In His Eyes

Hugh tugged his chair closer to the bed and sat. Anxiety was still unsettling his gut, although he couldn’t put his finger on why.

She managed a weak, mocking laugh. “Don’t worry, Hugh, I’m not about to throw a tantrum or pull out a razor blade.”

He cursed himself for being so easy to read. But then, to her, he always had been. He’d just thought he’d learned to hide his inner thoughts better in the intervening years. “I want…I want you to be okay,” he finished lamely.

She smiled then, sad and sweet. “You always were too nice,” she said, almost to herself.

“Not really,” he said.

She studied him curiously for a while and Hugh couldn’t bring himself to look away. If it was possible for ten years of hurt to be conveyed in someone’s eyes, then Zoe had mastered it.

When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Hugh, it was all a long time ago. We’re both very different people now.”

He certainly hoped so. They were going to have to find a way to deal with each other without this massive lump of history coming between them. He wanted to buy Waterford—that meant discussions, negotiations, meetings. Interactions he intended to conduct as an adult, not an angry and broken-hearted seventeen-year-old.

But despite his best intentions, a flash of fury from back then revived itself somewhere deep inside him. It was wrong, so wrong, to be angry with someone for something they couldn’t control. Zoe had been sick. Mental illness was a disease just like cancer—intellectually he understood that. Emotionally, the idea that she’d tried to take her life again after she’d promised…

“Mack told me you were lucky to survive,” he said. So much for leaving the past in the past.

Her eyes became glassy. Not with tears, but with a sadness that was beyond crying. “That’s not quite true. It took a few weeks to recover, but I was eventually okay—healthwise.”

He noted her modifier, didn’t know what to say about it. “Good. I’m, uh, glad to hear it.” Cringe. Hugh scrubbed a hand across his mouth. His business goals evaporated. Suddenly, more than anything, he needed to talk about it. Let her know how hard it had been on him—how doing the right thing had felt like the worst thing possible. He wasn’t sure if talking would make it any better, but it would be something.

“Zoe? I…” He blew out a breath. “Christ, this is hard.”

“Don’t say it.” She looked almost…frightened.

Of what? “What?”

She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together. “Don’t apologize. I couldn’t bear it. Not now.”

Apologize? No, that wasn’t what he’d been about to do. “But I—”

She didn’t let him finish. “It’s too late,” she said simply.

His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I know.” She was right. They should leave it alone.

A thick silence fell over the room.

“Why?” Her voice was barely more than a breath.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you come for me? I called so many times, wrote letters when my emails to your account bounced…”

He ignored the email comment—he’d deactivated his account on instruction from his father and Mack. But letters? “I didn’t get any letters.”

“You didn’t…” She sighed heavily. “Your dad.”

Hugh nodded. Pete Lawson would have made sure that any mail from Zoe didn’t reach Hugh. He’d probably thought he was helping. “Yeah, I guess.”

“But I called.” Her voice held no accusation; it was a simple statement of fact.

“I know. But, Zoe, I was doing what I thought was best. They told me it would be better for your recovery if I didn’t speak to you. And…” Oh, this was hard. On a scale of one to ten, this sucked pole.

“You still believed what Jason told you.”

It sounded so juvenile now. Hell, it had been juvenile at the time, he’d just been too young to realize it.

“What is Jason up to these days?” Zoe asked mildly.

“Accountant. Married, with a kid, I think. Lives in Melbourne. I don’t see him much. He came out here a couple of years ago to visit the winery—that was probably the last time.”

“You guys were best friends.”

“Yeah.” The friendship hadn’t survived Zoe’s betrayal—fictional or otherwise. And it certainly hadn’t survived Hugh’s guilt. He and Jason had stopped being friends the day after Zoe’s collapse.

“I didn’t, you know. Not with him. Not with anyone else when we were together. Just in case you were still wondering.” She sounded so calm.

Hugh managed a tight smile. “I wasn’t.” Although, if he was honest he’d never been completely sure. Jason was full of shit, but Zoe had earned her bad-girl reputation. And she’d been the first—and only—girl Hugh had lost his heart to. Even the idea of her infidelity had been enough to send a blood haze over his vision. His teenage rage had been a scary thing—to both himself and Zoe, he was sure.

“But you were fine,” he said, deliberately not making it a question, ready for this conversation to end. Zoe’s still countenance and her calm, monotone voice were becoming unnerving.

She gave a strange, bleak laugh. “Oh, I don’t think I was ever fine again, actually. But I get by.”

Ah, shit. Had he intended this conversation to make him feel better? Because that hadn’t happened so far.

“Did you cut yourself again? Or was it something else?” The question blurted itself out without Hugh’s conscious permission. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

For the first time, her Stepford-wife-like composure seemed to slip. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Zoe sat up straighter in bed. “No, no. This is important. Why did you ask that?”

Hugh sighed what felt like his hundredth sigh for the day. He kicked himself yet again for starting down this path in the first place. “I guess…I guess I asked because it’s been bothering me, not knowing what you’d done.” That was part of it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the true source of his unease about Zoe’s disappearance. Let alone express it.

She swung her legs over the bed to sit up, her face a picture of the kind of deadly seriousness that had always made Hugh’s heart pound. She’d worn that expression when she’d talked about her plans to get away from Tangawarra, from her grandfather, when she’d talked about her first suicide attempt at thirteen, when she’d told him she loved him.

“Hugh—we had a fight, right?”

“Yeah.” Ten years ago and he still remembered it in high definition. Jason had just dropped his bombshell. Then Zoe walked up, all urgent and panicked looking. I need to talk to you. Oh, he’d needed to talk to her, too. He’d needed to yell. The fight had been momentous. Zoe had denied everything so vehemently she’d worked herself into hysterics.

“And then you passed out.”

“You took me to the nurse.”

Hugh nodded. “And then, after Mack took you home, you…you did it again. He wouldn’t tell me how. But I guess I figured…” He gestured towards her wrists.

Zoe shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, no.”

The ground shifted under Hugh’s feet at her expression. “What?” he asked nervously.

“Is that what Mack told you? That I tried to kill myself again?”

The weird anxiety in Hugh’s belly stepped into high gear. He had a feeling that whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be good. “That’s what both Mack and my father told me.” He paused. “You didn’t?” he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Oh, Hugh. Mack sent me away because I was pregnant.”

* * *

SHOCKMADETHETRUTH come tumbling out before Zoe could reel it in. The full weight of the grief and distress of those twelve months after she’d been banished from Tangawarra crashed down on her all over again. And Hugh hadn’t even known?

“Pregnant?” Hugh blurted. He was gripping the seat of his chair as if he might fall off.

She couldn’t speak, so simply nodded. A hot tear spilled down her cheek. It surprised her so much she swiped at it and stared at the telltale moisture on her fingertip. Tears? Really? An edge of panic rose inside her. She couldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever. Because if she did, Zoe genuinely feared she might not be able to stop.

“What? But…what?” His eyes popped as his voice rose.

She struggled to calm her ragged breathing, blinked up at the ceiling to force the treacherous tears away. “You didn’t know.” It wasn’t a question.

If someone had told her that a five-minute conversation could shatter some of the foundations on which she’d built her life, Zoe would never have believed them. But here she was….

“Of course I didn’t know.” His anger began to surface again, knuckles white against the chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“I tried!” she protested. “What do you think I needed to talk to you about that day? But you started in on me about cheating on you with Jason. You didn’t give me a chance and I…”

She threw her hands in the air at the futility of at all. Too late. It was all just far too late.

That last day was a blur. She’d fainted at school after working herself into a state arguing with Hugh. Hugh, ever proper, had carried her to the nurse’s office. After he’d gone back to class, the nurse—a stern, severe woman—had asked a lot of questions. Zoe’s confession prompted the scowling woman to make Zoe take a pregnancy test, confirming her own suspicions. Then her grandfather had been called in and she’d been taken home, the older man stony silent in the car beside her.

That night, Mack locked Zoe in her bedroom, the first time he’d ever resorted to such a measure, even though she’d given him plenty of reasons before then. She could have climbed out the window if she’d wanted, but fear kept her captive.

Instead she lay there, rigid with terror, listening to her grandfather make phone call after phone call. Then Hugh’s father arrived and the two men had spoken, too quietly for Zoe to overhear. Strange, because usually they yelled at each other, if they spoke at all.

The following morning Mack made her pack a bag as she sobbed her protest, and next thing she knew she was on the train to Sydney. Her great-aunt Maureen’s disgust and heavily worn martyrdom had been waiting on the platform for her when she arrived.

“Mack and my father told me you went to a…to somewhere to get psychiatric care,” Hugh muttered, almost to himself. “And then you were going to a girls’ school in Sydney that was designed to help girls like…” He trailed off. When he spoke again his voice was firmer. “They told me that after you recovered you ran away, overseas.”

“Well, that bit was true.” Why the lies? The sweet tea and chocolatey biscuit she’d consumed formed a solid ball in her stomach. “That must have been the story Mack and your dad agreed on. What on earth were they thinking?” She didn’t understand how Mack or Pete Lawson could think a suicide attempt less scandalous than a teenage pregnancy.

Hugh still looked stunned. “The suicide part of it was a secret—they told everyone else you went to a girls’ school in Sydney. But why would they tell me you tried to kill yourself?”

Zoe shrugged, just as baffled as he appeared, still too deeply in shock to reason out past motivations.

“Pregnant,” Hugh said again. His eyebrows drew together and he leaned forward. “Does this mean you…I…we have…” He broke off and swallowed hard. “Where’s the child?”

His voice was strangled and Zoe couldn’t interpret the look in his eyes. Panic? Longing? Fear?

Zoe’s mouth compressed in a tight line. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Hugh. There’s no illegitimate Lawson offspring running around out there, waiting to make a claim on your fortune.” It took every ounce of her dwindling strength to get the next words out without shattering into tiny pieces. “Our baby died.”

Hugh recoiled as if she’d slapped him, but just as quickly his face shuttered down into its usual mask of impenetrable cool.

Zoe battled against a rising tide of panic. Breaking down now—or ever—would be of no help, but this conversation had her feeling like she was on the edge of a very high precipice. What she had to do was get through the next few weeks then sell Waterford and get the hell out of town. She’d endeavor to do that with as little contact with anyone else as possible.

“I can’t believe they lied to me. I can’t believe they kept us apart,” he said under his breath.

Hugh stood and paced over to the French doors that led out to a small terrace and showcased the vines beyond. His impressive silhouette made something inside Zoe clench.

“I know why Mack and my father came up with that story,” he said bitterly. “They knew I’d go after you,” he added more quietly.

Why didn’t you? A tiny, traitorous voice inside Zoe wanted to wail. Why didn’t you come for me when I needed you most? You weren’t there when our beautiful daughter was born, when she was laid in my arms, not breathing, but exquisitely perfect.

When I was so alone.

The dangerous thoughts made her shudder, even as she shook her head in quiet denial. She’d known, by then—even not knowing what lies he’d been told—that he wouldn’t come. After her unanswered calls, after her desperate, unsuccessful attempts to reach him. If there was one thing she’d already learned, it was that even in her most desperate hour, the only person she could rely on was herself.

And by then, she’d reached a kind of peace with his silence. In a way, it was almost better that she’d never spoken to him—because at least then she could secretly cling to the hope that he might come—than to know he’d rejected her, just as her grandfather had told her he would.

Hugh stood ramrod straight. “Your disappearance was big gossip at school for a while, as you can imagine. I kept up the pretense, just said you were sent to a girls’ school in Sydney. Everyone was speculating on the reasons.” He barked a short, black laugh. “No one went with ‘pregnant,’ though.”

“No, I guess they didn’t. According to what I heard out there, most people were betting on jail.” She tried to sound as if it didn’t matter, but knew she failed. It was time to get out of here—away from this hellish reminiscing.

Zoe stood up gingerly, testing her weight, but the dizziness had passed.

Hugh didn’t so much as turn around to see if she was okay.

She swallowed hard and willed her voice not to waver. “Thank you for the first aid and thank you for the wake, although I know Mack is turning in his grave at the very idea.”

Hugh could have been carved from granite. He acknowledged her thanks with a grunt. Zoe wasn’t sure what to do. A silly, juvenile part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob, to cry with him over the loss of their child, to have him hold her again, to be surrounded by his scent and cradled in his protective embrace. A stupid instinct—it wouldn’t change anything.

She stared for a moment at his frozen posture. What was going through his mind right now? She’d been living with the knowledge for ten years and the sharp edges were as jagged as ever. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have it dumped in one blow.

He deserved some comfort.

Pity she had none to give.

Zoe slipped her still-aching toes into her stilettos and made for the door. She wanted to get out before everyone left, beg someone to give her a lift back to Waterford. There was no way she could cope being in that little sports car with Hugh again.

CHAPTER FOUR

NOTLOOKINGBACKTO see whether Hugh turned away from the windows, Zoe headed down the corridor. Her pace increased as a strange kind of panic enveloped her until she was almost running, desperate to escape. By the time she made it to the empty car park, her breath was coming in pants.

“Damn.” She swore as she glanced around. The only vehicles left were Hugh’s coupe and a couple of Lawson Estate utes.

“Need a lift?” Morris appeared from around the side of a building. He’d been Lawson Estate’s foreman as long as she could remember, and it was somehow comforting that he was still around. He wore jeans, a checkered blue shirt and a Lawson Estate cap pulled low on his forehead. His graying, unkempt beard covered most of his face, but his eyes were as bright and shrewd as they’d always been—she’d guess he didn’t miss much.

“Yes, please.” Zoe hated asking for favors, and didn’t want to be any more indebted to Lawson Estate than she already was with this farce of a wake, but Tangawarra didn’t have a taxi service. And although Waterford was next door it would be a painful twenty-minute walk in her stupid shoes. Not to mention in the rain that had finally begun to spatter from the dark clouds overhead.

“Jump in.” Morris tilted his head toward one of the utes and Zoe gratefully clambered in. She was even more grateful when he started it up and drove her home without speaking. Polite small talk was beyond her.

“Thank you.” Zoe reached for the door handle.

“Zoe?” Morris broke his silence just as she was about to open the door and jump out. She paused a moment.

“Yes?”

“I remember you from when you was a kid.”

Zoe sagged with the physical and mental exhaustion of the past few days. She didn’t have the energy for any further trips down memory lane. “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone resigned. “For whatever it was I might have done to annoy you.”

“Nah, it wasn’t like that. Do you remember when I caught you and Hugh?”

A wash of memory flooded through her. “Oh, God. The tractor shed.” Her cheeks burned. So embarrassing. She folded her arms over her chest, feeling as naked now as she’d been then.

“Been wondering all these years whether I did the right thing by not turning you kids in.”

“We… I was very grateful that you didn’t.”

He shot her a quick, avuncular smile. “I always liked ya. You had spunk. Weren’t gonna let a small town grind away your individuality.”

That was one way to look at it, Zoe guessed. Just a pity no one else shared his perspective. “Uh, thanks, I suppose.” She opened the door and climbed out, holding on to the vehicle for balance as she found her feet on the muddy ground.

“You were a good influence on the boy,” Morris said, raising his voice to be sure she heard him.

At that, Zoe started in genuine surprise. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who thought so.”

Morris’s eyes were kind. “He was in danger of being a spoiled little brat, if you ask me. Being friends with you changed that.”

Zoe’s fragile composure began to crack. She stared down at the grass and took a moment’s pause, to be sure her voice wouldn’t betray her. “I guess our…friendship changed both of us,” she said eventually.

“Hugh ain’t the one to blame, Zoe. Don’t take it out on him.”

Zoe looked up from watching her Italian leather heels sink slowly into the soggy ground, startled. Of course, anyone from the Lawson side would be defending Hugh. Morris had no idea what had really happened. Although it was long past the time for blame games, Zoe hated the twist in her gut that reminded her of her outraged teen self.

It might not be Hugh’s fault, but it wasn’t her fault, either.

“Right,” she managed to say through gritted teeth. A teenage impulse urged her to yell and insult this man who’d butted in where he didn’t belong. But she was too tired, too emotionally drained to be bothered. “Thanks for the lift,” she muttered, before giving the door a solid shove to slam it shut, expressing herself physically instead of verbally. She marched into the house, slamming that door, as well.

As the ute drove off, the storm broke and a deluge of rain hit the tin roof of the house. She sank to the floor, curling up against the cold, cracked linoleum. She shivered and just tried to remember to breathe.

* * *

ANDTHEHITSJUSTKEPTONCOMING.

The conversation Zoe had had with Stephen Carter, her grandfather’s accountant rang in her ears for the next two hours.

Waterford was on the verge of bankruptcy.

The options the accountant had presented still burned in her belly. Sell up now, or find some extra money—from somewhere—if she wanted to bottle the final Waterford vintage as she’d promised Mack. Stephen was strongly in favor of selling—he had a buyer all lined up and everything.

That buyer just happened to be Hugh Lawson.

Zoe should have known.

Holding the wake for Mack hadn’t been some altruistic community gesture on Hugh’s part. It had been a ploy, a gambit to butter her up so he could get his hands on Waterford, just as his father had been trying to do for decades. As a tactic it hadn’t been successful—Zoe had hated every minute of it and Hugh really didn’t know her anymore if he hadn’t realized that.

Seemed like Hugh had grown up to become the spitting image of his dad: an ambitious, heartless, money-grabbing industrialist, more interested in the financial rewards than the art and science of viticulture and wine-making.

Zoe sighed as she put the groceries away and leaned against the counter, surveying the decrepit kitchen.

When she’d first arrived back in Australia everything had seemed so clear. Say goodbye to her grandfather. Organize his funeral. Settle his estate. Get back to California as fast as possible.

Only she hadn’t bet on the old man hanging on for a few days. Long enough to extract promises from her. Promises that even at the time she hadn’t wanted to keep. Why she felt she owed Mack any loyalty at all was a mystery she hadn’t yet unraveled.

And yet now that she was here, standing on Waterford soil once again, something deep inside her railed at the idea of directly countering his instructions. Could she sell Waterford to her grandfather’s lifelong enemy in direct contrast to his wishes? See it swallowed up by Lawson Estate, disappear as if it had never existed, the way so many other smaller vineyards in the valley had been?

Not to mention the more immediate issue: would she be able to fulfill Mack’s request to finish his last-ever vintage before she sold Waterford? He’d been under no illusion that Zoe had returned to take over from him. Just begged her to please see the last of his wine into bottles. Then sell up and leave, finish Waterford on a high.

Her grandfather had been specific about that, too: the Waterford name was not to be sold, only the property. Waterford would not be Waterford without a member of the Waters family at the helm. At least that was something Zoe could agree with.

More than a century of her family’s heritage, gone at the stroke of a pen. Even if it was a family she felt no real connection to, it was the only one she had.

Maybe that was why she felt so conflicted.

After putting the groceries away, Zoe grabbed a coat and headed outside. With a notepad and pencil, she walked around the property and all its rickety sheds, taking an inventory of everything she found. She quickly realized that she could have made the list from memory. Nothing had changed in ten years. A couple of pieces of machinery had been updated—there was a new pump and a new pile-driver attachment for the tractor—but otherwise everything was the same. Only older, more run-down, more rusted and decayed.

The shed that housed the winery was chilled and held the sharp smell of young wine, oak barrels, acid and bleach. Her grandfather had been a stickler for cleanliness in the winery. He’d been in the hospital for several weeks before he’d died, and no one had tended to anything in that time. But unlike the house, which Zoe had spent some hours that morning scrubbing, the winery still seemed pristine. Old-fashioned and worn out, like the rest of the place, but clean.

Zoe stood and stared at the rack of wine barrels that lined one side of the shed. Waterford had never made a fortune, Zoe had always known that. She’d never gone without the basics as a child, but she’d never had luxuries or indulgences, either. Partly because there wasn’t a lot of money to go around, partly because her grandfather was frugal to the point of meanness. No wonder she’d shoplifted nail polish—Mack would never have bought something so frivolous and the ten dollars a month for “women’s things” that Mack allowed her certainly didn’t stretch to treats.