“That is one way to put it.” Kingsley took a sip of his wine.
“She and her mother, they had unfinished business.” “That’s the worst-case scenario then, isn’t it? If you’re close
to your parents, you have no regrets when they pass away. If
you have no relationship, you have no grief. If you want to
be close, but you can’t be…”
“She took it very hard,” Kingsley said, knowing Nora well
enough to say that in good faith.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” Grace said. “Maybe she should
come stay with us a few days. She loves being around Fionn.
And she and Zachary fight so much, she’ll forget all her sorrows, I promise.”
Kingsley wanted to laugh. Only Grace Easton would call
the woman who had slept—more than once—with her husband, offer her condolences on the loss of her mother and then invite her to stay in her home with Grace, her husband and
their infant son who was fathered by Nora’s lover. Did Grace have any idea what an extraordinarily odd woman
she was?
Then again, what room did Kingsley have to talk? “Apart from that, we’re all well. He’s well,” Kingsley said,
saving Grace the embarrassment of asking about him. “Good,” Grace said with a smile. “I never know… He’s the
easiest man in the world to talk to…and the most difficult man
to read. Rather amazes me that Nora’s been with him over
twenty years and is as sane as she is. Zachary was my professor when we fell in love, and I thought I’d go insane trying
to keep that secret from my friends, my family, the school. To
be with a priest for twenty years…”
“No one is more amazed than I that they’ve lasted. The
sanity part is up for debate, but you can’t question the love.
Not anymore. And he hasn’t made it easy for her, and she…
Well, I don’t have to tell you anything about Nora, do I?” Grace grinned broadly.
“No,” she said. “No, you don’t.” She took a drink of the
Syrah, and her eyes widened in delight.
“Your son is quite the vintner. This is marvelous.” “I told you so,” Kingsley said, taking a sip of his own wine.
The Syrah was good, an excellent vintage, strong and potent.
As much as Kingsley loved the taste, he found it hard to drink
sometimes. The knot of pride in his throat made it difficult
to swallow.
“Zachary was very impressed with Nico when they met.
He’s what? Twenty-five and he owns and runs his own vineyard?”
“I think about how I was at twenty-five, what I was doing
with my life, and I can’t believe he came from me.” “I can believe it,” Grace said, giving him a luminescent
smile.
“I won’t keep you up all night showing you pictures of my
children,” Kingsley said. He had pictures of both Nico and
Céleste with him, and he was seconds away from pulling them
out. “I’m only here for a few hours before I catch my next
f light. But I did come for a reason.”
“Should I be concerned?” Grace asked.
“Non, pas du tout,” Kingsley said with a wave of his hand.
“Forgive me. French wine brings out my French.” “I speak some,” she said. “You haven’t lost me yet.” “Bon,” he said and paused for another drink. “I have something to tell you. A story. And I can’t tell you why I’m telling
you the story until after the story.”
“I see…” she said, although Kingsley knew she didn’t. “May
I ask what the story concerns?”
Kingsley reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
From it he pulled a crisp white envelope thick with documents
sealed with wax. The wax was imprinted with what appeared
to be a number eight inside a circle. Kingsley placed it on the
table between his glass of wine and Grace’s.
“The story is about that,” Kingsley said, nodding toward
the envelope. “And I can tell you the long version which is
the true version or I can tell you a shorter, sweeter version.