In Your Dreams. Kristan HigginsЧитать онлайн книгу.
pretty close to Jack. It was Southern hospitality at its finest.
White-covered tables held elaborate flower arrangements in blue mason jars. Half a dozen copper tubs filled with ice and glass bottles of Coke were left at strategic points (Jack had been schooled that Pepsi was viewed as a sin against humanity down here). Mint juleps and neat bourbons were served at the bar, and pitchers of sweet tea instead of water sat on every table. There was a groom’s cake decorated to look like it was covered in grape leaves. The buffet had shrimp and grits, mac and cheese, fried chicken and roasted oysters. The wedding cake had twelve layers.
“Jesus, would you look at this?” Prudence said, fanning herself. “I feel like I’m at friggin’ Tara.”
The word Southern was tossed around endlessly, as if the guests needed to remind themselves where they lived—Hadley was from a good Southern family, it was a real Southern wedding, Hadley was such a Southern beauty, what a wonderful Southern tradition, the Southern food was Southern delicious, Barb was such a Southern mama, didja see Bill cry, of course, he’s a Southern daddy, sure is hot, you can count on this Southern weather, oh, look at that beautiful Southern smile!
Jack lost count of the times he was told that for a Yankee, he was all right. Apparently, the War of Northern Aggression, as it was called down here, was still a sore spot.
The dancing went on into the wee hours before Jack could finally carry his bride over the threshold of their suite.
Their honeymoon was in the Outer Banks, a perfect week of walking on the beach and making love, swimming and sailing, eating and drinking wine, opening gifts and talking (a lot) about the wedding. Hadley thought it had been magical and perfect and wanted to go over every minute, again and again.
They flew back to Manhattan for one more night away to break up the travel, and, yes, stayed in one of the posh hotels they’d looked at when they’d just met (a suite, though not the penthouse suite, which caused the briefest pout).
And then, finally, they drove to Manningsport, and Jack felt himself relax as they got closer to home. The wedding had been great (if exhausting), the honeymoon idyllic, but this was what he’d really been looking forward to. Not getting married...being married. Eating at home instead of restaurants. Sleeping in his own bed without the unfamiliar sounds of away.
And, Jack had to admit, he wanted to get back to work, because he loved his job. Two solid weeks of not working had made him a little itchy. He missed home, the morning fog that so often hung over Crooked Lake, the fields in the mist, the long, quiet afternoons with his father and grandfather, experimenting with techniques, listening to Pops’s traditions, adding his own more scientific methodology, running things by Dad. He loved the smell of the grapes in the fields, the twisting vines and miraculous clumps of gold, green and purple fruit, the cool damp of the barns and cellars where Blue Heron wine was stored and aged.
But almost as soon as they got home, the troubles began.
ON THURSDAY, WITH a knifelike winter wind slicing off the lake, Jack went into the Cask Room, the stone basement where they stored the oak barrels filled with the red wines of Blue Heron. The cool walls, the distinctive smell of fieldstone, the dim lighting all spoke to the centuries-old art of wine making.
Time was the most important factor. In most things, he supposed. Too little time, and the wine wouldn’t have the chance to mature and develop all the levels of taste and texture. Too much time, and the color would muddy and the flavor would fade.
Like Josh Deiner. Too much time without air. Too much time underwater.
One of the victims sustained a head injury and possible anoxic brain damage. He was the last one rescued.
That had been the report on the news. Jack had watched every minute of the coverage; he’d programmed his DVR to catch every story, every mention, hoping for a hint of something positive for Josh. The kid wasn’t dead. That was it.
He wasn’t dead yet, that was. Nor had he improved.
Jack realized he was sweating, despite the coolness of the cellar. He really needed to get some sleep.
Two nights ago, he’d come home from work to find his front door wide open and every light on; yet he had a clear memory of locking the door, as he did every morning, a leftover from living in Washington, D.C. When the hell had he gone upstairs and turned lights on up there? He had no clue, and it was unnerving. Jeremy Lyon, who was a family friend and a doctor, had called Jack to check on him; maybe Jack would ask for a prescription for a sleeping pill.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Thinking of u.
Hadley. Frankie had caved and given her sister the number, then called to apologize.
Hadley was the wine that hadn’t aged enough—bright and beautiful in color, vibrant and lively at first taste, and then the lingering tannin, the cottony, unpleasant feeling. Too much, too soon.
Dinner w/ me & Frankie this week?
Playing the Frankie card so soon? Frankie sometimes came out to have dinner with Jack, sharing stories about school and herself and not mentioning her sister. She’d called right after the news of the accident hit and sent him a few texts since then. Jack had always liked her.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket, pulled the plug on the side of the barrel and inserted the sampling tube. He let it fill and then poured the wine into the glass. Swirled and inhaled the scent, getting notes of blackberry, tobacco and leather. Nice. He took a sip. Nope, not ready yet. Too cottony.
The door at the top of the stairs opened, and his youngest sister came waddling down the stairs. Her giant golden retriever, Blue, followed, making a beeline for Jack’s leg.
“Hello, you horny bastard,” he said. The dog smiled up at him, happy dope that he was.
“Hey, Jack,” Faith said.
“Hey. Should you be down here in your delicate condition?”
“I have at least seven weeks to go. Also, Goggy brought in half a ton of grapes the day she went into labor with Dad, and Pru drove the grape harvester the day Ned was born, so I think I can handle the stairs.” She handed him a foil-wrapped package. “Lemon cake from Mrs. Johnson. I was told not to eat any. It’s so unfair, you being her favorite.”
“I can’t help being perfect,” he said in a pale imitation of his usual back-and-forth with his sisters. The cake was still warm. He’d eat some later, maybe. Then again, his appetite hadn’t been so good.
Faith sat at the old wooden table. “Can I smell the wine, at least?”
He handed her the glass, and she took a deep sniff of the wine. “Oh, nice. Leather and plum. This’ll be great in a few months, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
She settled back in her chair and rested her hands on her bulging stomach. “So how are you doing these days, buddy?”
“Good. Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Thanks.” He wasn’t about to burden her with tales of limp, lifeless teenagers. “I’m fine, Faithie.”
“Good. You know, we all love you, even if you’re a little prince.”
“Please. I’m head winemaker for our family dynasty. You, on the other hand, plant pretty flowers.” Faith was a landscape architect, and while he completely respected what she did, he wasn’t about to tell her. It would throw off his big-brother coolness.
“I’ll ignore that. So, Jack.”
“Yes, what’s-your-name?”
“You know Emmaline, right?”
“Sure.”