“It’s not my home.”
“How can you say that? It will always be home, Luc.”
He studied her earnest expression, tinged with a jot of desperation. And then he knew. “Is it the upper fields?”
“What?”
“It’s the upper fields, right?” She didn’t have to answer. He could see it on her face as she sank onto his sofa. All the pressure, all the stupidity of planting those fields when he’d warned them.Grandpèrehad told them not to. Nobody, in all the generations of growers and winemakers before, had planted that field. They’d given it instead to the villagers, those without gardens, to plant for food.
Not profitable enough, Olivier had said. AndMamanhad agreed. Céline had, of course, stayed silent. She’d had his back then, not Olivier’s. At least he’d thought so.
“When did you and my brother start fucking?” he asked, fueled by curiosity but still unable to stop the anger that rose up at the memory.
“Oh, Luc, we’re not going to—”
“We damn well are. You came all this way to discuss things. To drag me back there, right?”
“I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t, Céline. You never did. If you or any of the others had ever thought about a damned thing besides your own personal gain, you would have realized that the upper fields were meant to stay fallow. That the gardensGrandpèrelet the villagers plant were full of roses and marigolds and fruits. Those fruits attracted the stupid flies.” He paused, standing above, waiting for her to catch on. “Awayfrom the vines.”
The look of surprise on his ex’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t meant he was right. And if he was right, he should—
No. He wouldn’t go back to France. Not unless Olivier got down on his knees and begged. Let them save their own asses. Their ownheritage.
“It’s the fruit flies, right, Céline?Hein?”
Her voice came out close to a whisper. “Yes.”
“You all thought it was hocus-pocus. You andMamanand Olivier. You thoughtGrandpèreand I kept the vineyard small because we weren’t ambitious enough. Or to control you. You thought our decisions were absurd, superstitious fantasy. Like biodynamics. Like planting near to rocks or burying the horns.” He paused, pent-up anger dangerously close to the surface. “Where’s Olivier?”
“At home.”
“He sent you here? To get me?”
Her mouth tightened, those overly full lips compressing, her face losing some of its confidence, and suddenly he understood. He sank down to squat in front of her, but not too close. Christ, he didn’t want to risk touching her.
“He has no idea you’re here, does he?” Luc whispered, the certainty burning a hole in his stomach. His half brother didn’t even want him back. His mother would rather deal with their problems on her own than ask her son for forgiveness. “Where does he think you are? Girls’ trip to Saint Tropez? Spa weekend at Aix-les-Bains?”
She didn’t answer, but her face, normally perfectly pale in the winter, had taken on a sickly greenish hue.
“Always going behind one of our backs, aren’t you? Were you planning on telling him you came here? Or would this be another seduction?” He shifted away, righteous anger humming in his veins. “Well, good luck,ma chère. Good luck getting out of the pit you have dug. You can go.” He stood up and backed up even farther.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know. You must have had some kind of plan when you came here.”
“But there’s nothing here, Luc,” she protested. Shit. She’d planned to stay here, hadn’t she? To seduce him, no doubt. Christ, what a sick, sick woman.
“There’s a B and B,” he said, thinking of the frou-frou establishment in downtown Blackwood. “Or better yet, get on the motorway and head back toward Charlottesville. They have places almost fancy enough for you there. Not theGeorge V, but you can make do for one night.”
She stood, tall in those deadly looking boots, and assessed him openly, eyes sharp and admittedly beautiful. “Always the martyr, Luc, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Always the one being taken advantage of; always the one pushing everyone away,so wounded. Did you ever ask yourself why I slept with your brother to begin with?” When he didn’t answer, she continued, relentless and in his face. “You weren’t the only one who was hurt in our relationship, Luc. You gave menothing. You’re the victim because I was obvious about it, but if you take a step back, you’d realize you never cared to begin with. All you cared about then was your vines. And now…”
She ran her eyes over him, to his left hand with its missing finger. “Your finger? Olivier’s fault, right? Because of the secateurs he forced you to use? YourMaman’s fault they didn’t get it sewn back on in time?” With a cynical smile, she went on. “If you’d stopped working that night, maybe you’d have a finger. You were out there late, in the cold. Olivier didn’t force you.” She looked him head-on. “You’re not a recluse, you’re amisanthrope. More interested in being alone than trying to make things work. You’re so afraid of compromise, aren’t you? Of anything that would take away from your stupid vines. Growing them your way. Therightway.” She leaned in and focused on him, that smile dropping from her perfect features. “You can’t stand to be hurt, can you? I don’t meanthiskind of pain.” She grasped his hand, lifted it, and then shoved it away. “Thisyou enjoy. You enjoy being right, even if it means alienating your own family. You’re not capable of love, Luc. You’re too interested in being the wronged party. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve never loved anyone in your entire life as much as you love those stupid plants.”
