LAGRASSE—MARCH
Sitting outside a café on the pedestrian rue de la Promenade, Lia pulled the long skirt of her sundress to her knees and stretched out her legs to absorb the soft spring sun. She sipped her coffee, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, willing each shadow that turned the corner to be Raoul.
There were times when Gabriel was on an extended tour that Lia was certain he’d been injured, and panic would overcome her reason. Then the unspeakable had come true when they were only miles apart. As she fretted over Raoul, Lia realized how fragile she remained. But beneath the fragility was a potent anger. Her greatest vulnerability—the fear of losing someone she loved—had surfaced just as she was beginning to heal and hope. She never wanted to feel that vulnerable again.
“Damn you, Raoul.” Her phone, sitting on the table beside the saucer, trilled in response.
“Hey, girl. I’ve missed you.” Rose’s cheerful voice restored some of the light to her mood. “It’s been pretty quiet out your way these past few days.”
“Oh, Rose.” Little-girl tears stung her eyes.
“Lia. Honey.” Rose shushed a child’s laughing voice. “What’s wrong?”
Lia poured out her truth. She told Rose of the immediate connection she’d felt to Raoul, sharing as much of their conversations as she could without dipping into that scary well of visions or the episode in Carcassonne. She shared her hurt at having opened her heart only to be met by a wall of silence.
Her friend listened, murmuring words of comfort in Lia’s shuddering pauses. When Lia ran out of words, Rose said, “I know I’m a soft touch for stray souls, but Raoul has attached himself to our hearts. There’s something about him that I want to protect and heal. It’s how I feel about you, how I felt the first time I saw you at Brown. I can’t deny that I schemed to ignite a spark between the two of you.”
“Am I ready for this?” Lia asked. “Am I ready for sparks?” She wanted to see him, with an urgency that was desire mixed with fear. “How do I know the difference between loneliness and love?”
There was a pause, and then Rose said, “Nana just picked up the kids. Why don’t you meet me here and we’ll go for a drive. Just get out for a while. Play tourist. Talk.”
• • •
Thirty minutes later, Lia pulled into the driveway of Mas Hivert, where Rose was deadheading the geraniums clustered in pots on the front steps. Rose walked to the driver’s side and tapped on the glass. “Scoot over, I’ll drive,” she said when Lia powered down the window. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Bemused but ready for a distraction, Lia lifted herself over the gearshift and settled into the passenger seat. “Should I put on a blindfold?” she joked as Rose folded her long legs into the car.
“No, silly.” Rose connected her seat belt. “But you have to trust me. Who knows what we’ll find?” She squeezed Lia’s knee. “Honey, you open me to the beauty of this place that I seem to miss just keeping the business and the babies together. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you nearby. If I think on it too long, I start hearing my sisters and wonder what the hell this city girl is doing in France’s back forty, married to a winemaker who has to stand on his tiptoes to kiss me.” Rose’s laugh rumbled from deep within. “I love my life, I love this country, but sometimes I ache for home. Being with you again makes me realize I just needed a piece of home nearby.”
“Time and again, you’ve saved me, Rosie. The thought I might never have returned to Languedoc because of the memories…” Lia inhaled deeply. “That I might have missed being with you, Dom, and the little ones—I almost can’t bear it. And after just three months, I can’t imagine being anyplace else.”
“Then make a life with us here.”
That made Lia smile.
“That’s what I want more than anything,” Rose said. “To see you smile.”
“I have to be in Termes by two,” said Lia. “I’m meeting that photographer at the château to do some work on the book.” The guilt that she’d said nothing to Rose of her conflicting feelings about Lucas stabbed Lia right where her friend’s hand held her leg.
“We’re not going far” was Rose’s cryptic response. She backed the car out of the drive.
• • •
Less than ten miles from Mas Hivert, heading back in the direction of Lagrasse, Rose pulled onto a small, one-lane road. She chattered as she drove, gossiping about this farmer and that, until Lia realized she was talking about Hermès Daran, the former owner of Logis du Martinet—the vineyard estate Raoul had inherited outside Lagrasse. Lia wondered vaguely how far away they were from his home.
“You should have heard them, nattering away like old women, wondering what would happen to the land since Hermès had no family to assume the estate. When Hermès got too old to maintain the vines and too stubborn to update his equipment, you knew they were all calculating the lowest price they could offer him for the land.” Rose sniffed in disgust. “But the French are nothing if not determined when it comes to inheritance. Somebody knew something about a distant Spanish cousin. And suddenly, there was Raoul.”
“Wasn’t he living here already?” Lia interrupted. “Dom said his family died somewhere along the Hérault coast.”
Rose’s mouth opened, closed, and she shook her head. “I don’t really know, Lia. Maybe they were on holiday. There’s so much I just don’t know.”
They turned from the highway onto a narrow lane where the tarmac thinned and ran out. The track was paved in patches of cobblestone and bordered on either side by low rock walls and a riot of broom shrubs, juniper, cypress, and holm oak. Sheltered from the wind and facing the western sun, pockets of purple dwarf iris and orange wild orchid could be seen. As the car tires rumbled over the cobbled lane, the fragrance of thyme and damp earth wafted through the open windows.
Two hundred feet in, they arrived at a large gate of forged iron bars set between square pillars of stone, the only opening in the high brick wall that surrounded the estate. The gate gaped wide, and as they drove through, Lia noted the small camera placed near the top of the right-hand pillar, discreet but not hidden. Behind the house, rows of vines marched up the hillsides in neat hectare plots. The property seemed abandoned. Scarcely a sound could be heard, as if the earth itself had stopped breathing.
The longère—a low, single-story house with deep-set windows—stood in a clearing, backed by sloping vineyards. It was made from limestone, the same as Le Pèlerin—another ancient structure salvaged and rebuilt, its traditional character preserved while making it comfortable for modern living. Rose inched along the gravel lane past the glassed-in sun porch on the northeast end, stopping the car just short of the massive oak door in the center of the front facade. There was something so familiar about the house. The sense of déjà vu left Lia feeling as though she were floating slightly above the earth.
“What is this place?” Lia trailed behind Rose, who walked resolutely to the front door and knocked. Rose held up a finger, listening.
Lia hung back, wandering through the small front garden. Tendrils of newly green wisteria crept up the outside wall—last year’s dead growth had been trimmed away. The first perennials poked through black loam in window boxes, and the flower beds had a fresh layer of straw to keep them warm through the chilly, early spring nights. A hopeful heart had foreseen a season of flowers, and gentle hands had prepared the soil.
“No one home?” she asked when Rose stepped away from the door. They walked around the side of the house, where a stand of oak shielded the west side from the fierce summer sun.
“Someone’s here.” Rose pointed upslope to a late-model Range Rover parked beside the winery. The winery had been dug deep into the hillside, resembling a barrel sliced in half and laid flat on its cut side. It was tall enough to permit a truck and trailer full of grapes to back into its entrance.
A chattering of starlings erupted from the far side of the winery, and a four-legged whirling dervish of terra-cotta red tore around the corner in gleeful chase. Rose curled the tips of two fingers just inside her mouth and blew a short, sharp blast. The dog went still, pointing. Then it flew toward them.
“Isis, come here, girl.” Rose knelt down, and the sleek greyhound crashed into her, wriggling, snuffling, and panting with glee.
“I take it you two know each other,” said Lia. Isis charged up the hill, barking.
“She was found wandering on the property last September, covered in mange, no collar. She’s such a rare thing, we were all certain someone would miss her, but she’s not even microchipped. No one ever came looking.”
Tucking her arm through Rose’s, Lia said, “Thanks for getting me out of the house.”
“Don’t thank me just yet.” Rose grinned.
They followed Isis toward the winery. The dog stopped and ran back halfway to bark at them, impatient with their progress. She led Lia and Rose to a small door set in a rounded frame. The handle gave easily, and the women stepped inside. Isis raced past, her happy shouts echoing off the brick walls, and disappeared into the dark chasm between two enormous tanks.
The cool air was blanketed by the thick, yeasty scent of fermented fruit. A row of tall, stainless steel tanks disappeared into the dark recesses on one side, and a motor hummed somewhere out of sight. Lia and Rose walked by a low room filled with three rows of wooden barrels, Lia’s heart thudding as they passed deeper into the cavern. Even though the ceiling loomed high overhead, the dim light and heavy air triggered her claustrophobia.
From deep within the building, a door slammed, followed by the sound of running footsteps, which seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. The source of the footsteps appeared as a boy of nine or ten zigzagged through the tanks with Isis in pursuit. He pulled up fast when he saw the women.
“Oh, hello,” he chirped. “You’re who Isis was carrying on about!”
It took Lia a moment to realize he was speaking English, with an accent that told of boarding schools and neckties worn at the dinner table. The bangs of his blond hair feathered over his forehead in imitation of a preteen pop star, and the cuffs of his jeans brushed against sneakers that had been all the rage when she was his age—the famous white swoosh glowed in the shadowy dark, set against neon-orange nylon. Lia smiled, feeling ancient.
“I’m Rose, and this is Lia. We’re friends of the owner’s. Is he about?”
“I’m sorry, how rude of me,” replied the boy of ten-going-on-thirty. “I didn’t think to ask if you spoke English. But you do, so that’s brilliant. Do you speak French too? I’m quite fluent. I mostly translate for my mum. She’s hopeless, but Dad gets on fine. I’m Charlie. Yes, everyone’s in the cellar. Did you know this used to be a hideout in medieval times? The cellar has secret passageways that go deep under the hills—people used to hide out here. I bet there are bones. Dad won’t let me explore by myself, but Raoul might take me later into some of the rooms. Wait here, and I’ll find them.” As soon as his torrent of words ceased, Charlie rushed off again, Isis at his heels.
“Raoul?” Lia grabbed Rose by the arm, pulling her around.
“He got in last night, Lia.”
“What the hell? I can’t believe you brought me here without telling me.”
Raoul and a tall, lean man came around the row of tanks, Raoul gesturing, absorbed in conversation. The men stopped at one of the tanks, oblivious to Rose and Lia.
How does a heart stop and race at the same time? Words left her, replaced by desire, anger, and a sudden shyness. Lia wanted to turn tail and flee before Raoul saw her.
As if hearing his name, Raoul looked up. A light set low in the floor illuminated his face, and it became the face in the basilica. His gaze was piercing, his scar a dark slash of shadow. Something about the tilt of his head, the taut way he held his body, and Lia saw Gabriel shimmering inside him. Lia wanted to stay. She wanted to leave. She wanted to throttle her friend.
Rose grasped Lia’s hand, whispering, “Trust me.” With her full voice, she said, “Raoul, welcome home! Lia and I were just headed to the marché in Lagrasse, so I thought I’d drop off that refractometer you’d asked to borrow.” She went boldly forth, extending a hand to the stranger. “Hello, I’m Rose Hivert.”
“What serendipity, Madame Hivert,” said the Englishman as he took Rose’s hand. “I’m Charles Robb. I own the Robb Group. We have several fine dining restaurants in the UK and China. I’m on a mission to spread the word about Languedoc wines, and I assigned myself the dreadful task of visiting wineries. I’ll be at your estate this afternoon, as a matter of fact. I made plans to visit Mas Hivert when I saw your husband last month at VinoMondo. You make one of the best old vine Carignane I’ve had. And you’ve met my Charlie?” The boy now stood quietly by his side. Charles placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, and the boy leaned in, his blond head only slightly above the hip bone of his father’s long leg.
“We have. Isis seems delighted to have found a kindred spirit.” Rose beamed a smile at the boy, who returned it with a gap-toothed grin. “And thank you for the kind words about our wines. My husband’s great-grandfather planted those vines before the First World War. We’ll bottle the one-hundredth vintage next year.” Rose looked expectantly at Lia, who stepped up and held out her hand to Charles Robb, avoiding Raoul’s eyes.
“Hello, I’m Lia.” To Rose, she said, “We should leave these men to their conversation.”
“Oh, no,” replied Charles Robb. “We’re finished up here.” The Englishman withdrew a small silver case from inside his jacket pocket. He slid it open and presented Raoul with a cream-colored business card. “I’m grateful for the grand tour. The barrel samples were outstanding. As soon as you have bottles ready for tasting, please contact me. I’ll make the trip with some of my staff. I’d welcome any excuse to leave London for the south of France. In the meantime, I’m happy to take the remaining Martinet vin du pays off your hands. We’ll sell it as a house wine until you’re ready to launch the rebirth of the winery.” He spoke with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to knowing his plans would be carried out to the letter.
His son shook hands with Raoul in a charming imitation of his father before kneeling to embrace Isis. From Rose and Lia, Charlie allowed the French custom of kissing cheeks, blushing despite his dignified mien.
“Well, this works out perfectly,” said Rose. “Lia has an appointment in Termes later, which is in the opposite direction, so if you’re headed to Mas Hivert, I’ll ride with you and show you the way.” She spoke to Charles, ignoring the daggers Lia was throwing with her eyes. They all followed Rose as she led the way out of the winery, and then she, Charles, and Charlie were waving good-bye.
As the Range Rover pulled away, Rose glanced back; it was all Lia could do not to raise her middle fingers. Lia wondered if even this exit had been a setup, if Rose had known that Charles Robb was stopping first at Logis du Martinet. Admitting she wanted nothing more than to be alone with Raoul, Lia blessed and cursed her meddling friend.
She sighed and faced Raoul. But he was focused on something distant, perhaps considering the pile of deadwood he’d left to burn, perhaps searching for an escape from this awkward moment.