I want a divorce.
Clear. Simple. Honest.
I leave it on the bed and carry first one bag and then the other down to the garage, stowing them in the backseat of my car. My chin trembles as I start the engine and back out into the circular drive. As far as I know, I might never see Tag Barton again. He has what he wants. Or at least he thinks he does. He might let me go and never even try to find me and explain.
I close my eyes against the pain.
He’s taken so much from me, even if he never manages to get Chiara legally. He still stole it from me. It was a place of such peace and refuge for me, a place where I could come to remember better days, but now it will never be the same. He might as well have burned it to the ground and left only the ash.
Because of that, part of me is dying as I shift out of reverse and into drive. To make my way forward. Forward, away from the vineyard. Forward, away from Tag. Forward, away from all the hope and possibility that was just within my grasp, but then so cruelly ripped from it.
I begin the drive back to Atlanta, scanning the lush vineyard through watering eyes as I say a silent good-bye to Chiara and all the false happiness I found here. Despite the cold, hard facts, I know that I will never be the same after the last couple of months. I’m leaving a big piece of my heart on this mountain. A big piece that’s been crushed into tiny slivers left to mingle with the dirt and die in the warm night.
When my front tires hit the main road, I dial my father’s number. His gruff voice is anything but comforting and I almost hate to give him the satisfaction of being oh-so-right. But he’s more equipped to deal with treachery of this magnitude. He’s lived and breathed this kind of business for as long as I can remember.
“Look into Jameson Randolph’s son, Dad. I think you’ll find a trail that leads back to Tag. I’ll call you in a few days.”
I hang up before he can ask questions. I hang up before he can hear me fall apart. I turn off my phone so that I can grieve in peace. And I do. All the way back to Atlanta.
TWENTY-SIX
Tag
Even before I see the raised garage door and empty bay where Weatherly’s car was parked, I know that something is wrong. I can feel it, almost smell it in the air like a storm is coming.
I park at the top of the circle and take the front steps as well as the inside steps two at a time. I know before I enter the bedroom what I’ll find. Weatherly is gone.
After I check the bathroom and find that, indeed, all her toiletries are gone as well, I see the note lying on the bed. It’s short, to the point and bothersome as hell.
I told her I was falling in love with her last night. Why would she leave? I thought she’d like hearing that. She told me she loved me on our wedding day, for God’s sake. I would’ve thought she’d be pleased to hear that I have feelings for her, too. Feelings far beyond just the physical.
Now I know without a doubt that I should’ve told her sooner. But because I didn’t, because I didn’t tell her everything, I never felt right about telling her how I really felt about her either. Knowing what I knew. Knowing what I was keeping from her. On some level, maybe I was trying to save her from falling for me when she didn’t know the ugliest parts. Maybe I was afraid she’d stop loving me if she found out. Maybe I’m not the man I thought I was, the man I hoped I was. Whatever the reason, my inability to confess my full feelings for her might well have cost me her.
I shake my head, throwing off that reasoning.
No, it can’t be that. Weatherly isn’t the type to run because of something like that. She wouldn’t throw away what we have just because I can’t say the L word yet. She’s not that fragile. No, it has to be something else. Something has happened. That’s the only plausible excuse. I know . . . I know . . . that Weatherly loves me. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in her touch. Women can’t fake shit like that. And even if they could, Weatherly couldn’t. She’s not that kind of woman. She’s real.
So then why is she gone? Why now? Why without a word? Jesus H. Christ, what the hell happened?
I think back over every word, every minute of the less-than-twenty-four hours we’ve been back and the only thing I can figure is that her father said something to upset her. Upset her enough to want to leave me. And divorce me.
I want a divorce.
I bound back down the stairs. I don’t pack a single belonging. I head straight for Mom’s place.
The front door is open, so I swing through the screen just enough to talk to her where she’s sitting in the small kitchen.
“Will you be okay if I’m gone for another day or two?” I ask, suddenly feeling guilty for leaving her again. But this is something I have to take care of. I have to find Weatherly and bring her back here. I can’t figure out how to help her if she’s in Atlanta, hiding things from me. Her place is here. At Chiara. With me.