“Yes, Mama,” Abby said, but her mother wasn’t done. Those hands, only slightly lined from work, grabbed one of hers and yanked Abby’s sleeve back. The act of baring another’s skin was shocking, despite it being her own flesh and blood. Abby couldn’t remember the last time another human’s eyes had landed on any piece of her besides her face. Even Hamish, in his couplings, had ensured she remain modestly covered.
“This,thiswas your suffering. You were chosen, and you endured gladly. Hamish was chosen and gave of his life. Would you not give of yours, Abigail?” Mama asked, so close the spittle rained gently on Abby’s face.
Abby hesitated. Her eyes widened, huge and dry, her insides not quite as full of that easy conviction as they’d once been.
Finally, on a shaky breath, she said, “Yes, Mama.” It felt close to a lie. It wasn’t her first untruth, and she had the miserable expectation it wouldn’t be her last, but she hated it nonetheless. Hated the distance between them. Perhaps hardest of all, she hated her own skepticism. If a true servant such as Hamish had been deserted by God in his moment of need, what of Sammy, who needed help now? And what of Mama, whose belief was steadfast and strong?
She pulled her hand away and shut her eyes hard against the fear such thoughts let in. Only, behind closed lids, she was swamped with shame.I should trust in Him. I should believe.
When she’d calmed enough to open her eyes again, she was startled to see Isaiah standing stiffly in the doorway.
“Evening,” he said, doffing his hat. As he walked in, he eyed them in a way that made her think he’d heard a goodly part of their conversation. “Smells good.”
With a loud inhale, Mama bustled to the wood-fired oven, from which she pulled out a perfectly golden pie before setting it on the table. “Come serve Isaiah, Abigail,” she said in that bossy, pious voice.
Wonderful. Just what Abby needed. Their fearless leader delivering another sermon written expressly for her. It wouldn’t be the first time, she supposed. Although, in a moment of sadness, she knew that if she managed to get Sammy out, it might well be the last. If only Mama would come with her.
When they sat down to grace, she searched her mother’s face and resigned herself to the fact that, as with most things, it was best not to ask.
2
Luc would have finished the row he was on if the sky hadn’t opened up and pissed down on him, the rain close enough to freezing to be dangerous. It had been on this sort of evening that he’d lopped off his finger. He’d been seventeen when it happened, thanks to the combination of cold and the brand-new battery-powered secateurs his half brother had forced on him. In the name of efficiency, Olivier had claimed. Always more, faster.
Luc had pruned the vine with that thousand-euro tool—and his ring finger along with it. Christ, that wasn’t something he felt like doing again.Grandpèrehad been off on a sales trip, and Luc would never forget how he’d had to find the finger and bring it toMamanand Olivier. How unmoved they’d been. The trip to the hospital, his hand, hislife, changed forever. That was the day he’d decided to get the hell out of there, his determination a secret thing he’d nurtured and fed until itbecamehim.
The very next day, Luc had gone back out there, cutting vines the old-fashioned way, electric pruners relegated to the back of the toolshed until some other poor ass decided to give them a whirl. From that day on, he’d had something to work toward. It was brutal, but he’d pushed himself. Worked and learned everything he could, mostly fromGrandpère. But after the old man died… Well, if Luc couldn’t be in charge of the vineyard—if they wouldn’t do things his way, therightway—he’d leave. And he had, the moment he’d saved up enough money.
As grumpy as the chickens in their coop, he stomped inside and took a quick, hot shower. Once dressed, he grabbed his keys and wallet before heading out to his truck. Since pruning wasn’t possible, he’d get his weekly shopping over and done with. It was always better at night, when the store was empty.
As he drove past his last row of vines, he breathed in deeply, resisting the urge to tap the steering wheel twice and kiss his fist. He’d left so much superstitious shit back in France. Things like always pruning from east to west, or the same unwashed beret his grandfather had worn for every one of his sixty-eight harvests.
He headed down the steep part of the drive, through the wooded section, and back out into the open. The crunch and pop of gravel under his tires announced his arrival as he downshifted into the last steep curve before the neighbors’ land.Camp Jesusthey called it in town, although he hadn’t seen much actual worship on the other side of this fence.
He took one deep breath in, to prepare for the sight that greeted him here most days—the blood and gore of a…Merde, he couldn’t remember the word. It wasabattoirin French, but what the hell was it in English? Weird how some words escaped him in one language or the other. Funny how he felt so French in this place, but in France, he’d been too American.
Today, no carcasses greeted him as he passed their open air…killing shack. What was the stupid word? Nothing there, except—
What the hell?He skidded to a halt, the gravel taking a few seconds longer than the tires to still. In the middle of the drive in front of him stood an animal, its eyes two bright dots in the night. He waited for his lungs to crawl out of his throat and let some oxygen into his brain.
It didn’t appear confident enough to be a wolf. Was it a coyote? Did coyotes even live around here? He’d never seen one before, but the way it moved—cautious, low on its haunches—made him think of that. He could picture it feeding off the animal carcasses next door.
After a brief standoff where he thought he’d have to get out and shoo it away, the animal slunk from the fence to disappear into the underbrush and the woods farther beyond. An eerie sound rose up to meet Luc in the quiet.
Ignoring the creature’s howl, he lifted his foot from the brake—although not too far, since the three hairpin turns down the mountain kept him from going fast. Once the road straightened out, he gave in to his desire to pick up speed. It was good to let go, get some distance. He accelerated too fast down the last section of drive and fishtailed dangerously at the bottom before skidding to a halt right where gravel met asphalt. One meter beyond the front of his truck, a car sped by, shocking his nerves with a long blast of the horn.
“Putain,” he cursed. He exhaled hard, his heart trying to push its way out of his chest. “Bordel de merde.” One inconsequential meter from death. All because he’d been spooked by that animal and those religious weirdos next door. After a good thirty seconds spent getting his breath back, he turned left and made his way sedately toward town.
As he approached downtown Blackwood, Luc squinted at the traffic. What the hell was going on? The place was more crowded than usual. People looked frenetic, and the IGA lot was almost full.
He parked, eyes hopping nervously, that familiar shake to his breath. He should go back. Barely controlling the tremor of his hand, he turned the key in the ignition, put the truck into park, and waited.
No. Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a few more people than usual.He’d go into the store, grab a few necessities, and get out of there. In and out. He could do this.
Inside the supermarket, his eyes danced around as he watched people buy gallon jugs of water, milk, dozens of eggs, and beer. He pushed through it, gathering the usual: coffee, bread, butter, milk, pasta, the sauce to go along with it, and frozen vegetables.
Beans and soup seemed like a good idea, so he moved to that aisle—only to find a dozen people crowding it. Hell no—he’d do without. Instead, he cut up the next aisle. Beer and wine. He grabbed a six-pack of Stella and made a move to turn back rather than pass in front of the wine. But his path was blocked by a family with one of those extra-long carts for the kids to drive parked diagonally across the entrance. The clown horns squeaked like a herd of deranged geese. He had to get out of here. He headed through the wine, ignoring the itch in the center of his back and the undeniable urge to read the labels.Don’t do it, his mind screamed as his eyes took in the rows and rows of shitty vintages and—
There it was. His family’s name—although not his, which they’d never let him forget:DeLaurier et fils, emblazoned on a dozen or so bottles. A small, red-and-yellow flag indicated a sale: $9.99 apiece. Christ. Under ten bucks a bottle? He was tempted to take a picture of it to send to his brother. Instead, in a moment of pathetic pique, he took hold of the bottle beside it—another French sellout—and went to check out, calmer than he’d been on the way in.
