Chapter 31 #2
“For your pocket,” he says. “So you don’t put off writing down the thing you think you’ll remember.”
“I never remember everything,” I say, my smile wobbling.
“Of course, you don’t. That’s why we write.”
He glances at the door. “Go finish your packing. I’m not walking you to the car. One goodbye is enough, but I have a vow. You’ll see me at harvest sometime. I’ll terrorize your cellar. You’ll pretend to hate it. We’ll both enjoy ourselves.”
“I hope that’s a promise,” I say.
“Good.” He bumps his knuckles against my arm. “Now, get out before I say something kind and we both have to recover.”
I tuck the glass he gave me into a padded sleeve at the top of my bag and slide the notebook under my arm. I breathe in the cellar once more and step back. Sebastian turns to the tank and pretends to ignore me. It’s the kindest thing he could do.
After a moment, the hallway carries my footsteps away. I don’t look back. Like he said, one goodbye is enough.
I follow the narrow hall to the stairs, the cellar’s chill clinging to my sleeves. When I step into the sunlight, Kingston’s there, leaning against the car, waiting.
“Did you finish your goodbyes?” he asks.
“I did. Sebastian said I was good to go.”
Kingston’s mouth curves. “And not a minute too soon.” He laughs under his breath and leans in, forehead to mine for a second. “Are you ready?”
The true answer rises. “No. Yes.”
“We’ll make both true,” he says. He squeezes my hip. “Do you need one more minute?”
I shake my head. “I took it.”
He looks pleased in that way that warms my ribs. “Good. I re-labeled your shoebox of evidence, in case customs asks.”
“What did you write this time?”
“Highly classified,” he says. “Don’t open without snacks.”
I snort and he grins, the knot in my chest loosening. He tips his chin toward the room I’ve slept in for the last three months. “Last sweep. Then we go.”
I lace my fingers with his. “Claire isn’t walking us out. Everyone keeps saying one goodbye was enough.”
“Smart woman,” he says. “You okay?”
“I am.” The ache is there, and so is the steadiness. Both fit.
Kingston bumps my shoulder, and I bump him back. He lets our hands fall but keeps his palm at my back, easy and sure.
“Taste the day before we fix it,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Coffee first,” he answers. “Then everything else.”
The room looks smaller with the suitcases zipped. The window throws a bright square across the floor. Dust floats in it like snow you can’t catch. I stand in the light and let the quiet fill me.
I check the desk. The corner where I wrote Kingston that first honest email has a dent in the wood.
My notebook is gone from its spot, like a missing tooth and a new grin all at once.
The tape dispenser waits where Kingston left it after sealing the shoebox.
I smile because he’s an idiot in the best possible way.
I sit at the desk and scrawl two lines. Ask good questions. Taste again. I wedge the card under the paperweight, so the next person won’t miss it.
One last sweep. Window latch. Drawer. I press a palm to the pillow where Kingston slept and to the sill where I counted what I’d miss. I’m leaving the need to impress on this desk. I’m taking my practice. I’m taking us.
“Ready?” Kingston calls from the hall.
I pick up my bag. “Ready,” I say, and I am.
The courtyard smells of wet stone and coffee grounds.
Gravel crunches under our suitcase wheels.
The sky is that flat French gray that makes colors look honest. Two cellar hands step from the side door with squeegees and wet boots.
They lift their chins at us. Not a scene, just hello and go well. I lift my hand in salute.
The kitchen door swings open, and the cook appears with a dish towel over one shoulder and a long paper bundle in her arms. She thrusts it toward me like a relay handoff.
“For the train,” she says. “Still warm. Don’t fight over it.”
“We’ll try to be civilized,” Kingston says, which makes her snort.
With a word of thanks, I tuck the baguette under my arm like a baton. Heat seeps through the paper into my sweater. She slips a twist of paper into my palm. Butter. I could cry over butter this morning, which is ridiculous, so I kiss the air near her cheek and thank her twice more.
The van coughs to life near the gate. Diesel fumes hang low. The driver lifts a hand through the window—no rush and yes rush. Kingston takes both suitcases with ease, the shoebox balanced on top like a crown. I hold the baguette higher.
One of the cellar hands calls out a quick goodbye in French. I catch only the wish hidden in it. Safe road. Come back if you want. I promise something with my wave and don’t try to translate.
We load the bags, and I slide into the seat. The courtyard tilts in the window, then steadies. Gratitude swells in me until it feels like grief’s kinder cousin, the one that squeezes your hand and walks you to the gate.
The van’s heater sighs warm over our knees. The road unwinds past rows, stone walls, and small houses with mint shutters. The driver checks us in the mirror and smiles like he knows this is a departure.
“Gare?” he says.
“Oui. Merci.” I reach for Kingston’s hand and give it a squeeze.
Kingston has our tickets on his phone and on paper because, of course, he does. He taps the screen and tucks the printouts into the door pocket. I rest the baguette across my lap. The paper crinkles. Butter waits in my coat pocket.
Fields give way to a roundabout, a bakery, and a schoolyard where two kids chase a ball. The van’s motion loosens the knot under my ribs.
The driver glances at us in the rearview. “Where are you from?”
“Canada,” I answer.
His brows jump. “Ahh…good wine there?”
I can’t help grinning. “We’re trying.”
He chuckles and moves his eyes back to the road. “Keep trying,” he says, and the wink in his tone makes it land more like a pat on the shoulder than a jab.
I lean my head back and make a quick list. Two new protocols for home—if rehydration runs too fast, back off the rate, pulse shorter runs, and check drippers for clogs before I blame a vine.
If the cap stays stubborn on a cool day, warm the pump-over rather than making it longer.
Also… Keep the air clean. Taste before chasing with heat.
One sensory rule to tape inside my skull—read by scent first. Fruit says one path, green another, solvent says stop and ask why.
One note from Claire—don’t fix what you haven’t tasted or asked about.
Questions before orders. Shoulders down.
Kingston rests his hand on my knee. I cover his fingers, and my breath evens.
“Hungry now or train hungry?” he asks.
“Train hungry. But if you open that butter, I’ll lose my resolve.”
My phone buzzes with a photo from Tarryn—Paradise Hill in early light, rows dark and tight, the lake a piece of silver.
Tarryn: Hurry home.
I smile and text back a picture of our bread like proof of life.
Kingston laughs and squeezes my knee. “Paris first,” he says, so softly I almost miss it.
“Paris,” I echo.