Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,1

But hey, who knows, I could be wrong for once.”

Even now, I can hear her humorless laughter trailing down the hallway.

It’s been three weeks since she died, and ever since, I feel like I’m walking around with a hole in my chest that’s only getting bigger.

“It won’t take long to reach the vineyard,” Edward says.

“Sweet.” I adjust the width of my headphones, rest the foam pads over my ears, and press play on my CD player. Within seconds, I’m nodding along to the lilting melody of “Dreams” by The Cranberries while gazing absently at fields of dry corn stalks shorn at the ankles like hairs on a boy’s buzzed head.

I crack the window, letting the wind fan my dark, bone-straight hair around my face. My hair is one of many traits I’m glad to have inherited from my mom. When I was little, getting to play with her dark-brown waves was my second-favorite reward for finishing all my chores, a packet of Pop Rocks being the ultimate prize. The hair loss had to have been the roughest leg of her chemotherapy journey. It totally sucked—the nausea and appetite loss, and those painful mouth sores—but losing her hair had been like losing clumps of herself each time she took a shower.

For me, it was like watching my mother unravel.

Edward says something I can’t quite hear. Reluctantly, I slide one of my earphones to the side.

“Sorry, what?”

“What are you listening to?” he asks.

Can’t this guy take a hint? “The Cranberries.”

His mouth slants into a sly smile as he presses a button on the stereo system, filling the car with the thrashing cadence of “Zombie,” the fourth track off the Cranberries’ new album.

I eye this stranger curiously. Okay, I think, so his taste in music doesn’t completely suck.

Maybe getting to know the other side of my family won’t be so terrible.

Chapter Two

Mariah

My stomach does a somersault as we drive past an ornate sign that reads, Red Cliff Vineyards, Est. 1977. The vineyard’s name is an obvious play on the family’s surname, combined with the fact that they only produce red wines.

If I had any food in my stomach, I might be concerned about throwing up, but I was too nervous to eat this morning. As if meeting my father for the first time wasn’t stressful enough, now I get to meet his wife and children.

He makes a turn, and soon we’re winding through rambling fields of grapevines.

“I told the cook to have lunch ready for you when we arrive,” he says. “Chastity’s spent the morning getting your room ready. I’m sure you’ll want the afternoon to get settled.”

“That’s nice of her,” I say, trying not to sound as doubtful as I feel. Chastity is Edward’s wife, which under normal circumstances, would make her my stepmom. But I’m not sure the term applies if the woman was married to your dad when he knocked up your mom.

Why Edward is so eager to shove his past indiscretions in his wife’s face, I have no clue. Maybe he’s looking to clear his conscience, or absolve himself in the eyes of the Lord, or whatever it is people do to torture themselves here in Virginia wine country.

“Here we are,” Edward says. “Home sweet home.”

My gaze sweeps across the great green lawn and the rows of slender trees that mirror each other up the driveway.

Holy shit, I think, maybe this really is the most enchanted place on earth.

“That’s not a house,” I say. “That’s a castle.” Or, more accurately, an authentic-looking English country estate. Stone-faced and three-storied. I count at least seven chimneys, and two dozen windows on the front-facing side alone.

Edward chuckles. “Wait till you see the winery.”

He points to a building across a section of vineyard on the other side of the road. Sure enough, the winery is almost as large as the residence. The design is much more elaborate, with a broad terrace and stone archways that call to mind the old Italian movies my grandpa loved to watch.

The winery wasn’t built until after Edward bought the estate, and this new construction was clearly intended to evoke a Mediterranean feel. The mix of styles is a little tacky, if you ask me, but he didn’t, so I keep the thought to myself.

“We kept the old gardens behind the winery,” he says. “And the old stables are just beyond that.”

“You have horses?” My mother had a horse growing up that she loved more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Edward says. “We sold them off just before we built