Page 82 of Someone in the Water
‘Sorry, Jack left about half an hour ago, in a foul mood too. Harriet asked him for a lift back up to my place and he point-blank refused.’
‘Jack’s gone?’ I mumble, tension spreading across my back.
Dom narrows his eyes. ‘Wait. You can’t think Jack would hurt Lola?’
In all those years of confiding in Nick, I never told him about Jack or what he did to his family. I was too busy blaming myself for everything. ‘Oh my God, Dom, you have no fucking idea! Can we go now?’
‘Of course. My car’s parked on this side, so it’s quicker to use the back door.’ He grabs my hand, and we race out of the bar together.
Lola
31st July
Lola stands at the top of the hill and stares at the view. Navy grapevines cut into the hillside in neat lines. The black snake of a river hums in the valley below, and mounds of pale boulders on the riverbank glow in the moonlight. She wants to reach for Patrick, wrap herself up in him as she soaks it in. But he’s a few metres away, on his phone.
‘So this is it,’ he says as he returns to her side, his voice a mix of emotion and pride. ‘My inheritance.’
Lola’s eyes widen as she turns to look at him. ‘Your grandfather left you his share of the vineyard?’
‘We’re going to the lawyers next week for the official reading of the will, but do you remember that letter I picked up the other day? He as good as promised it to me in there.’
‘So Jack will be your business partner.’ Lola thinks about the brusque man with sad eyes who lends her his windsurf kit but snarls when she asks him a question. ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘He and Salvo had an understanding. We can have one too.’ Then he turns and smiles. ‘Do you want to have a look around? Maybe I can even sell you the Corsican dream.’
He raises his eyebrows, and she smiles in response. Then she curls her fingers around his and lets him guide her down the path between two sets of vines towards the river. It’s dark, but the sky is clear, and the moon provides enough light to see by. ‘What grapes are these?’ she asks, trying to sound grown up – which she will be in a matter of minutes.
‘They’re Sciacarello grapes,’ Patrick explains. ‘Which is why the domaine only makes rosé wine. I suggested to Salvo that he should try planting something different, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Native Corsican grapes. Traditional viticulture methods. The unique Corsican climate to protect the vines instead of pesticides. The old guy was obsessed with his culture.’
‘Will you change things when you start working here?’
Patrick considers her question. ‘Maybe at some point. But I want to honour my grandfather’s memory for a while. Make him proud from beyond the grave. Is that crazy?’
‘Yes,’ Lola says with a grin. Because she doesn’t want to say what she really feels. That Patrick is becoming more and more perfect with every passing second. She promised her mum that she’d leave Corsica after the windsurf competition on Saturday, but will she really be ready to go? She’ll be eighteen with the whole summer ahead of her; she could stay. Then she feels a jolt of frustration as she thinks about those notes and imagines her mum’s reaction.
They reach a low fence where the land drops away to the river and Patrick points to the path going left. ‘The winery is up here. How about we sneak a bottle off a shelf to toast your birthday? There’s thousands so no one’s going to miss one.’
Lola frowns. ‘Won’t the winery be locked up now?’
‘That’s not the Corsican way,’ Patrick says with a smile. ‘This is Salvo’s place. Everyone in this town either loved him or feared him. Some did both. And him being dead doesn’t change that very much. Which means there’s no need for locked doors.’
‘It’s like I’ve stepped back in time,’ Lola muses. ‘I think it was like that in England a hundred years ago.’
Patrick laughs. ‘It’s what comes from living in remote places like this, I guess. Yeah, it’s insular, but I like it this way. Proud Corsicans defending their territory from a tourist invasion. People here believe in a higher purpose than just making loads of money.’
A minute later, they reach the edge of a large stone building with a line of windows hidden behind wooden shutters. There’s a traditional arched doorway in the centre of the building with a thick oak door, and Patrick pulls it open. But as he disappears inside, Lola hesitates, suddenly scared of the black hole in front of her – she’s never liked the dark. Then she hears a soft click and the room floods with light. Lola smiles and walks inside.
The room is open plan across the width of the building. There’s a shop to Lola’s left, and a café to her right, with tables and chairs and a long bar across the back.
‘They host events here,’ Patrick explains. ‘It’s not busy like in Provence or Bordeaux, but they run tours twice a week in the summer, and it always ends with a wine tasting. It’s usually held outside on the terrace, but they’ve got this space in case it rains.’
‘And where is the wine made?’ Lola asks, suddenly curious about the process.
‘Through here, come on.’
As Lola follows Patrick, her phone rings in her pocket. She is used to having her iPhone on silent, but she doesn’t have that option on the old Nokia her mum bought her, and the shrill electronic sound makes her jump. Her signal has been patchy since she’s been in Sartène, so she’s relieved to see her screen showing three bars. She assumes it will be her mum calling, so when she sees a number instead of a name, she automatically cancels the call.
‘Who was that?’ Patrick asks. ‘Your mum?’
