Chapter 3
Quinn turned right on Sycamore Lane after we passed through the south vineyard. It was the longer way to my house.
“I want to look at the Pinot and the Chardonnay in the north fields,” he said. “Let’s see how much cleanup we’ve got over there. That wind did a lot of damage.”
Though the tornado had not passed through here, it had taken its toll in downed leaves, limbs, and small branches. The private gravel road that wound through the vineyard in a lazy ellipse was littered with debris. Wherever I looked, fresh green leaves carpeted the ground.
“Have you checked on your house yet?” I asked as we passed the private cul-de-sac where his cottage and the now-empty farm manager’s house sat on the edge of the woods.
“Nope.”
He swerved to avoid a large limb and stopped the Mule with a lurch that made me grab the dashboard. I was about to ask what he was doing when I saw that he’d leaned forward so his elbows rested on the steering wheel and his fingertips covered his mouth. He was staring at the old sycamore—or what was left of it—with an expression of shocked disbelief.
The tree that had given the road its name had stood here as long as my family owned this farm. Something —wind or, more likely, lightning—had cleaved it down the middle. The right side had fallen across the road, creating an impenetrable barrier that seemed to reach the sky. What remained upright, a jagged spear of new-looking wood, made me think of a wound so deep it exposed bone.
My eyes filled and I looked away so Quinn wouldn’t see the tears. Losing that tree was like a death in the family.
“I’m sorry, Lucie,” he said.
“I wish it had been any tree but this one. I even wish it had been my house. That could be rebuilt.”
“I know.”
It was pointless, but I asked anyway. “Do you think an arborist can save it?”
He started the Mule and shifted into reverse. “I wish I did, but honestly I think it’s too far gone.”
I nodded and wiped my eyes with the back of my grimy hand.
“We’ll still try,” he said.
“Must have been an incredible lightning strike to bring it down like this.”
“I’ll get some of the guys over here with chain saws to clear the road. Let’s hope nothing else came down between here and your house.”
“Can you let me know when they do that?” I asked. “I can’t bear to watch. I need to be sure I’m somewhere else.”
“Of course.” His voice was gentle. “I promise, I’ll take care of it. We’ll do our best to save it.”
We drove through more storm-wrought debris but encountered nothing as devastating as the sycamore. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he pulled into the circular driveway to my home. Built more than two hundred years ago by my ancestor, Hamish Montgomery, and named in honor of the 77th Highlanders, his regiment that had fought in the French and Indian War, Highland House was a graceful blend of Federal and Georgian architecture made of stone quarried from our land. Hamish had carved the Montgomery clan motto—
I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.
“At least it spared the buildings,” Quinn said, pulling up at the front door.
“I know.” I let out a long breath. “We’re lucky. It could have been so much worse.”
“Wonder how long we’ll be without power,” he said.
“A couple of days, I imagine.”
“How are you going to manage a shower with no water?” he asked.
“The water tank will be full, so at least I can get cleaned up even if it’s tepid water.”
“I think I’ll just go—what’s your French expression?—au naturel until we get power restored.”
“You mean miss the weekly bath on Saturday night?”
He grinned. “Listen, princess, I bathe and shave every day. I change my underwear.”
“I’m not touching that.” I climbed out of the Mule, glad to be back to our usual exchange of banter. “And I’d better get ready before the sheriff’s people get here.”
“Any idea who that body is?” he asked. “Maybe it’s some black sheep relative who didn’t make it inside the family burial ground.”
“I thought of that. But there’s no coffin and it looks like he was just dumped there in a shallow grave.”
“What makes you so sure it’s a he? Maybe it’s a she.”
I shuddered. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Guess so,” he said.
Inside, the house was still and airless. Already I could feel the weight of the outdoor heat filtering into the two-story foyer as it reclaimed the dry air-conditioned coolness. Upstairs, my bedroom would probably soon be unbearable. At least I could sleep in the hammock on the veranda, as I’d done when the air-conditioning system died two years ago. I found camping lanterns, candles, and flashlights in the front hall closet and put them next to Leland’s favorite bust of Thomas Jefferson in the foyer alcove. Then I climbed Hamish’s grand spiral staircase, watching dust motes swirl around the Waterford chandelier in the dying daylight.
I’d nearly lost the house once in a fire, but I’d rebuilt what had been destroyed. Thank God this time I’d been damn lucky.
I took a sponge bath instead of a shower to save water and didn’t bother to dry off. The landline on my bedside table rang as I was in the bathroom pulling my wet hair into a ponytail. The answering machine would be knocked out, but at least the phone worked.
“Two deputies are waiting at the villa for you, and you’ll be happy to hear the Gator is back in business,” Quinn said when I answered.
“I’ll be right there. What was wrong with the Gator?”
He snorted. “Someone put the gas-and-oil mixture we use for the weed whacker in the tank. I figured it might be some dumbass stunt like that. I drained the tank. Caught it before it fouled the plugs and we had a real mess on our hands.”
“So it was an accident.”
“Accident my ass. Those gas cans are labeled in English and Spanish plain as the nose on your face. The only way you could have screwed up is if you had your eyes closed while you were filling the damn gas tank,” he said. “If I find out who did this, he’ll be cleaning wine barrels from now to harvest.”
“I’ll talk to the guys and say something about paying attention and being more careful.”
“That would include your boy Chance.”
“He’s not ‘my boy.’ Plus he knows better. It might have been Tyler. He can be sort of scatterbrained.”
“You mean the Tyler who caused a volcano this morning when Chance let him top off one of the barrels of Pinot?”
I closed my eyes and rubbed a spot on my forehead. A volcano was our term for filling something too full. If the wine was still fermenting and someone overfilled the barrel, it caused the kind of explosion that resulted from shaking a bottle of beer and opening it, or popping a champagne cork too quickly. Not something anyone wanted to happen to a five-thousand-dollar barrel of wine.
“Yes, okay,
“Maybe he shouldn’t be working here.”
“I promised Jordy and Grace—”
“Yeah, yeah. That we’d babysit him until he finds a real job. Wherever he goes next, he shouldn’t be allowed to operate heavy equipment or be around sharp objects.” I heard him sigh. “You’re the boss, so if you want him to
