Sweet Forgiveness (11 page)

I grin.

“Kids, this is Ms. . . .”

“Hannah,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

I shake their hands. They're adorable, but I can't help noticing the stains on the girl's dress, her hem that's come loose. They don't look as if they belong to the handsome vigneron dressed in Levi's and an oxford-cloth shirt.

“Tell me about your day,” he says, tousling Izzy's hair, then turning to Zach.

They talk over each other, telling him about a reading test and the boy who got in a fight and tomorrow's field trip to the Native American Museum.

“Get started on your homework. I'll fix your snack.”

“What time is Mommy coming?” Izzy asks.

“Her last appointment's at five.”

He disappears into the kitchen while I try to figure out just who these ragamuffins are. I watch as they take their place at a table and pull out their schoolwork. His girlfriend's children, no doubt.

RJ appears five minutes later with a platter loaded with cheese and grapes and slices of fresh pear. He makes a show of serving them, placing a black napkin over one arm and bowing. They seem familiar with this ritual, and I don't get the impression he's doing it to impress me.

“Something to drink, my lady?”

Izzy giggles. “Chocolate milk, Your Majesty.”

RJ laughs. “Ah, my status has been elevated. I'm royalty today?”

“You're the king,” she says, her beaming face telling me that she, at least, considers him noble.

He delivers chocolate milk in two wineglasses, then becomes serious again.

“Finish your work before your mom gets here.”

“What's the bonus today?” Izzy asks.

“Yeah,” Zach says, opening his math book. “How about a ten-spot again? That was sa-weet.”

“You never know,” RJ says. “Maybe a ten-spot, maybe a turnip. I'll never tell.”

The kids quickly turn to their work, and RJ returns to the bar. Instead of sitting on the ledge behind the bar, he pulls out a stool beside mine. I look at my watch.

“I should get going. You've got your hands full.”

He throws up his empty hands. “You're not keeping me. Stay. Unless, of course, I'm keeping you.”

“No.”

He pours me a club soda and adds a lemon and a lime.

“Thanks. Just the way I like it.”

He smiles, and whether it's the wine or the long, lazy afternoon, I feel like I'm with a friend rather than a stranger I met less than two hours ago. He wants to know what it's like to live in New Orleans, and he tells me he grew up downstate, his mother still lives there.

“She remarried and has a whole slew of step-grandkids. It's good for her, but I think my sister's a little jealous. My mom sees her step-grandkids more than she sees my niece.”

“Does your mom get up here often?”

“Nah. She's like you. The place doesn't hold great memories for her.” He peeks over at the kids. Zach is punching numbers into his calculator, and Izzy is coloring.

“Have you ever been to a vineyard?” he asks.

“Just as far as the tasting room.”

“C'mon, I'll show you around.”

I'm not prepared for the blanket of white when RJ opens the door. Huge chunks of cotton candy fall from the sky. I dash out the door forgetting that I'm wearing heels.

“It's gorgeous,” I say, ignoring the wetness seeping into my shoes. I lift my face to the sky, stretch my arms, and spin. Flakes land on my nose, and I open my mouth to catch one.

RJ laughs. “Spoken like a true southerner. By this time of year, we're pretty sick of the stuff.” He bends down and grabs a handful. “But like it or not, it's here, just as they predicted.” He throws the snowball, aiming for a grapevine trellis. He misses, but he's got a good arm.
Good arm, good man
, my father would say.

“Come back inside,” he says. “Before you freeze.”

He's right. The short trench coat I'd packed was obviously the wrong choice. I'm disappointed, though. I feel like I'm inside a snow globe up here on this beautiful patch of earth.

RJ puts a hand on my back and guides me toward the door. “We'll save the tour for your next visit.”

My next visit. I like the sound of that.

I'm almost to the entrance when my heel slips on the icy concrete. My right leg lurches forward, so that I'm nearly doing the splits. “Shit,” I yelp, and hear the seam of my dress rip. RJ grabs hold of my arm just before I reach the ground.

“Oh, hey, steady . . . steady.”

With his help, I pull my humiliated self to my feet. “Oh, now, that was graceful,” I say, slapping snow from my legs.

He grips my arm tight. “You okay? I should have salted this area. Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, then nod. “Yes. I fractured my ego.”

“The judges' scores are in. Nine-point-five. You gained an extra point for the split skirt.”

His humor takes away the sting. I examine my new three-inch slit.

“Lovely.”

“Looks like you've ruined your dress.”

“Yup. And I just bought it last week.”

“You know,” he says, studying me, “sometimes you've just got to let yourself fall. It's when you resist, when you try to break the fall, that you get hurt.”

I let the words wash over me, acutely aware of his protective hand still resting on my arm. I look up at him. His face is serious now. I notice the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the shadow of a beard breaking through his olive skin, the gold flecks shooting through his brown irises. I have a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the scar on the left side of his jaw.

The sound of an engine breaks the spell. We both look toward the driveway. A black SUV covered in road salt comes into view, pushing its way up the snowy drive. I tuck my hair behind my ear and wrap my coat tighter across my chest. God, I was seconds away from humiliating myself a second time. The wine has obviously gone to my head.

The vehicle rolls to a stop and a plump woman hops out, wearing a red jacket and bright pink lipstick.

RJ gives my arm a little squeeze before stepping over to her. “Afternoon, Maddie,” he says. He gives her a quick hug, then gestures to me. “Meet my friend Hannah.”

I shake her hand. She's pretty, with flawless ivory skin and bright green eyes. And she's not the only one with green eyes right now. Every brain cell I possess is signaling that I'm being irrational. I have no reason to be jealous. I don't even know this man. And what's more, I'm in love with Michael.

“Come in,” he says to Maddie. “Kids are doing their homework.”

She answers by holding up a pack of Virginia Slims.

“Okay, then,” RJ says. “Might be a minute. I have some bonuses to dole out.”

“You spoil 'em, RJ. Keep it up and they'll get soft on me, think they're one of the Kardashians.”

I don't know whether to follow him inside, so I stay outside with Maddie. I huddle under the eaves beside the door while she leans against her SUV and lights a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the cascading snow. She's young—I'd guess around thirty. It's hard to believe she has a son as old as Zach.

“You a friend of RJ?” she asks, punctuating the question with a plume of smoke.

“We just met today.”

She nods, as if finding a strange woman here were typical.

“He's good people,” she tells me.

I want to tell her that her endorsement wouldn't have mattered. I already knew he was good people. I could tell by the way he treated her children.

I
t's nearly seven by the time the kids and their backpacks are loaded into the SUV and everyone has said their good-byes. Izzy and Zach wave to us as they pull away. RJ and I step back inside, and he closes the door. It's dusk now, but after being out in the frosty air, the rough-hewn room seems more cozy than gloomy.

“I really need to get going,” I say, stopping just inside the door.

“Do you even know how to drive in this stuff?”

“I'll be fine.”

“That's not a good idea. I'll drive you to your mom's. I'll swing back down tomorrow and bring you back for your car.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “And besides, I'm not going to my mother's. I'll find a motel tonight.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“It's complicated,” I say.

“I get that.” Something in his nonjudgmental tone makes me think he really does get it.

“Look,” he tells me, “you'd be better off staying put for the night. I have no ulterior motive, I promise. I live upstairs. I'll sleep on the sofa . . .”

“I can't.”

He nods. “Yup. You're right. Smart woman. But at least stay for a few more hours, give the road crews time to plow. I've got a couple of steaks, I can make a salad. Later, I'll drive you to town.”

I'm tempted, but I shake my head. “It'll only get worse. I really need to go. And I can drive in this, I promise.”

He looks at me and throws up his hands. “I can see I'm dealing with a hardhead. You win. I won't hold you here against your will.”

“I appreciate your concern.” And I do. I can't remember the last time someone's been so protective of me.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Look, it was great meeting you. I really enjoyed just sitting here, talking to you.”

“Me, too.” I look around, as if it's the last time I'll see it. “And your place, it's beautiful. You should be really proud.”

“Thanks. Next time you'll get the tour. The vineyards are pretty spectacular when they're in bloom.”

I blow air into my hands, teasing him. “And when might that be? August?”

He grins and shakes his head. “Southern girl.”

His eyes are soft and locked on mine. Again I'm struck by a desire so strong that I cross my arms to resist reaching for him. I could take one step and I'd be in his arms. I'd lay my cheek against his chest. What would it feel like to have his arms close in on me, his hand stroke my hair . . . ?

Jesus, this is not a romance novel! We're just a couple of lonely adults. It's probably been months since RJ has seen a single woman in this northern no-man's-land.

He reaches into his wallet and hands me one of his business cards. “Here's my number.” He flips it over and scribbles a number on the back. “This is my cell. Call me once you check into your motel. I need to know you made it safely.”

I take the card, but it feels strange, as if I'm crossing a line. Why does it never seem the right time to tell him that I have a boyfriend? But that's ridiculous. I shouldn't have to tell him. He's just being a gentleman, after all. He wants to be sure that I make it home safely. I would sound insane if I blurted out that I have a boyfriend.

“Okay,” I say. “I'd better hit the road.”

“One more thing. Hang on.” He hurries to the other side of the room and enters what looks to be a storage closet. A minute later he returns, holding up a pair of bright yellow Wellingtons.

“If you insist on leaving, I insist you take these.”

“I can't take your boots.”

“They came with the property. I've been waiting for someone like you to come along and claim them.”

I lift my shoulders. “Just call me Cinderella.” I immediately regret my attempt at humor. Cinderella got the slipper from the prince . . . and then she married him. Does RJ think that I think that he . . . Oh, God, I'm such an idiot!

I slide out of my heels and stuff my feet into the boots. They're at least a size too small, but he's right, they're better than my heels. “Thanks,” I say. I spin around, modeling my new duds. I can only imagine what a sight I am, with my hair limp from the snow, my face barren of makeup, and now a pair of rubber boots beneath my torn dress. I wouldn't dream of letting Michael see me like this. “Where's the fashion police when you need them?”

But RJ doesn't laugh. He just studies me. “You look amazing,” he finally says.

I gaze down at my feet. “You obviously have terrible vision.”

“Twenty-twenty,” he says, his eyes cutting into mine.

“I need to go.”

He takes a breath and claps his hands. “Right. You stay put for a minute. Hand me your keys.”

I watch from the window as he starts my car, then scrapes the snow and ice from the windows. This simple act touches me, perhaps even more than the food and wine.

“Okay,” he says, stamping his feet outside the door. “Your chariot awaits. Call me as soon as you get settled.”

I hold out my hand. “Thank you. You've provided food, shelter, clothing, and great company, all in one day. I really, really appreciate everything.”

“It was my pleasure.” He takes my hand in his. “I'll see you again.”

He says it with such certainty I almost believe him.

I should have listened to RJ. I had no idea driving in this weather would be so stressful. Snow accumulates on my windshield faster than my wipers can shuck it away. A layer of frost builds where the blades don't reach, and I have to crane my neck to see out the window. A half hour into the drive, I'm tempted to turn back. But I plow on. The white snow reflects the moonlight, creating a shadowy landscape of blues and grays. I creep down the winding lane at the pace of a tortoise, and head south when I reach Peninsula Drive. Keeping my eyes peeled on the set of car tracks in front of my headlights, I follow the curve of the peninsula. In some places the wind has formed drifts, and there's nothing but a blur of white in front of me. I drive blindly, half the time I'm not sure I'm even on the road. My knuckles ache. My neck is in knots. My eyeballs sting. And I can't stop smiling.

It takes me almost two hours to make the trek back to town. I pull into the first motel I find and let out a huge sigh of relief when I shut off my engine.

The motel room is sparse but clean, and so inexpensive I thought I'd misheard the manager. “Prices quadruple in another month or so. For now, we're just happy to have business.”

I don't know why I chose to call Michael first. Or why I washed my face and got into my pajamas before calling him. All I know is that when I finally decide to call RJ, I'm snuggled into bed with all the time in the world to talk.

I open my purse to retrieve his card. I check the front pocket, then the inside pocket.

“Where the heck . . . ?” I dump the contents of my purse onto the bed, becoming more frantic. It's not there.

I jump out of bed and dig through the pockets of my coat. “Damn it!” I push into my too-small Wellingtons and button my coat over my pajamas.

For fifteen minutes I search the rental car like a madwoman, before I'm finally convinced that I do not have RJ's business card. I must have dropped it somewhere between the front entrance and the rental car.

I rush back to the room and open my laptop. I search the vineyard's website, impressed when I see RJ's credentials: a PhD in plant science, numerous awards and patents pending. I find the phone number to the vineyard, but of course he doesn't list his cell phone number.

My hands shake as I punch the numbers into the phone.
Please answer. Please answer.

“You've reached Merlot de la Mitaine.”

Damn! The vineyard's automated message.

“For hours, press one. For directions, press two . . .”

I listen to RJ's deep voice until the last prompt is given. “To leave a message, press five.”

“Uh, hi . . . this is Hannah. I lost the card you gave me. Just following your order. Letting you to know I made it back to town. Because you wanted me to call, remember? Okay. Um . . . thanks. Thanks again.”

Ack! I sound like a fool. I hang up without leaving my phone number. It wouldn't be right. I have a boyfriend.

I climb into bed and turn off the lamp, feeling like a kid who just realized that today wasn't Christmas after all.