“They won’t care about us trespassing?” I ask with a soft laugh.
Even in the dark, I can sense his smile. “No.”
“Let’s go before it gets too late,” he says. I hear him more than see him as he rises up beside me and reaches out his hand for me to take.
I take it and he lifts me up, holding onto it as he leads me down the backside of the hill toward the buildings. It’s an easy enough slope to traverse, even in the blinding darkness.
As we get closer to the large house, which is nearer, I note the beautiful yard in front, lit up by lanterns and hanging lights. There are pathways and benches to take a rest on.
Enrique stops suddenly, and it takes me a moment to figure out why. On one of the quaint benches, sitting in the warm glow of the lights is an older man.
“I thought it was you. Only one person has a habit of visiting through the back way. It has been a while since I last saw you,” he says in that slightly thick Spanish that I’ve become used to in this part of the world.
Enrique doesn’t respond, seemingly caught up on what to say.
I peer closer at the old man, wondering why the hesitation. Even in the dim light, certain things are glaringly apparent, all combining to form only one conclusion.
This man is his grandfather.
Chapter Forty-One Enrique
I stare at Sebastián Abaroa, as usual, stunned into uncertainty.
I’ve never told him who I am. If he has any indication, he’s never given it away. As far as I can tell, to him, I am simply a young man who enjoys trespassing on his vineyard every once in a while. It’s something that I’ve been assured he’s open to from any idle wanderers, so long as they have no ill intentions on his land.
It was Sister Clara, my mother’s cousin who told me about this winery where my grandfather lived. The first time I visited, I came through the front. I was awed at the place that my mother had been born and raised. How could she have left all of this for a man like Richard Coleman?
That first time is when I met the man now rising up to greet us. I had no idea who he was until he gave his name. There weren’t many similarities between us. His eyes are a clear blue, and his thick head of hair fully gray now. He’s also shorter than I am by a few inches.
“Señor Abaroa,” I say respectfully.
He laughs and waves that away. “It is Sebastián, as I told you last time. I see you have brought a friend this time.”
“Very nice to meet you…um, Sebastián?” Leira says, hesitantly using his first name.
He laughs again. “See? Your friend has no problem. Though I don’t have a name?”
“Leira Montoya.”
“Montoya,” he repeats, nodding as though appreciating that. “Though…not from Spain?”
“No,” she says. Even I note the testiness in her voice.
A grin spreads Sebastián’s mouth. “It’s the accent. American?”
“I am,” she says in a more relaxed tone.
“Ah,” he says, looking away with a slight grimace. He seems to remember himself and turns his attention back to us with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I have a complicated relationship with America.”
“So do I,” Leira says, quick as a whip.
This gets a hearty laugh out of him. “I think I might like you.”
“I think I might like you too.”
This is the most Spanish I’ve heard out of her since we met. So she’s more fluent than she first let on.
Frankly, this might be the longest conversation I’ve had with Sebastián, at least on a personal level. The first time we met, it was in passing when he happened to be in the winery where guests usually enter. The second time, he remembered me and we mostly discussed wine and winemaking. Since then, it’s mostly been along the lines of “hello, old friend.”
“So you are in town for a visit?” he inquires.
“Yes, but we left our car up on the side of the road and we have to go get it.”
“Ah, I can have Miguel drive you before he heads home. In the meantime, perhaps your friend here can help us get started on dinner as I am officially inviting you both to dine with me tonight. Indulge a man with too much food and wine for just one person.”
“I’d love to!” Leira replies before I can even open my mouth.
“Good, good!” Sebastián says, his face so filled with joy it surprises me.
Leira lets go of my hand to skip over and join him, slinging her arm through his.
I watch them go, wondering what just happened. I wasn’t expecting this. There is a deliberate reason why I’ve never told Sebastián the truth. These visits are meant to be brief, impersonal treks along the branches of my family tree. Nothing that would give anyone any reason to think I do more than visit a beloved winery.
Now, I’ve put us all in danger.
* * *
By the time Miguel has driven me to my car and I’ve parked it out front, then headed back to Sebastián’s home, he and Leira are practically old friends. I knocked, and with no answer, I simply opened the door and followed the sound of them talking loudly in the large kitchen.
“We hid the guns with the pigs. They would have never stooped to searching in the muck and shit.”
Leira laughs and slaps him playfully on the arm.
“Sebastián was just telling me about his time spent fighting with the Basques.” She walks over and pours me a glass of Riojas wine, naturally from the Abaroa vineyards.
“That was a long time ago,” he says as he pours olive oil into a very large frying pan and places it on the stove. “Spain is always in conflict with
