Love leads us to ourselves—this is the mystery of love.
—FREDERICK LENZ
Troy and Mercy descended the stone stairs leading into The Wine Cellar, a dimly lit, low-ceilinged space about the size of a three-car garage. Diamond-shaped wooden racks filled with countless bottles of wine lined the granite walls, and dark red expensive-looking rugs covered most of the fieldstone floor. Black iron sconces and matching candelabras that would have seemed right at home in some medieval castle provided the only light.
After their uncomfortable experience in the cheese cellar earlier today, Troy wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here. He knew Mercy wouldn’t be either. At least this place smelled better—like wine and earth and wet stone and cranberries.
One long table dominated the space, with two smaller tables at the far end of the cellar. To Troy’s surprise, Leo led them not to the left side of the long table, where Mercy’s family flanked Patience and Claude, but to the right side, where Father Bernard, Marcel, and Philippe sat with the colonel. Given the brawl at the pub last night, he figured Grace and Prudence must have decided they needed Mercy and Troy and Uncle Hugo to keep the rowdy Renaults under control. Mercy raised her eyebrows at him as he pulled out her chair, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.
He spotted Gil and his wife Françoise with Thrasher and Wyetta at one of the smaller tables, always a welcome sight, especially should a situation develop.
There was one advantage to this seating plan—he wasn’t anywhere near the bride or the groom or Verity. With every glass of wine—and thanks to Leo the wine was already flowing freely—the possibility that a tipsy Verity might spill the beans about Claude’s rival James increased exponentially. He didn’t want to be around if that happened. When that happened.
No matter how much faith Claude had in Patience and their relationship, finding out about James was bound to shake it. Troy wondered why they’d waited so long to tie the knot. Mercy said it was because Patience didn’t want to get married again, but he knew that couldn’t be the whole truth. The arrangement must have suited Claude somehow, or he would have insisted they marry, or moved on, long ago.
Maybe it was the long-distance aspect of their relationship that kept their connection alive even as it kept them from truly living a life together. Maybe Claude had not been eager to give up his practice, his language, his country, and start all over again in Vermont, even for a woman as wonderful as Patience. Maybe he just kept asking her to marry him because he knew she’d say no—he wouldn’t be the first man to do that. But then Patience proposed to him—and here they were.
The seat next to Marcel was reserved for his brother Florian, but it was empty.
“Where’s your brother?” asked Mercy.
“Who knows. I don’t know why he even bothered to come to this wedding.”
“He did it for your father,” said Father Bernard.
“Florian doesn’t do anything for anyone but himself.” Marcel poured himself another glass of wine. His third glass in as many minutes, Troy noted. He’d need to be carried back to his hotel room at this rate. Maybe sitting at this table wouldn’t be as uneventful as Troy had hoped.
“That’s not very charitable,” said the priest gently.
“Why should I be ‘charitable,’ as you put it? When has he ever been charitable to me?” Marcel waved his glass around, its burgundy contents sloshing onto the white tablecloth. “To any of us?”
“That’s really not the point,” said the colonel.
“Easy for you to say, old man. You only have sisters. Philippe is an only child, lucky bastard. Mercy has Saint Nick. And you”—Marcel pointed his glass at his uncle—“you have the perfect brother in my dad Claude.” He turned to Troy. “Do you have any brothers, man?”
“Two, one older and one younger.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. The only thing worse than one screwed-up brother is two screwed-up brothers.”
“They’re all right.”
“Really? Well, don’t be surprised if they totally screw you over someday.” Marcel leaned in toward him. “Who’s the favorite?”
Troy smiled. “My older brother. But I don’t mind. Takes the pressure off me and my little brother.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. As the firstborn, I’m supposed to be perfect. And I damn near am, not that I get any credit for it. But Florian, he gets away with everything. Always has. Always will.”
“That can’t be true,” said Mercy.
“It’s not,” said Father Bernard. “Florian has suffered for his sins, as all of us suffer.”
Marcel laughed. “The guy had it all,” he told Troy. “Good-looking, smart, athletic. Got a full ride to McGill but had to go to Georgetown. Cost Dad a fortune—and then he got kicked out for dealing drugs.”
“Florian has his demons,” said Father Bernard. “We all do.”
“You’re just like Dad.” Marcel slammed down his glass. Sloshing more wine onto the table. “Always defending him.”
“That’s not true,” said Father Bernard.
“Always trying to save him.”
“He is a priest,” said the colonel.
“There’s no saving him. You of all people should know that by now.”
“Sucks to be you, huh, Marcel?” Florian appeared at his brother’s side, standing behind the empty seat next to him.
Mercy said nothing, but Troy could feel her stiffen in her seat next to him.
“Tell them about Egypt,” said Marcel, slurring his words a bit. The more wine he drank, the stronger his Québécois accent.
“Shut up,” said Philippe, coming to his cousin’s defense. Troy wondered why he would do that.
Marcel ignored Philippe, addressing Florian. “You should tell the story. You’re the one with the starring role. Le voleur.”
“That’s a lie.” Florian’s voice was thick with warning.
“Father Bernard tried to save my little brother once again. Gave him a job. And he repaid him by stealing the art our good priest was trying to rescue.” Marcel laughed.
Florian sat down heavily in his chair. “I was kidnapped.”
This is getting interesting, thought Troy.
“It was a terrible situation,” said Father Bernard. “Florian tried to stop the thieves, but they assaulted him and took him hostage.”
“They released you unharmed?” asked Mercy.
“More or less.”
“He still has the scars from the beatings,” said Father Bernard.
“And yet my brilliant brother thinks I had something to do with it.”
“Dad had to pay a huge ransom,” said Marcel.
“Marcel is Dad’s accountant,” said Florian. “He counts every penny.”
“That’s my job.”
“Not for long,” said Philippe. “What are you going to do when your dad sells his practice and moves down here?”
“I have other clients,” said Marcel. He turned to Troy. “They let my brother go, but they kept the money and the art. You’re the law enforcement professional, Warner. Doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you?”
“There was an investigation,” said the colonel, “and no proof of Florian’s involvement was ever found.”
Troy felt Mercy’s eyes on him. Her way of making sure he was listening as closely to this exchange as she was.
“Stuff disappears when my brother is around,” said Marcel. “Philippe, too. Watch your wallet, Warner. And your cheese.”
“Watch your mouth, Marcel,” said Philippe.
A phalanx of waiters piled into The Wine Cellar with dessert and champagne.
“I’m out of here,” said Florian, rising to his feet.
Philippe stood up, too. “Good night.”
“No dessert?” asked the colonel.
They all watched Florian and Philippe as they stalked off.
“When the going gets tough, my little brother bails,” said Marcel, waving his arm after Florian. “You and Dad always think he’ll turn his life around.” He turned to Troy. “Who really does that?”
Troy smiled. “That’s a question for Mercy.”
She smiled back. “Change is hard. But we can grow. Grow enough, and you’re bound to change.”
“People do change,” said Father Bernard. “Through the gift of grace.”
“You have to believe that,” said Marcel. “You’re a priest. Come on, Warner, help me out here.”
“If you’re asking if I think people can change, sure,” said Troy. “Usually for the worse. Sometimes for the better.”
“Spoken like a true policeman,” said the colonel.
“Game warden.”
The colonel shrugged.
Troy frowned. He knew that though the past couple of days had challenged her assumption, Mercy believed that Bodhi of the Three Names—and counting—had changed for the better. Any change you make is bound to be tested, he reflected. And it looks like Bodhi isn’t passing that test.
“What are you thinking, Troy?” asked Father Bernard.
“Most people don’t change until they hit rock bottom. I was wondering if hitting rock bottom constitutes grace.”
The colonel grinned. “I’m sure Father Bernard has a story for that.”
“You know I love a good story,” said Mercy.
Troy took her cool fingers under the table and rested her slender, limp hand on his thigh, placing his own larger hand over hers to warm it.
“Let’s hear that story, Father,” said the colonel. “Before the endless rounds of toasts begin.”
“I thought you made the toasts during the reception,” said Troy. He hadn’t been to many rehearsal dinners, apart from his own, and he was so nervous the night before his wedding he remembered very little of what went on.
“At the reception we’ll hear the traditional toasts by the joint masters of ceremonies—Father Bernard and Justice of the Peace Lillian Jenkins—the bride and the groom, the matron of honor and the best man,” said Mercy. “Tonight we’ll hear speeches by everyone else.”
“We’ll be here all night,” said Father Bernard cheerfully.
“I don’t think Marcel is going to make it,” said Troy. Marcel was slumped against Troy’s shoulder, his eyes closed and his mouth open. He was snoring lightly.
“Sleep well, my son.” Father Bernard blessed his nephew. “We were talking about the human capacity for change.”
Mercy smiled. “One of Troy’s favorite subjects.”
“So it seems,” said the colonel.
“Go ahead, Father,” said Troy. “Tell us your story.”
“It’s a story about two Trappist monks named Brother Joe and Brother Isaac,” said Father Bernard, his voice taking on the rhythm of the pulpit. “The monks lived in a secluded monastery deep in the countryside, where they followed the Rule of Saint Benedict. They prayed seven hours a day and made really good beer the rest of the time. Brother Joe and Brother Isaac were always reminding one another of their vocation: to live ‘ordinary, obscure, and laborious’ lives devoted to the glory of God.
“One night Brother Joe spotted Brother Isaac smoking Marlboros during evening prayers. He was upset. ‘I don’t understand. You’re smoking. When I asked the abbot if I could smoke while I was praying, the abbot said no. He said that all I should do when I pray is pray. He must have seen you smoking. Why is he letting you get away with it?”
“Brother Isaac took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Because I asked the abbot if I could pray while I was smoking.’”
Mercy laughed. “To do a great right, do a little wrong.”
Troy wasn’t sure if he agreed with that, as even little wrongs could add up to pretty big ones, given enough rope. But he liked the priest’s story. And he loved hearing Mercy laugh. He squeezed her hand, and she moved her fingers slightly, tickling his palm. He entwined his fingers into hers.
“Mercy.” He raised her arm up from his thigh, holding her hand up near his face and kissing her formerly frozen fingers.
Mercy laughed again. Only he could see the tears of relief at the corners of her eyes.