Sweet Forgiveness (20 page)

Before I have time for my good angel's rebuttal, I snatch the pen and sign my name. I stuff it into an addressed envelope, dash downstairs, and slip it into the mail slot.

Oh, God! Jesus God! What have I done? I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans, as if they're dirty. Lord, help me. I'm just as bad as my ex-fiancé Jackson Rousseau.

Well, not quite.

At least, not yet . . .

I
'
m dressed in leggings and boots and a North Face fleece jacket when I step from the airport, wheeling my suitcase behind me. Instead of being hit with an arctic blast, like I was last month, today's Michigan weather feels almost tropical. I remove my fleece, fish my sunglasses from my tote, and stroll over to the rental-car booth.

I should be in Harbour Cove around three, with plenty of time to find my rental cottage during daylight. Like last time, I'll wait until morning to visit my mother. I need to see her alone.

In my fantasies, my mother will be understanding. She may even tell me she's as unsure about that night as I am, which would completely relieve my guilt. But even in my wildest family reunion fantasies, it's impossible to imagine receiving Bob's forgiveness.

I sit behind the wheel of my rented Ford Taurus in the airport parking lot and call Michael.

“Hey,” I say, always surprised when he answers. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” I can't decide if he's tired or still angry. I decide he's tired.

“I've just landed. It's actually nice today, sunny and warm.” I fasten my seat belt and adjust my mirrors. “What's on your agenda today?”

“Endless meetings.”

“Campaign meetings again?” Though Michael hasn't officially announced his candidacy for the Senate, he spends much of his time with political consultants and big donors, brainstorming strategies for winning the election.

“No,” he says, as if the notion were absurd. “I do have a city to look out for. I do have obligations to my constituents.”

“Of course,” I say, trying to ignore the sting in his tone. “Anything important?”

“I'm having dinner with Mack DeForio tonight, along with the new superintendent.”

The chief of police and the woman I'd met at the fund-raiser, the one with perfect posture. “Jennifer Lawson,” I say, shocking myself. How did I remember her name? “Well, I hope it's productive.”

A silence follows, and I'm not sure how to break it. He isn't asking what I'm doing today because he knows. And he's livid. When I broke the news of my trip to Michael, explaining the orchestrated on-air confession, it was as if he didn't believe me. And now, with this stilted conversation, I wonder if he'll ever trust me again.

“Michael, I know you're angry. I swear I'll make it right. Nobody's going to know the details.”

“You mean nobody's going to find out that the mayor of New Orleans has a girlfriend who lied about being molested?” I hear him sigh, and I picture him shaking his head. “Jesus, Hannah, what were you thinking? You're the name and face of Into the Light. And by association, so am I. People don't forgive acts like this. You're risking every ounce of trust these victims—as well as your viewers—have in you.”

I feel a chill, despite the seventy-degree temperature. They'll never trust
him
, is what he really means. And what saddens me most is that his trumped-up, overinflated ambition is what's most important to Michael. Not my relationship with my mother. Not the possibility that I might actually find peace with my past. But rather, his political career.

“I told you, they'll never know.” And then, before I have time to stop myself, I add, “It's not as if you've never said something that wasn't true.”

There's a deafening silence on the other end. I've gone too far.

“I need to scoot,” he says. “Have a good day.”

He hangs up without a good-bye.

My stomach does a little cartwheel when I see the sign for Merlot de la Mitaine. God, am I twelve years old, or what?

I read once that women should never stop having crushes. Even elderly women and married women should partake in good-natured flirtation from time to time. The article claimed that the playful dalliance provided a harmless way of honing our feminine wiles, of keeping abreast of the craft of seduction. Doing so would actually improve your current relationship, the writer stated.

So, if I were a master of manipulation, I could claim that I owed it to Michael, and our relationship, to visit the vineyard this afternoon.

But I'm not a master manipulator. And I don't want to be.

Dorothy has always been my touchstone. And when I told her about RJ and our little correspondence, her response was the seventy-six-year-old's equivalent of Beyonce's
If you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it
.

“You've no reason not to see this fella. Until you're in a committed relationship, you're free to speak with whomever you choose.”

But that's just the problem. I think I am in a committed relationship. I'm just not sure Michael agrees.

I lower my window and suck in the Michigan air, wondering if it's just my imagination or if it really does smell fresher up here.

An entrance arrow points left, and I turn onto the long winding drive, feeling a rush of anticipation I haven't felt in years. What will RJ's reaction be when he first sees me? I wonder if he got my letter yet, or if my visit will be a complete surprise. Will he recognize me immediately? That single look will tell me everything I need to know about his feelings—or lack of feelings—for me. I pick up speed.

A dozen cars fill the parking lot today. A young couple walk out of the gift shop, each carrying a paper bag with the vineyard's double-M logo.

I smooth down my hair before stepping inside. A middle-aged woman stands behind the cash register, but she's busy ringing up a purchase and doesn't see me.

From beyond the arched doorway, I hear the hum of conversation and laughter and soft background music. I peer into the adjoining tasting room. Unlike last time, a crowd of about fifteen is gathered around the U-shaped bar, talking and laughing and sipping wine.

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

I step through the archway, a bag of breadsticks in one hand and a pair of yellow Wellies in the other. I see him before he sees me. He's behind the bar, talking to three young women as he pours wine into their glasses. I slow my pace. This was a mistake. A huge mistake. RJ is at work. I'm going to embarrass him—and myself—with my silly breadsticks and these boots. Why did I lug the Wellingtons all the way here?

I see him laugh at something one of the women said. I'm going to be sick. He's a player. I'm an idiot, thinking I might have been special. Yesterday it may have been me basking in his spotlight, but today he's flirting with these pretty young women. And tomorrow? It's anyone's guess.

I'm standing stock-still in the middle of the room, halfway between the entrance and the bar, debating whether I should make a run for it or try to sneak out quietly, when he looks up. Our eyes collide.

Everything becomes a blur. I hear my name. I see him set down the bottle, nearly tipping over a glass. I catch sight of the three women at the bar, turning to look at me, their faces curious. Then RJ crosses the room. His eyes stay locked on mine, and even though he's shaking his head, I know he's not chastising me. His eyes are bright, and I see a pink blotch on his cheek.

And at once I'm in his arms. The boots fall to my side. I feel the softness of his shirt against my cheek and inhale the clean smell of linen, of him.

“Southern girl,” he whispers in my ear.

I can't speak. All my life, I will never forget this welcome.

Merlot de la Mitaine is a perfect distraction from the task ahead of me. I try not to stress about tomorrow's meeting with my mother, and concentrate instead on the lively, lighthearted atmosphere of this place.

RJ's wine-tasting bar is a melting pot of sorts, where bikers sit alongside prepsters. Whether it's the wine or RJ's easygoing personality, the patrons seem to lower their guards and drop all pretenses. Two hours disappear as I sit sipping wine and gabbing with customers who come and go. RJ raves about my breadsticks and passes them out to the others at the bar, giving me full credit. I look on as he greets returning customers by name, asks the new arrivals where they're from and what brings them here. He's the one who should have a talk show. He's charming, yes, but not in a calculated way. It's more of a validating,
I-genuinely-like-you
kind of appeal. I watch as he slowly folds a surly-looking man into a conversation he's having with two nuns from Canada. By the time he's worked his magic, Mr. Grump is picking up the tab for the sisters, and the three are making plans to meet for dinner.

The only break RJ takes is at four-thirty, when Zach and Izzy arrive, lugging their backpacks just like last time. He waves to them when they enter the room, then signals to Don, one of the servers, who takes RJ's place behind the bar.

I catch myself smiling as RJ and the kids share hugs and fist bumps. Like before, he helps them settle into a table before disappearing to retrieve their snacks.

Is this guy for real? And what, exactly, is his connection to these children or their mother? Nobody is this nice. Or have I just become cynical?

By six o'clock the crowd wanes, and it's Don now who holds court with the remaining six customers behind the bar. I sit at the back table, helping Izzy with her math, when she lets out a squeal.

“Mommy!”

I turn around and see Maddie walking toward our table. She's dressed in black from head to toe. A dress code at her job, I'm guessing. She slows when she sees me. For a moment I think she's angry, that maybe she really does have a thing for RJ. But then her face softens and she grins.

“Hey! I remember you.” She points a purple nail at me. “Glad you're back. I had a feeling about you two.”

Of course, Maddie's “feeling” is nothing but a wild notion. Still, I feel like I'm a teenager and my friend just told me the boy I like, likes me, too.

RJ and I stand outside waving good-bye to the kids. The view is so different today than it was on that snowy day four weeks ago. The thin branches of the cherry trees are bursting with buds, and new grass the color of limes blankets the orchard.

“It's really beautiful up here,” I say. And it is. The green of the grass contrasts with the red branches of the cherry trees and the blue water beyond.