Page 35 of Bordeaux Bombshell
“Holidays, mostly. He went to Indiana for school. But Frankie talks about him all the time. Everyone is so damn proud of him and his baseball shit.”
Pursing my lips, I finish swiping the color on, then turn to hand it back. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
She takes it from me with a knowing smile. “So, you’re telling me it never stops?”
Yanking a tissue from the box beside the sink, I scrunch it up, then wet it to dab at the mascara smudged under my eyes. The roller coaster of my feelings starts to level out as I concentrate on cleaning up my face. “Not in my experience, no. But at least they don’t all start crying when they talk about him. That was a rough time.”
The confusion and sadness that had been overwhelming all my other emotions are releasing their grip on me, muscled aside by a comforting anger. Anger has been my constant companion for years, and I welcome her back eagerly.
Emma huffs out a laugh. “Anyway, what’s up with the French lady? Is she your mortal enemy or something?”
Is she? The woman who seduced the love of my life, who possibly has a child with him? A tiny voice at the back of my head points out that she doesn’t know about the years I spent loving Nate from afar. Or that I saw them canoodling in France not even a month after he left me brokenhearted.
But the roaring of my anger drowns out that tiny voice. She knew what she was doing. She swiped to that specific picture onpurpose, and she’s been goading me with her knowledge of Nate all afternoon.
I may not be ready to forgive Nate or let myself love him again. But I’m sure as hell not going to let her have him either.
Face tidy, I toss the tissue. I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down my dress. “Something like that, yeah.”
The bitch has got to go.
Nate
“Whatwouldyousayis the most lasting thing you got from your time in Bordeaux?”
Emma’s last question rings oddly. So far, all her questions for this school assignment have been about the vineyard or how we run the marketing and distribution of the wine, only briefly touching on lessons I learned in France.
I rub a hand on the back of my neck. “Probably the connections. People who have generations of experience growing grapes.” I shrug and push the printed paper of questions she handed me earlier around the table. A stray drop of red wine soaks into a corner of the paper, spreading quickly through the sheet.
“They’re not much help in the distribution or selling of our wine, since the market in Europe for American wine is small, especially for a grower of our size.” Calling the work of my grandfather, my father, and myself small rankles, and I twitchin my seat, pushing the feeling aside. “But in circumstances like now, it’s nice to have experienced people to consult with.” Somehow, this twenty-one-year-old has got me on the defensive, and I don’t like it.
She taps her pen against her lips before jotting down a few lines in her notebook. “And how close would you say your relationship is with the folks at Vignobles Hermouet?”
I shift in my seat, tugging on my jeans to get more comfortable. “I would consider them professional colleagues.” What is the nepo child after?
“You wouldn’t consider them personal friends?” She’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, and staring a little too intensely.
Clearing my throat, I lift my glass and take a sip of water before answering. “I suppose you could say that. I did live there for several years, after all.”
“Surely you must have formed some close relationships while you were there?” If laser vision were a thing, the look Emma is giving me would qualify. “You and Manon seem pretty friendly.”
There’s no way this child knows anything about my relationship with Manon—the warning bells going off in my mind are just me being paranoid.
“We worked together often in Bordeaux. I suppose you could call us friends.”
Friends. Occasional lovers when the pain of missing the person we truly loved was too much to bear alone. Each other’s consolation prize.
“Oh, just something Manon said yesterday at the shower made me think there might be more to the story.”
She’s so casual that it sets off every alarm bell in my gut. What happened at the party yesterday? Holding my body stiff, I cross one leg over the other, restraining my knee from bouncing in agitation.
“What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter. Obviously, I was wrong.” She’s taunting me, leaning back in her seat and sipping from her glass, like there isn’t an entire second conversation happening underneath our words.
“If she said something, I would appreciate you sharing.” Dear god, I hope she didn’t say it in front of Sydney. I can’t keep them from meeting, but suddenly, I’m wondering if I should have said something to Manon when she arrived.
Or maybe I should have warned Sydney.
