The over-two-hour drive only makes matters worse. By the time I get to the winding road that starts up the mountain toward the vineyard, my palms are sweating and I’m nauseous. The idea of leaving Tag behind, of making our “end” final, wasn’t nearly as upsetting when I was safe at home. At a distance. It seemed like a nebulous thing. But now, knowing that I’ll be laying eyes on him for the last time in just a few minutes . . . it’s almost more than my poor heart and nerves can handle. This is not the eventuality that I hoped we’d have. I never saw this coming.
I barely feel the warm wind whipping through my hair as I start down Chiara’s long, beautiful drive. I’m hardly aware of the lightly scented air or the familiar rows of grapevines that are flying by. I have only one thought, and I’m less than five minutes from him now.
I slow nearly to a stop when the house comes into view. There are four shiny black cars in the circular drive. My heart sinks. I had thought Tag would try once more to tell me that he loves me, that he made mistakes where we are concerned, but I suppose he really is getting the only thing he wanted now. Those cars look like they belong to businessmen, men like my father and Michael and their lawyers. All the ingredients to settle up a matter such as this, when all Tag had to do was sign the papers.
Dread floods the back of my throat like bile, and I swallow hard. Whatever lies ahead, this will all be over soon and I’ll be on my way to a new state, a new home and a new life. One day, all this will be a vague, unpleasant memory.
That’s what I tell myself as I pull to a stop, as I shift into park, as I get out of my car and again as I mount the steps. I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle, ready to face the inevitable, but it swings open before I can, startling me.
Tag is standing just on the other side of the opening, his gray eyes unreadable. My heart lurches in my chest when his lips curve into a polite smile. Polite. He’s not even going to pretend that there was more to us than this.
“Come in,” he says, holding the door as though this isn’t still my home.
An unbearable sadness drips through my veins like slow-moving cold water. I return his polite smile and step inside, my stomach turning over miserably when he holds out an arm directing me toward the dining room. I’m not surprised to see a few people, businessmen, who I don’t know. I am, however, surprised to see my father here. His expression is carefully blank when his eyes meet mine.
I frown at him as if to ask why he’s here. He merely shakes his head in one small, short gesture. I’m even more apprehensive now. This was supposed to be an easy transaction. Not . . . this.
I feel Tag’s hand at my lower back and I jerk involuntarily. Not because he scared me or because I’m repulsed by this touch. Quite the opposite, in fact. It feels like electricity. Like heaven. Like home. Like no touch for the rest of my life will ever compare to it.
If I were a lesser woman, I might dissolve into a puddle of tears, but instead, I square my shoulders and meet every curious eye in the room, nodding to each of the gentlemen as I go.
“Gentlemen, this is Weatherly O’Neal Barton. Weatherly, this is Tom Geffen, my lawyer. To his left is Gerald, the head of the Randolph Consolidated legal department. Beside him is Fritz Montgomery, the largest shareholder at Randolph Consolidated besides myself, as well as a board member.”
“Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure,” I say demurely, my insides a jittering mass of jelly contained only by the clenched muscles of my abdomen. I can do this part. I was bred for this part—to face men like this.
“I’ll leave you to finish up. There’s something I need to discuss with Weatherly.”
With the pressure of his hand guiding me, Tag urges me on through the dining room and into the kitchen, toward the back door. He opens it for me as well. I walk through without question. Although I’m curious as to what he has to say and why he needs privacy to say it, I’m happy that our business doesn’t involve all those men. Somehow that was very upsetting. Very impersonal, as though we hadn’t spent countless hours wrapped in each other’s sweaty, naked arms. At least this way, that is somewhat preserved. Even though it’s a painfully poignant reminder of what I lost. What I actually never had.
Tag leads me wordlessly through the grass, along the path that fronts the oldest field of grapevines. He continues on and we walk for several minutes, always in complete silence. Then my stomach starts to tighten in a different way. I realize that he’s heading toward the unfinished cabin, the one that’s little more than four walls and a roof. The one that we spent so many wonderful hours inside, making love and talking.