“Good to meet you,” she said.
“Enchanté,” Olivier said with a lift of an eyebrow, a kiss to the back of her hand, and a smile that should have dropped her on the spot. “You are…”
“Abby is…my friend,” said Luc.
Abby couldn’t look at him. Her knees threatened to give out, but she steeled them and forced a smile. Of course. A friend. Just that. “Olivier is trying to get me to go back to France,” he went on.
“I’m asking you to come back to your rightfulhome. To take over the vineyard. I’m asking for help.”
Abby swallowed, finally turning to Luc, whose eyes burned into hers. “Are you going?”
“He has to,” interrupted Olivier. Then, to Luc, “You were always the heart and soul of the place. I was too blind to see it.”
Luc said, “I haven’t decided yet,” then turned to her. “What do you think I should do?” It was the hope in his eyes that did it. He wanted to go. And now that she’d destroyed his life, he deserved a fresh start. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? When he’d spoken of France, he’d always sounded resentful but also…homesick, maybe?
Blinking back the tears that threatened to push their way out, she said, “You should go.”
“Yes?” All was silent except for the sound of Sammy banging on metal out back.
“What’s left for you here?” she asked, swallowing hard. And then, to put that final nail in the coffin: “Lord only knows where Sammy and I’ll end up. No reason for us to stay here, is there?”
“You’ll go away, then?”
“’Course,” she lied. “I promised. Besides, it’s always been the plan.”
Luc asked, “Would you like to come with me?” and Abby almost caved. Almost. But then she remembered this man’s sense of responsibility, the way he’d feel obligated to take care of her and Sammy and the dog, and she understood. This was duty speaking.
She forced out a tough laugh. “Me and Sammy? And what, we’d learn French? No, he’s got people here.” She tried to sound flippant, as if she did this sort of thing every day, and said, “Maybe I’ll visit you sometime.” Avoiding his eyes, Abby smiled hard and looked between the men. “You couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ll tell you that, Olivier.”
“So I understand,” he said with a satisfied smile.
From out back came the rumble of an engine coming to life, and the three of them followed the sound to where Sammy sat atop the ancient tractor.
“Hi, friends!” he yelled cheerily. “Got it fixed!”
Forcing a smile, Abby nodded. “Good job, Sammy-Boy. Good job.” She let her eyes meet Luc’s and, for just a moment, saw something there that gave her a foolish spark of hope.
Maybe he’ll stay, she thought, until his eyes slid to his brother, and she realized exactly what that hope was about—not her, not here, not a stupid, old tractor coming back to life a day too late. No, the hope was for a different kind of second chance. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see herself in that picture. She held it together long enough to grab Sammy, pile into Rory’s truck, and drive back into town.
But it wasn’t until she and Sammy returned to her tiny, pathetic room above the Nook and she’d taken Le Dog out for a few minutes, that she locked herself into the bathroom and let go with long, hard, silent sobs. Because, while she’d released Luc, giving him a much-deserved second chance at life, there was nothing left for her to do but go on. Even if it meant grieving the loss of the only man she’d ever loved.
* * *
The roots of a grapevine grow down and out. Almost, but not quite, mirroring the branches above. They go deep, and they can spread, although the majority of the roots stay right there, close to the plant.
The best wines don’t come easy. You don’t plant in wet soil where the roots take hold and grow dense right away. No, you want that plant to struggle, to work hard, to produce fewer grapes. But those grapes… Luc knew from experience that the best wines came from ambitious plants. Plants that overcame obstacles to develop their flavor.
Hardy and sweet. Exactly like Abby Merkley. She’d been given nothing, absolutely nothing in life, and yet she’d reached far and wide for what she’d needed.
Olivier had surprised Luc when he’d offered to stay for a bit and clear away the mess left by the fire. He’d known, somehow, that Luc couldn’t leave the place like this—devastated and burned. That whole first day after the fire, the men worked, making plans for a future that Luc couldn’t seem to build any excitement around. As they talked, France felt different from before—far away, almost mythical and completely without challenge—drab compared to this place.
As the day drew to an end and Luc thought about spending tonight camped out in front of the tasting-room fire, Olivier approached him, filthier than Luc had ever seen him.
“So, are you going to let me taste it?” his brother asked, handing him a bottle of water.
Luc chugged, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and narrowed his eyes dumbly. “What?”
“Your wine, you idiot. All those fucking bottles in there. And the barrels. I’d try one on my own, but that’s not really done, is it?” Eyes intense on Luc, he went on. “So, you give me a taste?”
