The Grass is Greener (27 page)

No.

He wanted what he'd always wanted.

Oak Hills.

France was no more than a detour on his life journey. He had to go back.

So for the next five years, Jack had worked like a slave. He'd started in Bordeaux, exploring the region completely, getting to know the French obsession with
terroir
– the set of environmental factors that affected a grape variety's epigenetic qualities, and the basis for wine regulation in France. He studied everything from the simple but delicious everyday table-wine to some of the most expensive and prestigious drops in the world.

When he was done with this, he'd worked his way through Burgundy as well, in the valleys and slopes to the west of the Saône River, where all the best vineyards were. Gaining experience here with exotic grape varieties he'd never worked with before, such as gamay and aligoté, just to round off his skills.

Antoine had come with him ‘just for laughs' and had fallen in love with the red varieties made from pinot noir, and a variety of women as well.

He deplored Jack's lack of interest in the scene after dark. ‘Why do you not come with me zis time?' he asked. ‘There are plenty to go round.'

‘Because you always take the good ones,' Jack had lied jovially. He was more interested in reading as many French wine journals as he could lay his hands on. His womanising ways were over and Ant had coined him the ‘Monk of Aquitaine'.

Ha! If only Bronwyn had seen him there.

He had dated a few women but his heart hadn't been in it. It was still sitting somewhere on the south-west coast of Australia.

Sometimes he and Antoine worked together, sometimes they worked in neighbouring vineyards. Whatever the case, they were a force to be reckoned with. When they returned to
Bordeaux they gave a talk together at Vinexpo, regaling other experts with their experiences – comparing and contrasting methods used by the different wineries they had passed through.

At that point Jack had known he was ready to return. His bank account told him the same story. Given his frugal lifestyle, limited social life and his tendency to split accommodation costs with Antoine, he'd amounted quite a sum for himself as well as a good reputation.

The old Jack might have bought himself a flash car, gone on a holiday to Hawaii and worked his way through the female beach population. This Jack, however, got financial planners involved, invested in the stock market, and doubled his earnings. He was ready not only to return to Oak Hills but to take it by force if necessary, and Antoine was his willing partner in crime.

When he'd first arrived in Bordeaux, Jack had sent his family a few impersonal postcards, saying he was doing okay in his new job, hoping to break the silence at least. They had never responded. When he moved on to Burgundy, however, he had given them a call. Luckily, his mother had picked up the phone.

‘Oh, Jack, thank God. Where are you?'

‘I'm in Burgundy now, Mum, on the Côte d'Or. It's amazing.'

‘Well, you must send me your address this time, otherwise I have no means to contact you.'

He gave her his email instead as he was always on the move. All the same, he couldn't help but be further incensed by his father's continued churlish behaviour. He may have still been refusing to speak to him, but that he hadn't bothered to pass on Jack's whereabouts to his mother was just cruel. No wonder he'd heard nothing from them when he was in Bordeaux.

He and his mum had spoken for a long time that first phone call. She had apologised for her behaviour after Chris's accident, wishing that she'd taken more of a stand in what
was going on between him and his father than focusing all her thoughts on Chris.

‘You needed me too and I didn't realise it.'

After that, he'd maintained a fairly regular email relationship with her. Claudia sometimes sent him a picture or two as well, but nothing came in from Chris or his father. He heard about their news indirectly though the female members of his family. He'd seen photos of the property and a lovely Christmas picture of them sitting round the table out on the patio, tucking into his mother's famous coleslaw, fresh garden salad and the garlic prawns his father always cooked on the barbecue. This was served, of course, with Horace's semillon sauvignon blanc – a lively, zesty blend that just cried out for the foods of summer. Seeing their glasses raised in toast over the spread made him long desperately for home. Family. Australia.

Several times his mother had tried to entice him back and more often than not he'd been tempted. Yet the last thing he wanted to do was return as a second-class citizen, only to be shunned again.

When his father had retired and the problems at Oak Hills had followed, he knew that his time was approaching. All he had to do was wait a little longer, and they wouldn't be able to refuse his help.

Antoine not only thought ‘zis plan is genius', he'd wanted to be a part of it. So with his mother's help he had sent the Frenchman off to Oak Hills as a spy. When the time came, they would buy Oak Hills together. He didn't want to wait for an inheritance, not that he counted on still being in the will.

His father was no longer in any position to refuse to sell. And the truth was, deep down, Horace Franklin didn't really trust anyone else with his estate except for the man he had personally trained. If Jack had to humiliate him to get his way, he'd do so. Especially after everything Horace had put him through the last five years.

Of course, whenever he'd imagined his homecoming, Bronwyn Eddings had never featured.

When Claudia had first written to him, she'd told him that Bronwyn was living it up in the city, working as a lawyer for a prestigious firm and becoming horrendously successful. He could see the thread of envy in her note and knew that his sister wasn't too pleased about carrying the majority of the family responsibility.

She was angry at him for having left. She could only see his motives as selfish. To escape the drama, to further his own career and to not have to deal with the permanent damage he'd done to his own brother. If only it were that simple.

Many of her letters were borderline accusatory.

It was why he never told her anything of his plan to return, because he wasn't sure how she'd react. Maybe if he had he would have known more on the Bronwyn front, because it seemed Claudia had a plan too: escape to the city and install her best friend in her stead. It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. Though, he had to admit, pretty ballsy.

The Bronwyn he'd seen today was a lot different to the one he'd known way back when. She still had that fragile quality that suggested if you were too rough with her, she'd break. One conversation, however, had showed him that she was far stronger than she looked.

His first week at Oak Hills was a testament to that. His mother was the only one who welcomed him with open arms. That first night at dinner, both his father and brother were absent from the table.

Chris, apparently, was on a date.

What the?

His father's absence was a little more mysterious and a lot more insulting.

It was just him, Bronwyn and Lydia sitting around a gorgeous lamb roast – his favourite dish as a child – accompanied by a selection of chargrilled vegetables and a bottle of gutsy shiraz.

‘Try not to take their absence too much to heart,' Lydia said. ‘After all, I did spring you on them. They are still trying to get over the shock.'

‘So who is this woman my brother is dating?' he asked, with a quick glance in Bronwyn's direction for any signs of jealousy.

However, she only appeared to be half listening as she forked a piece of broccoli and put it in her mouth. How on earth did she make
that
look sexy? He averted his gaze to take in his mother's reply.

Lydia was tapping her chin thoughtfully. ‘I'm really not sure. He takes out a lot of different women, I've stopped keeping track.'

Jack started. ‘Seriously?'

‘Yes. Though it never goes anywhere,' Lydia complained. ‘I think he sabotages himself on purpose.'

‘Yes,' Bronwyn piped up with a smile, ‘he likes to keep his options open.'

‘Strange.' His throat tightened. ‘I always thought he was a one woman kind of guy. Are you sure he's not just running interference?'

‘Running interference how?' Bronwyn's nose wrinkled.

Lydia smiled shrewdly. ‘I think what Jack is trying to say is that perhaps Chris is trying to make you jealous.'

Bronwyn turned a delicious shade of pink that had his heart rate jump a notch.

‘Chris pays me no more attention than he does your sous chef or her apprentice. He's a flirt. He doesn't mean anything by it.'

‘Are you sure about that?' He smirked.

Bronwyn tossed her head. ‘I'd think I'd know if a man really liked me or not.'

Jack laughed.

‘What's so funny?'

‘You.' His lips continued to twitch. ‘Can you pass the pepper please?'

She laid her hand on it, her eyes sparkling crossly. ‘Not until you tell me what you mean by that statement.'

He shrugged. ‘Only that Chris has liked you since the day he met you and you friend-zoned him.'

‘
I what?
'

‘You know,' Jack explained, ‘that place women put the nice guys in their life so they can turn to the bad boys.'

‘And by that are you referring to yourself?' she demanded, clearly fuming.

‘Hey,' he raised both palms, ‘you jumped there, not me.'

Lydia cleared her throat to break up the fight. ‘In case either of you are interested, Chris likes Maria.'

‘Maria?' Bronwyn repeated.

Jack blinked. ‘Who is Maria?'

‘She started working here after you left.'

‘She's a cellar hand,' Bronwyn said thoughtfully. ‘Really quiet and shy. She's the only female around here Chris
doesn't
flirt with.'

‘Exactly.' Lydia smiled.

Bronwyn nodded, understanding. ‘Oh, I totally get it now.'

Jack did not get it at all. ‘I'm not following.'

‘There's something you need to understand about Chris, my love.' Lydia turned to him. ‘Ever since the accident he's been so determined not to let it best him, not to be given any special treatment, that he thinks that anyone who does must be pitying him.'

Jack thought guiltily of Bronwyn and his naive notion that Chris would somehow find a way for them to be together with him out of the picture. His brother had so much to deal with that year. Romance was probably the last thing on his mind. And now …

‘He thinks of himself as a faulty package,' he said.

His mother nodded. ‘He doesn't go for long-term relationships because he doesn't think he has the right to one.'

Jack felt his gut twist into a knot and he suddenly wasn't that hungry anymore.

You did this.

You did this to your brother.

‘So what about you?' His mother broke into his thoughts. ‘I hear French women are very beautiful.'

‘They are.' He shrugged.

Bronwyn drained her glass in one gulp. ‘Could someone pass the wine please?'

Lydia handed her the shiraz. ‘Why didn't I get any emails about all the fancy foreign ladies in your life? You can still tell your mother those things, you know. I won't judge.'

He choked.

Bronwyn splashed wine beside her glass as she was trying to pour it. ‘Er … can I get a napkin?'

Gratefully, he reached towards the silver holder and got one to her.

‘So,' Lydia rested her hand in her chin, ‘keep talking.'

‘Yeah,' Bronwyn agreed, taking huge gulps from her fresh glass. ‘Why not give us more details?'

‘I hadn't realised I'd given you any,' he protested, not wanting to reveal his true identity as the ‘Monk of Aquitaine' at this point, particularly after witnessing firsthand Bronwyn's confidence with her body.

It was funny how France, reputably one of the most romantic places on earth, had turned Jack Franklin from playboy to workaholic. Or maybe it was his state of mind that did that. Maturity, he supposed with a slight smile, had to arrive sometime.

His mother misinterpreted his expression.

‘I see. Well, don't tell me then.' She paused. ‘Have you spoken to your brother yet?'

‘Very briefly.' He nodded. ‘It didn't go well.'

‘You have been gone for five years,' his mother pointed out.

His top priority was to reconcile with his brother, though he wasn't exactly sure how he was going to do this. Especially with the added pressure of keeping on top of the vintage as
well. Earlier that same afternoon he'd done an inspection of the vines and noticed they hadn't taken the chardonnay off yet. In his opinion, it was at least a day overdue. The block wasn't Oak Hill's star crop but that didn't mean they should give it any less consideration. Horace Franklin, however, was nowhere to be found. He couldn't believe his father was being this irresponsible out of spite.

‘What about Dad?' he enquired of his mother. ‘Where was he today? We need to harvest the chardonnay as soon as possible before the grapes get too sweet.'

Bronwyn cleared her throat. ‘He, er … was with me. We had a few things we needed to discuss.'

His eyes narrowed on her in exasperation. ‘Look, I know you mean well, but this year's chardonnay is going to be in some serious trouble if we don't get those grapes off the vine in the next day or so.'

‘Way ahead of you.' She patted his hand, sending goosebumps flying up his arm. ‘I've organised a harvesting machine after talking to the vineyard manager. It's all going down, two am tonight.'

He had to, begrudgingly, give her this win. ‘Good, but do we have everyone organised for tomorrow?'

The day after harvest was always a mad rush. It required everyone on the property to muck in for the huge task of crushing, de-stemming and pressing the grapes – basically the extraction of the juice so it could be placed in the tanks or barrels for fermentation.