Blaze (62 page)

They drove to cellars, the crushing plant, fields, dams, pumps and high points of land simply for the view.

She was enchanted by his enthusiasm and knowledge as he talked about the varieties of grapes, the climate, the differences between French and Australian winemakers. ‘You know that's something I'd like to do – spend a season in the Napa Valley in California. They know a thing or two that may work here. Similar environments. You been there?'

‘I'm an easterner I'm afraid.'

‘You miss New York?' he asked gently.

‘I miss my mom. And it's been a bit hard settling in here with my godmother away in Croatia. But I'm liking it. There's just the little matter of work and money.' In their phone talks, Miche had discovered how easily she could open up to Jeremy. It was comforting to share what was going on in her life. She hadn't yet found a circle of friends her own age. She missed chattering with her two college girlfriends and emails just weren't the same.

‘You'll find your niche, Miche,' said Jeremy. ‘Go with the flow as they say. Come on, let's go back and I'll introduce you to everyone. Sixish, I'll take you back to the B&B and wait for you to change or whatever and then we'll go out somewhere nice for dinner. I have to show off our little valley to you.'

‘Sounds fabulous. Thanks for going to so much trouble.'

Jeremy laughed. ‘Taking a friend to dinner – that's no trouble.' Then he added shyly, ‘I've been looking forward to this all week.'

‘Me too,' smiled Miche and felt herself relax. A small bridge had been crossed.

Miche rang Larissa on Sunday morning as she sipped her tea. ‘I'm sitting in the sun outside my room with a home-cooked breakfast – and still in my PJs. Couldn't wait to tell you how fantastic this is. Dinner was divine – you have to come up here, glorious vineyards, terrific people.'

‘Sure, sounds great. What about your guy?'

‘Jeremy?' she laughed. ‘He's gorgeous. Just lovely. I don't know why it didn't register with me so heavily when we were in France. I guess I thought we stuck together then because we were the only normal people in that mad group.'

‘Normal is lovely. Hang on to him, Miche. Well, see how it works out. Just enjoy the company and the break,' cautioned Larissa. With a pang she remembered how she'd fallen in love with Gerry. How shy he'd been. They'd met at an art gallery opening and it was his reticence, his refusal to try hard to be entertaining and clever that had appealed to her. Her gradual discovery of his warmth, charm and humour had been such a joy. She did love him. She really did.

‘I am just enjoying it all, Riss. But I can't wait to see him again. I think he'd like to see me too. He's talking of coming to Sydney.'

The Palmerstons' Sunday lunch turned into quite an event. Twenty people spread around the garden where a buffet table was set up under a vine-covered terrace. One table held a variety of wines for tasting and around it a knot of serious wine buffs knowledgeably discussed the merits of each bottle.

Miche popped into the big kitchen and asked Helen Palmerston if she could help in some way.

‘It's under control, thanks Miche. Plenty of spare hands in here. Go and decorate the terrace, everyone is keen to meet you. A new face.'

‘I feel like I'm being scrutinised . . . in a nice way,' she laughed.

‘Oh you are, dear girl. Been a long time since Jeremy has brought a girl to lunch. We're like family, so you must be special.'

‘Oh, we're just friends from France, you know how travellers all connect up.' But she couldn't help feeling pleased.

John Sandgate, from the winery where she'd had lunch, singled her out. ‘You know, Miche, I've been thinking about our talk. Why don't you write up the history of this area for
Blaze
? Be interesting to see it through your eyes – a well-travelled young person, new to Australia. As I mentioned yesterday, its history is quite colourful. And so are the characters.'

Miche thought for a minute. It was an idea worth considering.

‘It does sound appealing,' said Miche. ‘I'd have to do a lot of research, I don't know a thing . . .'

‘That's what you journalists are best at. You'd have all the help you need. There's a lot of archival stuff, historical photos and most of the old vignerons kept diaries. Not just about their wineries, but about life in the district. Like I said, it's as good as any soap opera.'

Miche saw Jeremy wending his way towards her. She'd talk it over with him. ‘I'll have to run it past my editor, but thanks for the suggestion.'

Jeremy was all for the idea. ‘But then, I'm biased,' he added.

‘Because you work in the wine business and you love this area?'

‘Partly. But it would mean I'd see a lot more of you.' He kissed her long and hard as she stood by her car, ready to drive back to Sydney.

Miche returned his kiss, then grinned at him. ‘I'll think about it as I drive back to Sydney.' She waved to him as she drove away. She could only think of positives. How she longed to talk to Nina. But in her heart she already knew what Nina's answer would be.

 

W
as it the sense of freedom after being incarcerated, living with an ever-gnawing fear, that suddenly made Nina feel so free, so light-hearted? That made the unfolding scenery as they climbed into the hills so breathtaking? Or was it sitting beside Lucien, her hand resting on his leg?

Lucien suggested they stop for lunch. He sensed Nina was running on euphoric overdrive. So much had happened to them in such a short time, he wanted her spirit to settle. They pulled into a township inn and ordered a lavish spread.

‘This is a huge meal, but so wonderful. I never used to eat lunch in New York or Australia – unless it was business. This meal is utter pleasure.'

Lucien poured her another glass of wine. ‘I'm glad, my sweet. So, as we're setting off on this little adventure, tell me what you know about Grandfather Bubacic.'

Nina felt a warm glow rush through her. Maybe it was the wine, but seeing Lucien's attentive and loving face across the table, sharing this companionship and knowing neither of them had to hurry away to another life, sent her head spinning. ‘I feel like telling you anything and everything, Lucien my darling. I can't believe we're here, that you're part of my life again . . .' She was about to add, ‘. . . for the moment, anyway,' but bit her tongue. How did they know what was ahead for them? She took a deep breath, telling herself to be calm and take life day by day.

Nina had such an expressive face, he knew what she was feeling so reached for her hand and squeezed it. He didn't speak, because he too felt suddenly emotional.

Nina sipped her wine and began, ‘The part of the journal I managed to understand made sense. My grandfather led a double life. One was as an eminent physician, who treated some very rich and influential people during the war years, in the other he was a hero who worked against the Nazis for the resistance movement. It's also clear that my grandparents ran a safety house for resistance agents betrayed by Nazi collaborators. It was those collaborators' names that Puskar and Molnar wanted suppressed.'

‘Clara and her mother must have known about it then.'

‘Yes, but my mother didn't like to talk to me about these matters. Croatia seemed a long way away from the life she made for us in Sydney's Double Bay. Now that I know about this, I think it's rather fine that my grandparents helped people escape the Nazis.'

‘I wonder how he did that,' mused Lucien.

‘In the journal I read about one case where he'd offered to treat a very important prisoner of the Nazis who'd become ill. He'd drugged the prisoner into such a comatose state that he was able to pronounce him dead. Then he'd ordered the guard to take the man to the morgue.'

‘Then what happened?' Lucien was intrigued.

‘The mortician was a friend. He quickly administered a shot to restimulate the man's heart, which had been beating very slowly, and within two hours friends were able to put him in a car to be smuggled out of the country. Apparently a lot of supposedly dead men were taken away in the middle of the night in a hearse that stopped somewhere to let the bodies run away. They buried the empty coffins.'

‘Your grandfather recorded all this detail in his journal?'

‘There were a stack of stories. That's why I was so sorry to lose it.'

‘What happened to your grandparents? When was the house taken over and turned into those ugly flats?'

‘My mother told me that once the war was over, the new communist regime plundered what they could in the name of the state.'

‘So where did your grandparents go?'

‘Grandfather died soon after and Grandmama went to live with the housekeeper at their country house.'

‘Where?' asked Lucien with sudden interest.

‘The estate is called Miljovec. Grandfather's family built the house in the sixteenth century. His family was descended from the local Ban, or governor, who had built the original palace, which I believe is now in ruins. The village of Miljovec grew up around it.'

Lucien excused himself to pay the bill at the counter and sat back down as Nina finished her coffee. ‘As we have no formal itinerary . . . I just asked the owner and he says Miljovec is not far out of our way.'

Nina carefully put her cup back in its saucer, peering at the sticky sludge of coffee grounds patterning the bottom of the bowl. ‘Yesterday I would have said, no way – I'm just going to write a lovely scenic piece.'

‘And now?'

‘How far is Miljovec?'

They drove until they passed through tiny picturesque Sestne, a twelfth-century hamlet steeped in folklore. Nina looked at her map and pointed out the car window. ‘The trails to Sljeme start here and go up to the ski fields of Zagreb.'

They nosed into the shadows cast by the fortress Medvedgrad, the 750-year-old symbol of Croatian struggle for freedom, and within half an hour Lucien drove down a narrow street between crumbling walls and turned into a village. ‘Welcome to Miljovec.'

They stopped at a café and Lucien asked a man sweeping the sidewalk whether he knew any of the old families who used to live here before the war. The man looked at him blankly. Nina leaned from the car and repeated the question in Croatian. Still he shook his head, as he spoke a local dialect.

‘Bubacic . . . ?'

At this the man nodded knowingly and spoke with passion. Nina leaned back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. Lucien sat back in the car.

‘What did he say?'

‘I can't believe it – I understood most of what he said. There are plans to turn Miljovec House, the old home of the Bubacic family, into a resort, a casino. For the tourists. It's only an hour and a bit from Zagreb.'

Lucien let out a surprised whistle. ‘Well, that's one scenario we didn't consider.'

For the first time, Nina's attitude changed from sanguine wait-and-see to a quiet fury. ‘How dare they! It was my family home. Stolen from my family. And now to be a damned casino! It's outrageous.'

‘Sounds like something that would happen in the West,' said Lucien dryly.

‘Why couldn't they do something constructive with the place for the local people? A museum, an institute – anything but a place for international high-rollers.'

‘Stop gnashing your teeth, Nina darling. Let's go to see it. Maybe there is a way you can prove family ownership and seek compensation. After all, they have acknowledged your family connection.'

Nina's vehemence subsided. ‘You're right. It's not the money but the principle. My grandparents would be heartbroken.'

They drove through lush, neat fields where tiny stone cottages perched beside ancient rock terraces. In the distance, steep hills dense with majestic pines rose from the landscape. Soon there was a slash in the green blanket – a broad swathe was shaved into the hillside. A magnificent pastoral building was set in its centre. With turrets and wings surrounding a courtyard and lush grounds, it looked melancholy. Its upper storey of shuttered windows shunned the distant lake. Even at a distance it did not look inviting.

They reached the stone gates where the driveway swept between trees, bowing to each in greeting, as if dancing in line to a minuet, their leafy fingertips close to clasping. There was a bare patch on one stone pillar where a plaque had recently been removed.

Lucien stopped the car and Nina silently pointed at the rusting iron gates that hung open and Lucien saw a wrought-iron crest.

Nina showed him the small gold ring she wore. It had exactly the same crest. He smiled, patted her hand, then drove slowly towards the house.

‘I assume there'll be someone around,' said Lucien as the main entrance came into view.

Nina leaned forward with a sharp intake of breath, suddenly recognising the building she'd seen so often, years ago, in family photographs.

‘It looks terribly neglected,' said Lucien, thinking shabby would be a better word. But his cameraman's eye was alert and soaking up the setting, seeing it as a perfect movie location, almost as incredible as the true story of a family's fall from fortune.

They parked and walked to the solid wooden front doors and tugged at the rusting bell chain. It tolled through the innards of the mansion but failed to stir a response.

‘Let's try the back door,' said Nina and set off briskly.

The rear of the old mansion was more welcoming. A vegetable garden was flourishing and fresh washing hung on a line by one of the courtyard wings. Smelling smoke, Lucien looked up to see a wisp rising from a big chimney close to one of the back doors. The kitchen, he guessed. Then he noticed beside the door a row of boots, several coats and jackets, pails for drawing water, bundles of twigs and firewood.