“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