Naomi was a few steps in front of them, arm looped through Charles’, talking to Isabel in a low voice. Mason trailed behind them, tapping into his phone. Georgina had veered off to speak to her father.
The group was turning now, drifting toward the edge of the upper vineyard. A wide stone arch marked the entrance to the cellar. Its arched iron doors were already open, candles lining the stairwell.
Down.
Down.
The moment she stepped inside, her lungs caught.
It was beautiful.
Rows of oak barrels stacked high in warm golden light. Garlands of dried herbs hanging between the rafters. Tasting tables set with raw linen and tiny glass tumblers, their rims catching the glow of antique fixtures overhead.
It was cooler there. Bea walked slowly, eyes adjusting. People were beginning to gather in small clusters, low murmurs, soft laughter, the pop of a cork pulled from a bottle.
And then she heard it. Catherine's voice.
Long dress. Hair twisted into something so immaculate it looked lacquered. Already laughing with Carine and Gustave Aurelle, one hand resting on Gustave’s arm like she’d done it every summer since birth.
Bea’s stomach dipped.
She hadn’t seen her at the welcome dinner. Or breakfast. There’d been a flicker of hope—she was still in London, maybe. A family emergency. Some unanticipated delay.
But no. Catherine was here.
Gustave’s voice rose then, calling the men to the far end.
Gage gave Bea a glance before moving toward the group. Gustave began the tasting with their first vintage, gesturing with the kind of ease that only came from owning a vineyard and knowing its produce was first class.
The older generation had been invited to wander through the barrels with Carine, looking for the evening’s refreshments.
The younger women, around twenty of them, clustered around a long oak table where an artisan cheese-pairing board spanned the center like a still life, and four bottles of wine were being poured and passed from hand to hand.
Bea stayed by Georgina. Naomi and Isabel stood just across.
“Bea,” Catherine said, suddenly beside her. The smile was all surprise. The tone was all blade. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“She’s with Gage,” Isabel said flatly. “Of course she’s here.”
“Of course,” Catherine echoed, as if it had only just occurred to her. Turning casually to the group, she continued, “Can you imagine how hard this weekend must be for her? All those little things you don’t know you don’t know?”
“I didn’t expect to be here, either,” Bea said, evenly. “Gage insisted.”
Catherine’s lashes dropped. “Yes, hecanbe very convincing,” she said, as if she knew every method he’d ever used. Then, loud enough to know she was including the group:“We got up to all sorts of things in these vines over the years. So many memories.”
Her smile was all innocence. But the words weren’t. Not with an audience. Not with Bea standing there in borrowed confidence, holding a glass that suddenly felt too heavy.
A few of the younger women tittered.
Bea sipped her drink. “I’ve not heard. Gage only reminisces when he’s bored.”
Catherine’s smile thinned, as if trying not to hiss audibly. “Well he used to love this place,” she said, sweetly. “Always said it brought out a wilder side.”
“Strange. I’ve only seen his self-control improve.” Bea didn’t blink. “But maybe that’s just age. Or taste.”
A few of the girls went still, their hands paused above their plates. The charcuterie was disappearing at a respectable pace, but the real feast was the conversation they were eavesdropping on.
Catherine’s hand drifted to her glass. Her fingers tightened just slightly on the stem. Her smile stayed in place but the warmth was gone.
