ask me, anyone who works in a vineyard or a winery should know what the process takes.”

  Abigail tried not to look blank, but confusion must have stolen across her face because Eli suddenly lit up.

  “We’ve talked about everything from politics to religion, haven’t we? But I don’t think I’ve ever told you about wine.”

  No, Abigail thought, you haven’t. But right now, I just don’t care to hear it. She didn’t want to be preached to, educated, or forcefully illuminated in any way. She didn’t want to have to nod and smile, act like she was paying attention. She didn’t want to hear about wine. What she wanted was to be left alone. And although it almost contradicted her earlier apology, she steeled her resolve and said firmly, “Maybe some other time.”

  The gleam in Eli’s eyes faded at her words. He gave her one last penetrating look, then veered away abruptly. He didn’t even try to protest.

  Abigail walked several paces behind him all the way to the winery.

  †

  Abigail had expected the day to be difficult, but it turned out to be mundane. The winery was busy, and she volunteered for tour guide duty rather than taking her place behind the high counter with Paige and Natalie. Abigail wanted to be alone, and though leading tours arguably required more interaction with people, her words could be more or less rote, memorized from the regular sessions with Eli and then regurgitated nearly verbatim. No one on the tours ever asked her about herself. She was able to go on autopilot.

  Even after the winery closed, Abigail’s mood didn’t improve much. Hoping to avoid her coworkers, she slipped out the back door in the cellar beneath the tasting room when everyone else was gathering their things and spending a few minutes chatting in the empty parking lot. She didn’t feel like struggling through another variation on the theme of the conversation that she had endured with Eli hours earlier. It was getting harder and harder for Abigail to fit comfortably in the life she had created for herself, and she didn’t want to be reminded of the way things were spinning out of control.

  Abigail gulped down a solitary supper of a peanut butter sandwich folded unceremoniously in half and one of the leftover peaches from the roadside stand. Then she gave in to the compulsion of her legs and went for a run. Usually she would never dream of running after she had just eaten, but Abigail set an easy pace for herself, loping past the winery and along the road that led to Mack’s. She left Thompson Hills behind, barely breaking a jog and aiming for the water.

  It was nearing dark when Abigail finally trotted back through the picturesque grounds of the winery. She had stayed away as long as she could, anxious to preserve her self-inflicted solitude and even more eager to dodge an awkward meeting with either Tyler or Eli. But now that dusk was rolling in, she risked the possibility of not being able to find her way home in the dark. Abigail had no choice but to return.

  As she neared the front doors of the main building at Thompson Hills, she noticed that one of the wide double doors was ajar. At first Abigail thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, that the advancing twilight was merely casting shadows on the rich and varied hues of the polished wood grain. But she slowed anyway, relaxing her light jog to a quick walk that became an unhurried stroll. She was sure that it was an optical illusion, but it was impossible to ignore the mirage of the open door now that she had seen it.

  By the time Abigail was close enough to distinguish between shadows and reality, she knew her eyes hadn’t deceived her. The west door of the winery was indeed open a few inches, and from deep inside the building, Abigail thought she could just make out the lilt and roll of a sound that was definitely not organic to the surrounding flora and fauna. Was that a voice? Was someone inside the winery?

  Abigail trotted up the steps, repressing a surge of sudden possessiveness. Why would someone be in the winery at this time of night? She was sure that whoever had opened the door and crept inside had nothing but ill intentions. Without pausing to think, she placed her palm on the thick, handcrafted door and eased it open just enough to slip into the dim interior.

  It was cool inside and very quiet; the noisy hum of life outside was almost immediately hushed behind the barrier of the heavy door. Abigail walked in a few paces and paused, wondering if she had jumped to conclusions, if her momentary visions of teenage vandals or youthful hoodlums looking for a buzz had been rash and unfounded. Maybe someone had simply left the door open. But hadn’t she heard a voice?

  Abigail held her breath, listening, and after nearly a minute had passed, she convinced herself that the open door had been nothing more than an oversight. The winery was still and serene. It emanated a sort of drowsy aura as it lay blanketed in long shadows that were quickly obscuring every familiar landmark in the spectacular entryway. The effect was calming, and because Abigail felt safe and alone, she closed her eyes and soaked in the peace of the place. Unbidden, a word rose from her subconscious and lingered, defining the feeling of the quiet building for Abigail: sanctuary.

  But somehow the tranquility, the sense of refuge, rankled her. I shouldn’t be here, she thought. I have no right to be here. All at once she turned to leave, ignoring the sweet atmosphere of the unexpected safe haven. The gentle spell was completely broken when Abigail realized that she would have to seek out Eli and tell him that the front doors of the main building were unlocked.

  Abigail hurried back the way she had come. And then a few notes rang out in the expanse of air around her. It was just a few notes, a handful of lush and husky tones that echoed and rose and fell, but they halted the motion of Abigail’s hand as she reached for the door. She was transfixed, her arm outstretched, and someone was singing behind her.

  Although she knew she should leave right then, Abigail couldn’t bring herself to walk out of the building. As if in a trance, she put her back to the open air of the unfolding night and took a few hesitant steps deeper into the entrance, toward the slight sound.

  But whoever was singing had stopped, and the vast hall was getting darker by the second. She faltered, confused and disoriented. Had she only imagined the music?

  Maybe she had. Maybe she was losing her mind. But she didn’t
care. Without making a sound, Abigail crossed to the stacked rock wall, arms spread out in front of her so she wouldn’t crash into it in the darkness. When she reached the stones, they were unexpectedly warm and jagged beneath her fingers. She clung to them like a rock climber and moved deftly along the face of the artesian wall, feeling her way to where it ended and she knew the tasting room spread open before her. Within seconds, her hands found empty space; she peered around the edge.

  There, in the center of the massive room, was a small table. It was covered with a linen tablecloth and glowing softly as if enchanted beneath the light of a single tapered candle. Eli was seated at the table alone, his hands folded in front of him and his head bowed almost deferentially over an uncorked bottle of red wine. There was also something dark and squat on the table, but Abigail couldn’t quite make out what it was.

  Abigail tilted her head at the sight of Eli sitting there in repose and was surprised to discern the tender slant of his shoulders. As she watched, he pressed his lips together and began again to hum the lingering strains of the song that she now knew had never been given voice—the indefinite sound that she had heard earlier was Eli breathing out one resonant note after another, picking his way as if he couldn’t quite remember the tune.

  Something about the unexpectedness of it all—the candles, the wine, the strangely lovely music—was breathtakingly beautiful. It seemed sacred somehow, almost holy. After a few more notes Abigail thought she could make out the melody of the song. But then he stopped again and the moment evaporated.

  Though Abigail could have remained against the wall for hours watching the mysterious drama before her unfold, something inside her cringed at her own intrusion into Eli’s private moment. She had stumbled upon something intensely intimate; whatever Eli was doing, it was not intended for an audience. Abigail allowed herself one last look before she tore herself away with a sigh.

  The soft exhalation was entirely unintentional and much louder than Abigail imagined a sigh could ever be. Her gaze sprang to Eli in fright, and in that same moment she saw him look up. She yanked herself behind the wall and cowered there, panting.