“No. Unfortunately,” Destin murmured.
“You’re still off to Paris in the morning?” Elliot asked, grasping his brother’s outstretched hand.
Destin nodded as they shook goodbye, then he turned to Nicole. “It was lovely to meet you Miss Parks. I’m sure you’ll take good care of us.” He stared into her eyes as he took her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers.
She grinned and studied his face. “Safe travels.”
Thereza smiled and waved goodbye before turning for the exit.
Nicole turned back to Elliot, but Destin’s departing broad shoulders monopolized her peripheral vision until he strode out of the restaurant. She told herself that the sinking feeling she was experiencing wasn’t disappointment. Surely she didn’t care that he was taking his girlfriend home. She wasn’t attracted to him; it was more like a misplaced sympathy. She felt sorry for him. That was all. Anyway, he was off to Paris. She’d probably never see him again.
“Please excuse Destin, it took him a while to accept the idea of selling. This was his dream, and it’s hard for him to let it go. Even after what happened.”
Nicole understood letting go of dreams. Her thoughts turned toward the adoption, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to let that go.
One more bottle of wine, two desserts and one espresso later, Nicole and Elliot had hashed out the expectations for the sale.
“So, do you have any more questions for me? Anything else you want to know?” Nicole asked, taking the last bite of her acai sorbet.
Elliot thought for a moment. “Whatever we missed tonight, I’m sure we’ll think of tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Bien sûr. I’ll be giving you a tour of the land. I can’t wait to show you Dechamps and Rio Grande.”
Brazil’s blinding afternoon sun rose high above a vast, unkempt field and beat down on Destin’s back as he squatted inside the remnants of a burned and crumbling building. Though he kept his dark head bent, his thin T-shirt did little to shield him from the sun’s hot rays, and he shifted himself into the triangle of shade provided by the partial wall blackened by fire patterns. He swiped at the sweat beaded on his neck and shooed away Magnus, his German shepherd, as he cleared rocks and sticks from the piles of ash, brick and stone that peppered the dirt floor.
He’d found things in the rubble before: a hairbrush, broken crystal decanters, a melted tobacco pipe. But he never found what he was truly looking for—answers. What had happened to his life? Each artifact he found felt like a piece of a puzzle that still eluded him. His wife and everything they’d worked for had disappeared in one night.
He tossed a rock at the charred wall, wishing he could as easily toss the guilt. It had been his idea to start a branch of Dechamps in Brazil, and he and Nina had taken such pride in their new home. They’d had high hopes to build something here, the way his father had done in France. But she was gone now, and it was all his fault.
Yet the thought of letting it go made his stomach turn.
Nicole Parks. Her dark eyes had been haunting him since he left the restaurant the night before. Even after he’d dropped Thereza off at her apartment, refusing to have a nightcap—despite her offer and the suggestive way she’d kissed him goodbye.
His mind replayed his interaction with the feisty attorney over and over. She had a sharp wit and self-assurance. Her poise and direct way of speaking were unnerving, he decided, as if weighing the pros and cons. He’d bet she was stubborn, too. An inner voice told him that those qualities probably made her a good lawyer. A second inner voice reminded him that Nina had been just as bold.
When Nicole had mentioned potential buyers the night before, Destin found he couldn’t listen to the possibility that his failed aspirations might become a success story for someone else. Jumping out of his seat was a reflex, one he had instantly regretted. Once he’d stood, he found that, as much as he wanted to leave the conversation, he hadn’t wanted to leave Nicole’s presence.
The attorney held a certain fascination for him that he couldn’t deny. She was clearly intelligent, and at times had been rather charming. A classic beauty, she’d worn little makeup at dinner, which was a refreshing change from the heavily made-up women at the restaurant. She was tall, about five foot seven, he guessed, and curvy. He had a sneaking suspicion that she might fit against his tall frame quite nicely.
And she was a supertaster. What were the odds of that? He imagined taking her to his workspace in the cellar, letting her taste the wines that had been aging in their barrels since before the fire. Feeding her the foods and desserts he’d paired them with.
Bouncing another rock against the wall, he rebuked himself for those thoughts. Nicole Parks was working for his father. No matter how intriguing she was, he had to make sure that she didn’t succeed.
His soot-covered fingertips swiped at a rock, uncovering a glint of silver. He dug out the small rectangular shape, rubbed it, popped off the top then closed it shut. A lighter. He weighed it in his hand and flipped it around, using his thumbs to clear the dirt. An engraved D became visible. Clutching the lighter hard in his palm, he pulled his fist to his lips and closed his eyes as if in prayer.
He slipped it into his pocket, slapped his hands on his cargo pants, grabbed his shotgun and left the forsaken structure. His four-legged companion loped ahead of him as his boots trod hard through the brush of the surrounding forest, his shotgun in one hand and a small bouquet of wildflowers in the other. The dog waited for him at their destination, a small gravesite with two markers.
He placed the flowers on the graves, and they mingled with the dead petals of the previous bouquet.
Thunder cracked overhead. Clouds had darkened and gathered, suggesting a storm, the quick and fierce kind that Rio Grande was famous for.
They turned back, moving quickly, he and the dog noticing the mass evacuation of the forest inhabitants. Raising his gun, he shot and missed a large brown rabbit when it bounced high in the air. Even the dog couldn’t catch it. Clearing the trees, the pair moved swiftly toward the wine cellar, a high stone structure with a wide wooden door. Just before they entered, the dog barked and turned toward the vastness of the untended plantation. Destin cocked his gun, listening. He heard a car approach in the distance.
* * *
Spectacular. The word resonated over and over in Nicole Parks’s mind as she looked out over the countryside of Rio Grande and navigated the winding mountain road in her rental SUV. Elliot had offered to hire her a driver, but she enjoyed the freedom that renting a car gave her. According to her GPS, she was just twenty minutes outside of Porto Alegre and about ten minutes from the Dechamps winery.
Miles and miles of exuberant nature grew out from the knolls and stretched far into the distance. She eased up on the gas pedal so she could take longer glimpses at waterfalls, rushing streams and small canyons—areas completely undisturbed by human intervention.
In contrast, each cliff-side wind of the road allowed a peek into the valley at the multicolored box homes of the favelas. They sat one on top of the other, climbing up the bottom of the mountain like steps and sprawling around the city like a horseshoe. From what she’d read, the favelas were riddled with crime. From her vantage point, they seemed calm and beautiful.
On the map, the digital dot of her car looked like it was marching up and over a cliff. She had to be close. Yet there were no road markers, and the farther she got up the mountain, the denser the overgrowth of vegetation became, so much so that the sun had to fight to get through. She wondered if anyone would find her if she mysteriously disappeared; she hadn’t passed a car or seen a soul for miles.