Читать книгу In His Eyes - Emmie Dark - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

ZOE WATERSDROVEUPTHE long, rutted drive and noted that the pale green farmhouse ahead of her desperately needed a new paint job. But then, it had needed one for as long as she could remember. Only these days—more than ten years since she’d last been here—it was beginning to seem as if the flakes of paint were what was holding the crumbling weatherboards together.

Zoe wasn’t sure whether she should feel comforted that so little had changed or disgusted by the neglect.

She pulled into the yard behind the house and climbed out of the rental car, stepping carefully to avoid the soft, squelching mud threatening her inappropriately delicate shoes.

The signs of dereliction were even more obvious here.

A strange, melancholy sense of déjà vu settled over her as she looked around. Now that she surveyed things closer up, it was clear that not only did little appear to have changed—pretty much nothing had. Everything had just decayed a touch more. The scattered car bodies near the back fence had rusted a little redder and sunk a little deeper into the overgrown grass. The door to the shed that held the tractor and her grandfather’s other old-fashioned and outdated farm equipment was crooked, the top hinge clearly broken.

Zoe sighed heavily and leaned against the car, warm from the two-hour drive from Melbourne.

The task ahead of her seemed to grow exponentially as she surveyed the ruins of Waterford Estate.

The only building that still looked in reasonable condition was the tin shed and converted refrigerated shipping container that housed the winery. Well, what passed for a winery on the Waterford estate. She wondered if all those rich people in Sydney, California and France on the Waterford mailing list who so eagerly awaited her grandfather’s vintage Shiraz each year would feel quite the same way if they could see where it came from.

She sighed again and ran a hand through her hair as the wind whipped the long strands into her eyes. Wrapping her light jacket more tightly around herself, Zoe shuddered—she’d forgotten the icy chill of the wind out here and how it could leach into your bones. Too much time in California. Too used to the endless sunshine and warm breezes, unlike the capricious weather of this part of the valley—stinking hot in summer, subject to grape-endangering frosts seemingly out of nowhere in spring. Right now—winter—the weather was at least somewhat predictable. Cold. With a side of rain and wind.

She mentally surveyed the contents of the suitcase still sitting in the boot of the car. She was going to have to buy some new clothes.

A trip into town. Yippee.

The thought sent a different kind of shiver through her.

Turning away from her survey of the ruined outbuildings, Zoe shielded her eyes from the weak sun. The Waterford vines stretched out in long, bare lines to the north and east of the house, dormant for the winter yet still visibly neglected. It was a tragic state for any viticulturist to see—some of the oldest vines in the valley, planted by Zoe’s great-great-grandfather and tended by a member of the Waters family for more than a hundred years.

Until now.

To her left, the well-tended vines of the neighboring Lawson Estate—her family’s rivals for her whole life—grew just a few feet from the property line. Zoe made an effort not to look, to pretend that across the post-and-wire fence there was just a big, empty nothing. Just as she’d always done—at least when her grandfather was watching.

The only way she could get through these next few days was to pretend Lawson Estate didn’t exist, the township of Tangawarra wasn’t there and Waterford had a protective force field around it. She snorted at the fanciful idea at the same time she wished it could be true.

Zoe pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head as the sky clouded over. Heavy, slate-gray clouds waited on the horizon. Rain was definitely on the way. More rain from the looks of the sodden ground. She shivered again. Maybe even a storm.

At least that would give her a break. A few hours to sit and catch up with everything that had happened in the past few days. Perhaps even the chance to turn her brain to the task of working out what to do next.

The very thought started a headache throbbing at the back of her neck.

Just as she made a move to dig out her belongings and find her house keys, the sound of a vehicle reached her. A white utility truck bumped along the corrugated dirt track that led from the unsurfaced road. It had prominent signage along the side—elegant black script, a flowing red ribbon—unmistakably the Lawson Estate logo.

She swore under her breath.

She couldn’t have had a day or so—a few hours maybe—to get her bearings before facing reality? It seemed the universe wasn’t going to extend even that small kindness to her.

Zoe stepped toward the ute as it pulled up beside her own bland white rental car. The driver’s face was hidden in the shadow of a straw, American-style cowboy hat. It struck her as odd—most men in the valley preferred the very Australian Akubra or a simple cap, most often embroidered with the logo of their winery.

The driver cut the engine and climbed out. Time slowed somehow, and Zoe was conscious of every moment. The scuffed R. M. Williams boots that hit the ground first. The tight-fitting jeans, worn almost white around the knees and crotch. The chambray shirt that had once been crisply ironed, but was now creased and loosened by a day’s work. The stubbled jaw—not quite bearded, but wearing more than a five-o’clock shadow—that gave his familiar face a hard, almost savage edge. And last—but never least—those blue eyes, shocking, tormenting blue. The blue eyes she’d dreamed of for ten years; the blue eyes that had been her ruin.

“Well, if it isn’t Zoe Waters,” he drawled.

Zoe’s knees turned to jelly, and as her vision began to blacken at the periphery she realized she’d stopped breathing. Through pure force of will she took in a deep lungful of air and strengthened her wobbly legs. Fainting now would be an unacceptable humiliation. From somewhere deep inside, from the core of steel that had been honed over a lifetime and never before failed her, she managed to paste a tight, unwelcoming smile on her face. She’d show him how little she cared, even if it killed her.

“Hugh Lawson, well, well,” she managed to say, pleased that her voice conveyed exactly the right tone of distaste.

“So the old man finally let you come back.” Hugh was smiling, but his eyes were cold. There was no hint of the warmth or humor she remembered from so long ago.

Was he angry with her? What on earth for? She was the one who had lost everything…her family, her reputation, the only real home she’d ever known.

She managed another grim smile. “The old man died yesterday.”

He hesitated and his cool look faded as concern creased his brow. She felt an odd satisfaction at the knowledge she’d unsettled him, but she clasped her hands tightly to hide their sudden tremor. It had been ten years, for heaven’s sake! She’d moved halfway around the world to escape from her past. She was over it. The mistakes she’d made as an infatuated sixteen-year-old little girl were not going to taint her whole life. She’d made sure of that.

“I’m…I’m sorry to hear that,” Hugh said. His eyes lost their hard edge for a moment and Zoe remembered how easy it had been to fall for him, how easy to think herself in love and to be fooled into thinking he might love her in return.

Hugh took a step forward and reached out a hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to hug her and a mess of emotion washed over her. Mostly, though, she was filled with horror at the idea that she looked as if she needed comforting. She stiffened and took a step back.

Hugh’s hand immediately dropped. Whatever he’d been thinking, whatever sympathetic gesture he’d been about to make was now hidden behind that impenetrable blue gaze.

“Yes, well…” Zoe flicked out her hands in a helpless gesture. Apart from anything else, she had no idea what to do with sympathy; it had been the same when the nurse at the hospital had expressed her condolences. Her grandfather’s death still wasn’t real. Even when it did eventually sink in—assuming that happened—she wasn’t sure how she should feel about it. Sad? Relieved? Indifferent?

She straightened her shoulders. “Why are you here?”

That laconic smile was back, warmer this time, more like the Hugh she remembered, erasing the years from his face and making him look just as he had when they’d snuck away to be together. “Neighbors look out for each other around here, Zoe, don’t you remember that?”

Irritation flared inside her at his veiled reminder. Just where had he been when she’d needed looking after?

And she was over this. Over him.

Yeah, right.

She couldn’t help raising her eyebrows in disbelief at his comment. “Neighbors might. But you know as well as I do that that never applied to the Lawson and Waters families.”

Hugh ignored her. “One of our groundskeepers saw the car,” Hugh continued, gesturing to her white sedan. “We knew Mack was in the hospital, so I thought I’d check it out in case…you were up to no good.” He grinned slyly.

Zoe swallowed her storm of emotions somewhat unsuccessfully, frustrated with herself for feeling them in the first place. The only way to deal with this was to appear as unaffected by their reunion as he seemed to be. As unaffected as she wanted to be. “Thank you so much for your concern,” she said, putting on a sarcastically polite tone. “But there’s no need. You can leave now.”

“Ah, Zoe. Still the angry little firecracker, I see.” He shook his head, then his expression softened. “Are you okay, though, really?”

His condescension made her emotions burn brighter. The fact that he could still see through her, that he remembered anger was her default defense mechanism, was the final straw. “You can leave,” she repeated. “Now.” Zoe dug her fingernails into her palms as she struggled to rein in her response. She must surely be drawing blood.

His gaze swept over her, a lingering glance that created an entirely different kind of heat. When his eyes met hers again, they were subdued, a little clouded. She’d have given anything to know what he was thinking.

“It’s…good to see you again, Zoe. To see you looking so…well.”

Well? What was that supposed to mean? Before she could ask, he turned on his heel and climbed back into the ute. With a short, salutelike wave against the brim of his hat, he was gone. Zoe let out a long, relieved breath and refused to think about the disappointment that washed over her as she watched the car disappear down the track.

At least that was over. Seeing Hugh Lawson again was the thing she’d been dreading most. Now she was just left facing a small town that had always hated the sight of her, dealing with her grandfather’s funeral and his estate, and single-handedly producing the last-ever Waterford Estate vintage. Compared to facing the love of her life who’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most, all that should be easy.

Pushing those thoughts away, Zoe headed toward the house, intent on getting started with the seemingly impossible tasks in front of her.

* * *

THEFIRSTJOBTOTACKLE was organizing her grandfather’s funeral. In comparison to her day-job of managing the production of a multi-million-dollar wine vintage, that was a snap. And not just because her grandfather’s controlling nature hadn’t receded an inch, even right at the end. She should have expected that a man like Mack Waters would have made all the arrangements himself. Especially once it had become clear that the cancer wasn’t going to let him escape.

A simple melanoma on his balding head, burned away like the many others he’d had in his life. Only this one had grown, burrowing below his epidermis, reaching out its ugly tentacles and infiltrating his skull. Once it reached his brain stem it had been only a matter of days.

Mack was too stubborn to leave his funeral to chance—or to risk someone else mucking it up. He wanted what he wanted. And at the time, he’d probably thought it unlikely that his granddaughter would come home to do it for him.

Hadn’t stopped him calling her, though. Zoe wasn’t sure who’d been more surprised—herself when she took the call, or Mack when she’d answered. She’d always made sure Mack had a phone number for her when she made one of her frequent moves, but he rarely used it.

Besides, by the time she got here—still reeling from the shock of her unexpected, and still impossible to explain, decision to take leave from work, pack a suitcase and jump on a plane—he was lucid only in short bursts. It hadn’t stopped him from loading her up with guilt and forcing her to make promises she’d had no intention of keeping. But Zoe had stayed and held his hand at the last.

Mack had opted for a church service, a shock to Zoe since she’d never known him to set foot inside one. Apart from her sightseeing visits in Europe, neither had she. Certainly not this modest, clinker-brick, slate-roofed building that sat on a grassy slope just on the outskirts of Tangawarra township.

The storm that had threatened yesterday still hung low on the horizon. For now, the sun was shining through the stained-glass windows, sending beams of colored light crisscrossing through the dusty air of the church.

As per Mack’s instructions, it was a private funeral—invitation only. And the list consisted of one person: Zoe. She couldn’t help a rueful grin as she surveyed the half-dozen mourners behind her as she sat alone on the front pew. She didn’t recognize any of the other mourners—all women, she noted. They were probably professional funeral-goers, women the minister had asked to attend against Mack’s wishes, just so the church wasn’t completely empty.

Mack wouldn’t be happy about that. His exclusive

funeral was his final joke on the town he loved to hate—and who loved to hate him. That the valley’s most prestigious wine was made by a grumpy, antisocial misanthrope wasn’t lost on the tightly knit community of Tangawarra.

The plain, dark wood coffin at the front of the church stayed silent. No more complaints from Mack. Not anymore.

Zoe swallowed a suspicious lump in her throat.

She was actually grateful for her grandfather’s unsociable wishes—no public announcement of the

funeral, no notice in the local paper. Because if they’d known, Zoe was sure that more members of the Tangawarra community would have turned up—just out of curiosity and that bizarre schadenfreude that was part of small-town life. They’d nod knowingly with superior looks on their faces. The thing of most interest to them wouldn’t be the coffin or the service, but Zoe herself, sitting alone in the front row. She could just imagine them critiquing her hairstyle, her makeup, deciding that her gray pencil skirt and beaded red-and-gray knit sweater weren’t somber enough for the occasion. The fact that she’d worn red lipstick would be a scandal talked about for weeks.

Because they knew the true reason behind Mack Waters’s sad and miserable existence. Although he’d never gone out of his way to make friends, everyone knew his life had been ruined when he’d been saddled with his hell-raiser of a granddaughter to bring up.

Zoe gave an inner shrug—she could understand why he hadn’t wanted the judgmental, gossipy town at his farewell. Neither did she.

Thankfully, the minister kept the service short. One of the anonymous churchgoers read a short passage from the bible. Again, Zoe had no idea why. The minister’s eulogy was polite and for the most part accurate—praise for Mack’s wine making, including a glowing quote from a prestigious wine reviewer, a short note about the tragic loss of his wife and then his daughter, an unexpected mention of his pride in his granddaughter’s success in the California wine industry. Zoe guessed the minister had to say something about her, since she was sitting right there.

So far, so good. The first promise she’d made to Mack—to give him a private, low-key funeral—was almost over. Pity it was the easiest promise of them all.

When she walked outside into pale sunlight, following his coffin, she realized she should have known better. Dozens of people stood around, women with grim smiles aimed at her, men with hats held to their chests.

Tangawarra was an impossible place to keep a secret—she should have learned that years ago. It was also an impossible place to tell the truth, but then that was the dichotomy of small-town life.

“Zoe?”

A woman in a pale blue fleece windbreaker stepped closer as the undertakers pushed her grandfather’s coffin into the hearse. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, and had the sun-weathered look of someone who worked outside. Zoe frowned, searching her memory to try to put a name to the face.

“My condolences,” the woman said. “Mack was a stubborn old coot, but it’s always hard to lose a loved one.”

Loved one? She and her grandfather had tolerated each other; that was about as far as it went. Zoe just nodded. “Thank you.”

She wished, once again, that she’d thought to pack a winter-weight coat. The morning’s chill still hung in the air. She’d clearly acclimatized to the California weather far more than she’d thought. Zoe was finding the valley colder than she’d ever remembered—a deep, gnawing ache that had gone away only last night when she’d soaked herself in a steaming hot bath. Of course, she’d had to clean the tub first, which had helped warm her up a little, too.

“I’m Patricia Owens. From Long Track Estate—just up the road from Waterford.”

Zoe had seen the sign to the vineyard, neighbors to Waterford on the side opposite to the Lawson Estate, but the woman still didn’t seem familiar.

“We bought the property about eight years ago. Mack was a good neighbor. We used to chat—sometimes

shared pickers and the like. I liked to look out for him—especially in the past year or so when he was beginning to get frail.”

Zoe tried to push away a stab of unwanted guilt. Mack hadn’t phoned her until it was too late—there was no way she could have known that she needed to be home. And even if she had…

At least she’d come back in time, so he hadn’t been alone at the end. She’d given the old man that much, at least.

“Thank you,” she said, giving the other woman a genuine smile. “I really appreciate that.”

Patricia gave her arm a squeeze. “Mack talked about you—he was so proud of what you were doing. You must come by and visit us—are you staying at Waterford?”

Zoe nodded, holding her surprise inside at the unexpected repetition of the words the minister had used in the eulogy. Mack? Proud of her? Zoe was an award-winning winemaker with a reputation—spanning two continents—for quality, perfectionism and an innate talent for bringing out the best in grapes. But she’d never considered what people back in Tangawarra—including her grandfather—thought of her. She’d run so fast to get away from the tiny town, in her mind it was still just as it had been ten years ago. Complete with her own starring role as the town’s one and only teen rebel. She’d never stopped to think that they might see her differently now.

“Come around for dinner one night, then. It would be lovely to get to know you.”

Zoe battled a sudden swell of emotion. “That’s very nice of you. Thanks.”

The funeral directors motioned to Zoe—the procession was ready to head to the cemetery. Zoe would ride in one of their cars. She stepped forward, but Patricia reached out again to place a tentative hand on Zoe’s arm.

“Um, Zoe, would it be okay if we came to the cemetery to pay our respects?”

Zoe looked around; several people in the small crowd were hanging on every word she and Patricia exchanged. Her grandfather couldn’t have been more explicit in his wishes for privacy at the funeral. She figured he meant the interment, as well, but the cemetery was a public place. Zoe couldn’t exactly lock everyone out.

Maybe if she explained.

“Mack was pretty clear—” she began. She stopped short when the slam of the hearse door made the flowers on top of the coffin shudder, as if Mack himself was banging on the lid in protest. Zoe bit back a peculiarly hysterical urge to laugh. A little of her old rebellious streak reared up inside her. You know what, old man? These people want to say goodbye. I’m gonna let them and there’s nothing you can do about it.

She shrugged. “Sure. If you want to.” Although a quick look around the crowd had her instantly regretting her capitulation. It wasn’t just about what Mack would have wanted—or not. She didn’t particularly want to spend a great deal of time with the Tangawarra townsfolk.

Patricia gave her a small hug and pulled back with a sweet, sympathetic look. “Thank you. I’ll see you there.”

From the plush interior of the car, Zoe watched as the small town passed by. She had plenty of time to take in the details; the car was travelling slowly, following the hearse, and the guy from the funeral home made no attempt to speak. Everything seemed unreal, like a David Lynch movie—the colors somehow wrong, some things too bright, others unfocused, as though she existed in a fissure in reality that kept her remote from the world.

Nothing much about the township had changed. Some of the shop fronts were different; a few buildings seemed more modern. The milk bar where Zoe had bought cigarettes—old Mr. Bond sold them to underage teenagers if they paid extra—had become a café with tables and chairs set out on the footpath. The chemist’s where she’d been caught shoplifting was the same, only its sign was brighter and louder, and it had expanded to take over the next-door premises.

An old council building was now the most well-tended and attractive store on the main street—it had become the winemakers’ center, a tourist information spot to help visitors find the various wineries in the valley. The Lawson Estate logo was prominent, and Zoe turned away.

All the worst things that had happened in her life had happened in, or because of, Tangawarra. She didn’t want to notice the changes in the town, the fact that it seemed prosperous, the people friendly, the buildings neat and well maintained. No, she wanted it to still be the dark, miserable place she’d found it as a teenager—it was easier to hang on to those old impressions than integrate new ones. Then it was easier to understand why she’d never wanted to come back.

Just before they left what passed as Tangawarra’s city center, Zoe spied a couple of teenagers hanging around outside the supermarket. The hearse had caught their attention and they stared unabashedly at the pitiful two-vehicle cortege. Both kids were dressed in head-to-toe black; one had shocking pink hair, while the other’s head was half shaved, half long greasy black locks. Zoe peered closer as the car drove past—leather straps encircled their wrists, multiple piercings ran up their ears and one had a heavy-looking crucifix around his neck. Lots of eyeliner on both of them.

Emos, or neogoths, or whatever they were calling themselves these days.

Up to no good is likely what the townsfolk of Tangawarra would call them.

Zoe’s car crawled past and the kids were left standing aimlessly on the footpath, staring after the funeral procession with the world-weary expressions that only teenagers are capable of.

At least there are two of you.

At the cemetery she followed the coffin and the minister over the uneven ground on autopilot. Her attention was mostly focused on walking without stumbling—her impractical heels sank into the ground with every step and she wished she was wearing her usual wine-stained work boots. She was sure Mack wouldn’t have minded.

A tall, granite headstone was already in place, the open grave in front of it lined with eye-wateringly green artificial turf, ready to accept its latest occupant. The headstone hadn’t yet had Mack’s details engraved, but there was a blank space ready for him. Above that was her mother’s name, Margie Waters, dead at thirty-two when Zoe was just ten.

Funny, she didn’t remember her mother’s funeral at all. That was strange. Surely she should remember something as significant as that event. Maybe Mack hadn’t let her attend. But she couldn’t remember that, either.

At the top of the stone was her grandmother’s name; she’d died when Zoe was six. All Zoe had of her were some disconnected memories of hugs, scones hot from the oven and Mack smiling. She was pretty sure he hadn’t smiled ever again after Rachel Waters had died.

The minister began reciting the usual prayers. The wind had picked up and it snatched the monotonous drone away, which was fine with Zoe. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on the words, anyway.

Slowly, something entered in the periphery of her vision. She turned her head, expecting to see Patricia, and realized with a shock that there were at least half a dozen people already standing behind her and more filtering in through the cemetery entrance.

Mack would have hated this. The thought made her smile and a lump grew in her throat that she fought against. She hadn’t cried for ten years—no way was she starting now. Not over this. Not over anything—she simply couldn’t risk it.

Zoe had lived with Mack for nine years, two with her mother, seven more just her and the old man. He’d never really been a parent to her; they’d simply struggled through life together, working it out as they went along. They’d kept in touch sporadically in the decade since he’d sent her away in disgrace a few months before her seventeenth birthday. But Zoe had made her peace with that—it had been the only option he thought available to him.

“Zoe?” The minister gestured to her and she realized she’d missed her cue to throw dirt into the grave. One of the undertakers had removed the floral arrangement from on top of the coffin and Zoe was glad that the lush, lively flowers wouldn’t end up under the ground.

She quickly bent and scooped up a handful of dirt, fertile but thick and claylike, remembering as she did what her grandfather had taught her about terroir and the impact the soil had on the grapes that were grown in it.

It was one of the lessons that had since allowed her to build a career as one of the most renowned up-and-coming winemakers in California’s Napa Valley.

“Goodbye, Mack,” she whispered. Her breath misted in the icy air, floating eerily over the open grave before the wind carried it away. And then the coffin disappeared from sight.

The minister completed his final words and walked over to Zoe to shake her hand and squeeze her shoulder. There was a murmuring then, people began talking and even laughing—telling stories of the old days, she was sure. A shiver of dread ran down her spine. The last thing she wanted to share with this town was memories.

Patricia materialized at her side, cupping her elbow and steering her back toward the cemetery gate. She treated Zoe as if she were fragile, as if she were grief-stricken. Zoe definitely did feel zoned out, but she put that down to tiredness and lingering jetlag. And when had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember.

Overwhelmingly, she was just thankful this task was behind her. Boneless with relief, actually. It probably looked similar to grief, she figured; grief was no stranger to her, and neither was that numb and empty feeling that accompanied it. When she was seventeen and had lost everything, she’d understood what true grief was. This wasn’t even close.

“I’ll make sure she gets there.”

A male voice broke into her thoughts, but Zoe was still finding it difficult to focus on the world around her. Basic senses were returning slowly; she was aware that the wind had become almost a gale, she could smell eucalyptus as people walked over the leaves on the ground and crushed the oil out of them. People were chatting loudly now, getting into their cars with raucous farewells and banging of doors.

“Are you sure?” Patricia asked. “I can go with her in the undertaker’s car. Bert can drive my car over.”

“No, it’s fine, she can come with me.”

Zoe was barely conscious of the fact that Patricia’s soft touch on her arm was replaced with a strong masculine hand and she was being steered assertively toward a European sports car.

“See you there.”

Zoe blinked and found herself sinking into buttery-soft leather seats as the powerful engine purred to life. And next to her sat Hugh Lawson, a grim look on his face. How could she have been that out of it? They were in his car and pulling out of the cemetery car park before she pulled herself together enough to protest.

“See us where? Where are we going?”

“Lawson Estate.”

“What? Why?” The last place on earth she wanted to go.

“Because Mack Waters deserves a decent send-off.”