By the time I turned the corner at the entrance to the vineyard, it was going on four o’clock. The brilliant noontime sunshine had faded, and in the colorless winter light, the snow-covered landscape looked duller and more somber. I took a left at the fork in the road where the two-hundred-year-old lightning-cleaved tree that had given Sycamore Lane its name still stood, heading toward the villa, rather than home to Highland House. If Quinn was coming over tonight for dinner, I wanted to show him Mick’s photo album, which was still in Frankie’s office.
When I pulled into the parking lot, her red BMW was where it had been when I’d left. Next to it was Father Niall O’Malley’s car, a black SUV with tinted windows, now gritty with salt and road spray.
I saw them through the window as I went up the walk. They were sitting side by side on one of the leather sofas next to the fire. Frankie’s legs were tucked up under her, an elbow resting on the back of the sofa and her fingers twirling a lock of strawberry blond hair, a wineglass in her other hand as she sat facing Father Niall. He kept nodding, apparently at something she was saying, as he stared into the fire, his head bowed, arms resting loosely on his knees, wineglass in both hands, as if he were holding a Communion chalice.
When he was at Veronica House, Father Niall dressed like everyone else who worked or volunteered there, usually in jeans, or shorts in the summer. Everyone still knew he was a priest, though; there was something about him that set him apart, even without the Roman collar. Frankie joked that it was his Irish charm and a poetic way with words that captivated what she referred to as “the Holy Harem,” the many women who had crushes on him.
The only time I saw him in his black clerical attire was at the hospital while visiting the sick or at a community meeting or some formal occasion. Today, though, he had on a plaid lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows over a turtleneck, jeans, and work boots.
For a moment, I debated whether I should intrude on what looked like an intense conversation, but Frankie must have sensed she was being watched or caught a flash of movement through the window, because she looked up and waved, swinging her feet to the ground and standing up. Father Niall got to his feet as well and ran a hand through his short white hair in a way that made me think he’d been mulling over something that preoccupied him.
My French mother had been a lapsed Catholic and Leland was a practicing atheist, so Mia, Eli, and I grew up believing, with the blissful innocence of children, that at Easter a bunny brought you chocolate eggs in pastel-colored straw baskets and Christmas was when Santa and his reindeer left the North Pole to fly all over the world delivering gifts to good boys and girls. Eli wised up about the real identity of Santa and the bunny (and the tooth fairy) by the time he was nine and ruined the magic for me as soon as he knew. When my mother found out, she made death threats if we spoiled anything for Mia, who believed—or pretended to—until she was ready for middle school. Over the years, though, I secretly envied my friends who dressed up in their best clothes at Christmas and Easter and went to church with their families, a special rite that bound them together, conferring a mystical grace my family would never know.
But my unrequited wish to be like my churchgoing friends hadn’t been strong enough to make me consider exploring my mother’s Catholic faith and possibly joining the Church myself, even when I’d discovered that she’d sought out Father Niall for spiritual guidance during a rocky period in her marriage when both she and my father were having affairs. Whatever he had told her had obviously comforted her, because, by accident, I’d found a book on forgiveness with his name written on the flyleaf, a rosary, and a Catholic book of prayers, also with his name on it, when I was looking for something in her desk after she died. The next time I checked, the drawer was empty.
Either Leland had returned everything to Father Niall or, more likely, he’d gotten rid of it. I never asked, since I wasn’t supposed to know about any of it, especially the affairs.
“Lucie,” Frankie said when I walked in. “Niall and I were just having an end-of-the-day drink. Won’t you join us?”
Something unsettling definitely hung in the air between them—the tension I thought I’d sensed through the window—and I knew Frankie was lying about it being just a happy-hour drink. Father Niall’s deep blue eyes met mine, but in his business he was a master at keeping secrets and poker faces, and his gave nothing away.
So I smiled and said, “Thanks, but don’t let me interrupt. I just stopped in to get something and I’ll be out of here. Nice to see you, Father.”
“And it’s nice seein’ you, too, Lucie,” he said. Though he’d left Ireland forty years ago and moved here as a newly ordained priest, he still spoke with the burr of an accent, and I wondered, occasionally, if the brogue wasn’t a wee bit of blarney he could turn on for charm and effect. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doin’ for Veronica House with your fund-raiser. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”
“It was all Frankie’s idea,” I said. “I’m glad we can help.”
Frankie pointed to the wine bottle. “Sure you won’t have a quick one with us? I’ll get a glass.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to get home. I just need to get Mick’s photo album. It’s still in your office, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said.
The album was on her desk, rather than on the credenza, where I’d found it that morning, so I guessed she had spent some time looking through it again herself. I picked it up and walked back into the tasting room.
In the brief time that I’d been gone, someone else had come in. A tall, slender woman stood in the entryway, wearing a bottle green parka with a fur-trimmed hood pulled over her head, so it partially hid her face, black ski pants, and fashionable high-heeled black boots. She pushed the hood back, revealing flaming red hair, porcelain skin, and dark winged eyebrows above almond-shaped eyes.
When she spoke, she had a cut-glass English accent. “I hope I’m not too late and you haven’t closed for the day. But I was told I could buy a bottle or two of champagne here.”
Frankie and I exchanged looks. So this was Uma Lawrence. As everyone said, she did resemble a young version of Roxy—the same Titian-colored hair, high, sculpted cheekbones, English rose complexion—but no one had mentioned she was beautiful enough to take your breath away.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you were misinformed,” I said. “We don’t sell champagne here. This is a farm winery; we’re not a retail store.”
Quinn and I had agreed to keep quiet about our decision to make sparkling wine until we were further along in the process, since so few vineyards in Virginia were doing it. Someone must have spilled the beans. I wondered who it was.
Frankie gave her a friendly smile. “But we do sell our own wines, and I’d be happy to show you the wine list. I’m sure we can find something you’ll like,” she said. “I’m Frankie Merchant. I run the tasting room at Montgomery Vineyard. This is Lucie Montgomery, who owns the winery, and this is a friend of ours, Father Niall O’Malley.”
“How do you do. I’m Uma Lawrence.” She walked into the room and pulled off a pair of leather gloves. “I’m in town for a few days. Visiting … family.” She stumbled over the last word.
“You’re Roxy’s granddaughter,” Father Niall said, and I noticed that he had not taken his eyes off her. “My deepest sympathy for your loss. You were missed at her funeral. It was quite a tribute to a very fine lady.”
“Are you the priest who took care of her funeral service?” she asked.
“I said the memorial Mass,” he said. “As she wished. Roxy planned the funeral herself, you know, right down to the readings and the hymns. As I said, she was a great lady. I miss her sorely as a dear friend. It’s a shame you never had the chance to know her.”
Uma’s cheeks turned pink, but she lifted her chin and gave him a cool look. “I didn’t know her, but I certainly knew all about her.”
“I should hope so,” he said. “You have quite a legacy to live up to, Miss Lawrence. Roxy was generous and good-hearted, always thinking about those less fortunate than she was. Those are grand shoes you’ll be filling.”
“Thank you, Father, but you can skip the sermon,” she said. “I was told that everyone in this town knew everyone else’s business. I may have been here only a day, but I do know that my grandmother’s will came as a surprise to many people. Especially those who thought they might be rewarded by her good-hearted generosity.” She emphasized rewarded and gave Father Niall a pointed look.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The impact of what she’d all but said outright went through the room, as if she’d just touched a high-voltage electrical wire. It was true Roxy had left her money and her possessions to the only two people in the world who were her living relatives, Mac and Uma. She had been abundantly generous to her charities when she was alive, but blood was blood and she had chosen to care for family—and only family—in her final bequest.
Frankie had mentioned money problems in the financial report she’d been reading about Veronica House. Had Father Niall expected to be rewarded, as Uma so crassly put it, in Roxy’s will and been as surprised as everyone else when his charity had been left out?
Father Niall’s eyes narrowed and he picked up a black wool coat that had been lying on the sofa. “I think I’d best be getting back before our guests arrive for dinner. I want to check on a few things, make sure we’ve got everything set up, since we have so many people spending the night in this dreadful cold.” He shrugged into his coat and wound a tan-and-red plaid Burberry scarf around his neck. “Thank you for the drink, Frankie. I’ll be seeing the pair of you Saturday night for the gala, won’t I now?” He smiled at both of us, but his eyes were grave.
“Absolutely,” Frankie said.
He glanced over at Uma. “Miss Lawrence, I’d quite like to speak with you again, get to know the granddaughter of a woman I loved and admired,” he said. “Perhaps you could come by Veronica House and we could have tea while you’re still in Atoka.”
Uma shot him a look, as if he’d just suggested they meet so he could perform an exorcism. Frankie and I traded uneasy glances.
Finally, Uma said with chilly finality, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m sure I won’t have any free time while I’m here, Father O’Malley. I’m leaving this weekend, and I have a lot on my plate between now and then.”
Father Niall slipped his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a card. “Take this. My contact information if you change your mind. Call anytime.”
He held it out, and for a long moment Uma stood there with her arms folded across her chest like a belligerent child defying a parent. But Father Niall didn’t move, either, his hand still outstretched as he waited her out. Finally, she threw him a sulky look and took the card and shoved it into her jacket pocket.
“Well,” he said in a soft voice, as if to himself, “I guess that’s that, then.” He pulled on a fire engine red knit hat that had been in the pocket of his coat. “Good afternoon, everyone, and God bless.”
“I’ll walk you to your car, Father,” I said. “I’m leaving, too.”
“Uma,” Frankie said, as if nothing unpleasant had just happened, “why don’t you come over to the bar and let me pour you a glass of wine? I’m sure we’ll find something you might like to purchase, since you’ve come all this way.” She turned to Father Niall. “I’ll call you about the other matter, okay?” She kissed him on the cheek and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.
“It’ll all be fine, Frankie, don’t you worry. God will provide. He always does,” he said.
I waited until Father Niall and I were outside before I said, “That was terribly rude of her, don’t you think?”
The wintery afternoon light had faded, softening the landscape like an out-of-focus picture, and the wind blasted a heartless assault that caught us both in the face like a hard slap. We both pulled our collars tighter.
“I’d say it was a bit of good old Catholic guilt at work, even if she’s not Catholic.” Father Niall flashed a brief half smile. “All of a sudden she has more money than she’s ever had in her life and she doesn’t know how to handle it … not just the money but how different her life will be because of it.”
“Money isn’t going to buy her happiness. I wish her luck, or at least I’d like to be charitable enough to wish her luck,” I said. “I’m not sure I do.”
He gave me a self-deprecating grin. “There’s no shame in being honest, Lucie. Maybe in time she’ll open her heart, help others the way Roxy did. That’s why I was hoping to get her over to Veronica House. The people I deal with every day have nothing. No home, no job, all their worldly possessions in a couple of carrier bags from Safeway. Sure and you’re right about money not buying happiness, but a bit of it would go a long way toward making their lives easier. There’s nothing romantic about poverty.”
“I don’t know that kind of poverty,” I said. “And I know how lucky I am. But after Leland died, we were so broke, I was afraid we’d lose everything. We had to climb out from under the mountain of debts he left behind, but I paid every one of them back. I hope I never have to do something like that again.”
“I remember,” he said. “And I admire you for it.”
“We never talked about this,” I said, “but I know you helped my mother when she was going through a rough time years ago. I found out about it after she was gone. I just wanted to say thank you.”
We reached the parking lot and he pulled his car keys out of his pocket, hitting the Unlock button on the SUV.
“She was a lovely woman, Chantal,” he said. “Did you know she was thinking about returning to the Church? We had just started talking about it before she died.”
Somehow that news didn’t surprise me, and I wondered if he was giving me an opening to say something about my own spiritual life. Or lack of one.
“No, I didn’t. We never talked about religion at all when I was growing up,” I said. “One last thing, Father. Do you know anything about an argument Roxy Willoughby might have had with someone a few days before she died? Faith Eastman, her next-door neighbor, is my best friend’s mother and she’s been like a second mother to me. She’s taken Roxy’s death terribly hard, especially that argument.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“Roxy wanted to know the truth about something. That’s all Faith heard.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. And even if I did know something”—he pointed to the sky—“I’m bound by that fellow up there to take anything I was told in the sanctity of the confessional to my grave.” The wind gusted hard again and he held on to his car door to keep it from slamming into me. “Even murder.”
I nodded, wondering how many confessions he’d kept to himself that could have sent someone to jail. A lot of the homeless people who came to his shelter lived on the outside edge of the law—many had done jail time—so I guessed the answer was that he’d heard his fair share. How did he deal with the morality of something like that? How could it not warp his sense of right and wrong?
He patted my shoulder. “You ought to get out of this wind. It’s bitter.”
We said good-bye again and I got into my car, watching him pull out of the parking lot and put on his blinker as he turned on to Sycamore Lane. His taillights disappeared, and I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Father Niall O’Malley knew more than he’d let on just now. Just like Mac.
I drove home to get dinner sorted out before Quinn came over and we finally got to talk about the letters from Warren Harding to Zara Tomassi and I told him about Lucky Montgomery.
The evening was just getting started.