In Your Dreams

Initially, Jack just thought Bill Boudreau was trying to keep his third daughter closer to home, or was just being protective, doing what fathers did. Later, it would make more sense.

“I think I know what I need to, sir. She’s everything I could ever ask for.”

Bill sighed. “She has her charms, doesn’t she?” He slapped the desk. “Well, all right, then. Best of luck to you, Jack. I think you’ll be good for her.”

Jack took Hadley to dinner that night at 700 Drayton in the Forsyth mansion, her favorite restaurant. Afterward, they walked through the park, and, in front of the fountain, Jack took her hand, knelt down and pulled a little turquoise box from his pocket. “Hadley, make me the happiest—”

“Yes! Yes, Jack, yes, let me see that ring! Oh, my land, it’s beautiful! Oh, Jack!” She let him slide it on her finger and practically danced in a circle around him she was so happy.

He’d definitely scored with the ring.

Originally, Jack was going to give her his mother’s engagement ring, which his dad had given to him years ago for just such a purpose. But something told him Hadley would want something that had been bought just for her, so he’d checked with Faith, then visited Tiffany’s and bought her an elaborate platinum-and-diamond ring that cost about as much as a new tractor.

He wanted to marry her fast and get her up to Manningsport, and she was all for it. Despite the rushed nature of the wedding, it was a huge affair. Hadley had an enormous binder she’d begun at age seven, complete with spreadsheets and thousands of pictures on her computer, organized by file—flower arrangements, bouquets, cakes, bridesmaid dresses, invitations, place settings. The only thing she didn’t need was a gown; she’d bought her wedding dress when she was twenty-one, she told him, which struck Jack as slightly terrifying. Then again, things were different in the South.

Jack learned that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Hadley viewed herself as an old maid. Most of her friends had gotten engaged (or lavaliered, whatever that was) in college. The summer after she’d graduated, Hadley had been in eight weddings, and she’d thought her day would never come. When he mentioned he had two unmarried sisters older than she was, she shrugged. “Southern women can’t wait to settle down and start a family. It’s more of a priority for us.”

She became a bit of a monster about the wedding, growing furious when the caterer didn’t have the right shade of ivory for the napkins. Her eyes narrowed at the mention of a cousin who’d “stolen” her idea for a bridal bouquet last summer—everyone knew that Hadley’s heart had always and forever been set on a bouquet of gardenias and bluebonnet, and then That Vanna had gone in and swooped up the idea, and now everyone would compare, and Hadley wanted to be completely unique yet traditional and have the most beautiful wedding ever held.

Jack was so, so glad to be a guy. But as he was one thousand miles away, he thought her bridezilla antics were kind of cute.

“Of course it’s going to be the most beautiful,” he said into the phone. “Because you’re the bride, baby.”

“Oh, Jack! You always know what to say! But dang it all, I’m going to just kill That Vanna when I see her at my bachelorette party!”

Speaking of parties, there were many. The traditional engagement party, for which Jack flew down with his father so the parents could meet, and so Jack could meet Hadley’s extended family. That had been very nice. Southerners really did know how to socialize, and Dad liked Mr. and Mrs. Boudreau very much. There were no fewer than three showers, and Hadley was a little hurt that Jack’s sisters didn’t come to each one. There was the bachelorette party, a party the night before the rehearsal dinner, the rehearsal dinner and a brunch for wedding guests the day after the wedding. Not to mention the wedding itself.

Finally, the big day came, which was a relief, because Jack just wanted to be married so Hadley could go back to being her sweet self and not some Martha Stewart–obsessed monster.

The wedding was held at her parents’ lovely home, in the vast backyard. Hadley had what seemed like thousands of bridesmaids—her three sisters, his three and his niece, her sorority sisters and many cousins, even That Vanna, all clad in pale pink. Jack had a couple of friends from college, Connor O’Rourke, a buddy from the navy, and his father as his best man, as well as Hadley’s brothers-in-law. Biggest wedding party he’d ever seen, frankly, and a little embarrassing that it was his.

But Hadley was radiant and happy, seeming to float on a huge, cloudlike dress. If she occasionally leveled a steely-eyed gaze at a bridesmaid who laughed too loudly or a kid who spilled juice on a table, well, she just wanted her day to be perfect.

Seemed pretty close to Jack. It was Southern hospitality at its finest.

White-covered tables held elaborate flower arrangements in blue mason jars. Half a dozen copper tubs filled with ice and glass bottles of Coke were left at strategic points (Jack had been schooled that Pepsi was viewed as a sin against humanity down here). Mint juleps and neat bourbons were served at the bar, and pitchers of sweet tea instead of water sat on every table. There was a groom’s cake decorated to look like it was covered in grape leaves. The buffet had shrimp and grits, mac and cheese, fried chicken and roasted oysters. The wedding cake had twelve layers.

“Jesus, would you look at this?” Prudence said, fanning herself. “I feel like I’m at friggin’ Tara.”

The word Southern was tossed around endlessly, as if the guests needed to remind themselves where they lived—Hadley was from a good Southern family, it was a real Southern wedding, Hadley was such a Southern beauty, what a wonderful Southern tradition, the Southern food was Southern delicious, Barb was such a Southern mama, didja see Bill cry, of course, he’s a Southern daddy, sure is hot, you can count on this Southern weather, oh, look at that beautiful Southern smile!

Jack lost count of the times he was told that for a Yankee, he was all right. Apparently, the War of Northern Aggression, as it was called down here, was still a sore spot.

The dancing went on into the wee hours before Jack could finally carry his bride over the threshold of their suite.

Their honeymoon was in the Outer Banks, a perfect week of walking on the beach and making love, swimming and sailing, eating and drinking wine, opening gifts and talking (a lot) about the wedding. Hadley thought it had been magical and perfect and wanted to go over every minute, again and again.

They flew back to Manhattan for one more night away to break up the travel, and, yes, stayed in one of the posh hotels they’d looked at when they’d just met (a suite, though not the penthouse suite, which caused the briefest pout).

And then, finally, they drove to Manningsport, and Jack felt himself relax as they got closer to home. The wedding had been great (if exhausting), the honeymoon idyllic, but this was what he’d really been looking forward to. Not getting married...being married. Eating at home instead of restaurants. Sleeping in his own bed without the unfamiliar sounds of away.

And, Jack had to admit, he wanted to get back to work, because he loved his job. Two solid weeks of not working had made him a little itchy. He missed home, the morning fog that so often hung over Crooked Lake, the fields in the mist, the long, quiet afternoons with his father and grandfather, experimenting with techniques, listening to Pops’s traditions, adding his own more scientific methodology, running things by Dad. He loved the smell of the grapes in the fields, the twisting vines and miraculous clumps of gold, green and purple fruit, the cool damp of the barns and cellars where Blue Heron wine was stored and aged.

But almost as soon as they got home, the troubles began.

CHAPTER FIVE

ON THURSDAY, WITH a knifelike winter wind slicing off the lake, Jack went into the Cask Room, the stone basement where they stored the oak barrels filled with the red wines of Blue Heron. The cool walls, the distinctive smell of fieldstone, the dim lighting all spoke to the centuries-old art of wine making.

Time was the most important factor. In most things, he supposed. Too little time, and the wine wouldn’t have the chance to mature and develop all the levels of taste and texture. Too much time, and the color would muddy and the flavor would fade.

Like Josh Deiner. Too much time without air. Too much time underwater.

One of the victims sustained a head injury and possible anoxic brain damage. He was the last one rescued.

That had been the report on the news. Jack had watched every minute of the coverage; he’d programmed his DVR to catch every story, every mention, hoping for a hint of something positive for Josh. The kid wasn’t dead. That was it.

He wasn’t dead yet, that was. Nor had he improved.

Jack realized he was sweating, despite the coolness of the cellar. He really needed to get some sleep.

Two nights ago, he’d come home from work to find his front door wide open and every light on; yet he had a clear memory of locking the door, as he did every morning, a leftover from living in Washington, D.C. When the hell had he gone upstairs and turned lights on up there? He had no clue, and it was unnerving. Jeremy Lyon, who was a family friend and a doctor, had called Jack to check on him; maybe Jack would ask for a prescription for a sleeping pill.

His phone buzzed with a text.

Thinking of u.

Hadley. Frankie had caved and given her sister the number, then called to apologize.

Hadley was the wine that hadn’t aged enough—bright and beautiful in color, vibrant and lively at first taste, and then the lingering tannin, the cottony, unpleasant feeling. Too much, too soon.

Dinner w/ me & Frankie this week?

Playing the Frankie card so soon? Frankie sometimes came out to have dinner with Jack, sharing stories about school and herself and not mentioning her sister. She’d called right after the news of the accident hit and sent him a few texts since then. Jack had always liked her.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket, pulled the plug on the side of the barrel and inserted the sampling tube. He let it fill and then poured the wine into the glass. Swirled and inhaled the scent, getting notes of blackberry, tobacco and leather. Nice. He took a sip. Nope, not ready yet. Too cottony.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and his youngest sister came waddling down the stairs. Her giant golden retriever, Blue, followed, making a beeline for Jack’s leg.

“Hello, you horny bastard,” he said. The dog smiled up at him, happy dope that he was.

“Hey, Jack,” Faith said.

“Hey. Should you be down here in your delicate condition?”

“I have at least seven weeks to go. Also, Goggy brought in half a ton of grapes the day she went into labor with Dad, and Pru drove the grape harvester the day Ned was born, so I think I can handle the stairs.” She handed him a foil-wrapped package. “Lemon cake from Mrs. Johnson. I was told not to eat any. It’s so unfair, you being her favorite.”

“I can’t help being perfect,” he said in a pale imitation of his usual back-and-forth with his sisters. The cake was still warm. He’d eat some later, maybe. Then again, his appetite hadn’t been so good.

Faith sat at the old wooden table. “Can I smell the wine, at least?”

He handed her the glass, and she took a deep sniff of the wine. “Oh, nice. Leather and plum. This’ll be great in a few months, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

She settled back in her chair and rested her hands on her bulging stomach. “So how are you doing these days, buddy?”

“Good. Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Thanks.” He wasn’t about to burden her with tales of limp, lifeless teenagers. “I’m fine, Faithie.”

“Good. You know, we all love you, even if you’re a little prince.”

“Please. I’m head winemaker for our family dynasty. You, on the other hand, plant pretty flowers.” Faith was a landscape architect, and while he completely respected what she did, he wasn’t about to tell her. It would throw off his big-brother coolness.