Belle's Secret Page 6

  She wouldn’t get any of that again and that was for the best. She was here at Wirra Station now, with a brand-new life. She had to put Harry back in the past where he belonged. There was absolutely no point in thinking about the what ifs and the maybes. It was way too late for all of that.

  “Isabella?”

  She’d been so deep in the confusing mess of thoughts in her mind that she hadn’t realised she was on the path right in front of Maggie and Max’s house.

  “Heading home?” Maggie called out. She was sitting on the verandah with a glass of wine.

  “Yep. They’re still dancing. I thought you’d be back there.”

  “I snuck an early minute. The team are over there ready to clean up and wash dishes. They tell me the bride and groom don’t seem to want to leave. I love hearing that they’re having such a good time they don’t want to rush off to start the honeymoon.”

  Suddenly Isabella didn’t want to go home alone. The thought of bearing her burden for one more day now seemed impossible. She stepped up the three stone steps to Maggie, who peered into her face in the low overhead light.

  “Iz, you look terrible. You coming down with something?”

  Maggie’s hand was on her arm, and she gave Isabella a gentle squeeze.

  Suddenly Isabella couldn’t find the words. Where to start on a story this huge and fucked up? She felt her bottom lip quivering and her vision blurred.

  “Damn, Iz. What’s happened?”

  Isabella threw herself into her friend’s arms and sobbed.

  Chapter Six

  Maggie pulled Isabella inside and made her comfortable on the overstuffed sofa in the living room while she went to the kitchen to make two cups of peppermint tea and unearth a packet of Tim Tams, which she kept only for emergencies. Isabella settled in, hugging a pillow. It was a warm evening and the scent of gums and grass and summer nights wafted in through the open windows.

  “Okay,” Maggie said, setting a tray on the low coffee table. “We’ve got all night if we need it. Who needs beauty sleep, right?” She sat on the sofa next to Isabella, tucking a leg under her. She clapped her hands together twice. “I’m all ears.”

  Isabella wiped away fresh tears. “Where to start?”

  “Why don’t you start with … once upon a time?” Maggie reached across for a Tim Tam and took a bite. “It’s a classic.”

  Isabella drew in a breath and dared to meet Maggie’s eyes. “I’m married. And I’m getting a divorce.”

  Maggie froze. The biscuit dropped into her lap. “You’re what the what?”

  “I got married last year. In February.”

  Isabella could see Maggie’s mind whirring. When she was concentrating, she squinted her eyes and looked to the ceiling. “You mean … before you moved up here? You got married in Melbourne? Iz, this isn’t making any sense.”

  “Believe me, it doesn’t make any sense to me either.”

  Maggie ate a Tim Tam. Then another. “So many questions. Where is he? And more importantly, why the hell wasn’t I your maid of honour?”

  Isabella let out a laugh, which turned into something like a sob. “Remember last year when I went to that conference in Vegas?”

  Maggie was putting two and two together. “Yes. The marriage celebrant-y one.”

  Isabella nodded. “I met a man there.”

  “You married someone you met at the conference? Wait a minute. You were only there for four days.”

  Isabella’s hands shot to her face, covering her eyes. “And I only met him the night before I came home. Well, the night before I ran home. Without telling him.”

  “Okay.” There was a long silence. “Trying not to judge.”

  “I know,” Isabella replied.

  “Wow. Just wow. The sex must have been incredible.”

  “We didn’t have sex until after we were married.”

  “How very traditional of you. And how was it?”

  “What?”

  “The sex, obviously.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  Isabella shook her head. “No.”

  “Under the influence of something else?”

  Isabella’s hands flipped away from her face and she met Maggie’s eyes. “God, no.”

  “I have so many questions. Who is this guy? Was he so hot you couldn’t control yourself? Hung like a horse? Ryan Gosling? No, wait. He’s already married.”

  Isabella squeezed her eyes closed and tried to calm the thumping in between her ears. How on earth could she explain to Maggie why she had chosen that moment in time to shed the sensible skin of her thirty-five years and do something so uncharacteristic, so unlike her. Something so … like her mother.

  “I don’t do things like this. I’ve never acted so irresponsibly in my life.”

  Maggie sighed and reached for her friend’s hand. “Oh, Iz. But your mother does, right?”

  Tears drizzled down Isabella’s cheeks. Oh, how Maggie knew her. Isabella had spent her whole life trying to fight her genetic inheritance, the burden of what she believed she carried inside her. Every single thing she had done in her life was to prove to herself, to others, that she wasn’t her mother’s daughter.

  Carmel Bridges-Watkins (nee Smith) formerly Martenson, had been married three times since her divorce from Isabella’s father when their daughter was only two, and Isabella had almost lost count of the boyfriends/partners/lovers she’d had since. They slipped in and out of her mother’s life like stray cats; Isabella hadn’t even bothered trying to remember their names anymore, once she’d got past David, Carl, Peter, another David, Diego and Paolo. Carmel was a self-described free spirit; her life was one of constant movement, like the dancer she had been before having her only child. Isabella had grown up feeling like an anchor on her own mother, both dragging her down and being dragged from place to place. She had been a quiet child, reserved and bookish, and had grown up craving normality, constancy, stability. When Isabella was nineteen, her mother had announced she was moving. Again. That had been the last straw. Isabella found herself on her own, having to fend for herself, and Maggie had become the sister she’d never had. Supporting her. Laughing with her. Drinking with her and sharing stories about men and jobs and life and every TV series they’d binge watched.

  It had been the loneliest time of her life when Maggie’s parents had died and her friend had moved from Melbourne up to Wirra Station to claim her inheritance. When Maggie had turned it into a wedding venue, and invited Isabella to be the resident marriage celebrant, it had been a move Isabella was more than happy to make. The further she was from Vegas, the further she was from her colossal mistake.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before now, Iz?”

  “I was embarrassed. No, more than that. I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think … hell, I didn’t want you to think I’m just like her.” Isabella heard her voice, quiet and small, pathetic, and hated it. “You don’t, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t. But, honey, how did this happen? This secret wedding?”

  “We had this connection. I can’t describe it really. It was immediate and, somehow, magical and mysterious and we could both feel it. It was as if we’d been sprinkled with fairy dust and he thought everything I said was hilarious and I thought the same about him. He was so funny and handsome and he just looked at me like he knew me. So I started talking about my work and we somehow got around to Elvis and we both knew every single one of his movies, from Love Me Tender to that one with the nun—Change of Habit—and all of a sudden we were in his car driving to one of those Vegas wedding chapels. I said I wanted to see someone get married by an Elvis impersonator and it ended up being me and Harry getting married.”

  Maggie’s mouth widened, almost as big as her eyes. “Did you say Harry?”

  Isabella nodded.

  “You mean Harry as in Simon’s American friend, Harry? The one I sat you next to at the wedding tonight? The tall, gorgeous one?”

  Isabella g
ulped. “That’s him.”

  “So that’s why you’re upset. Did you know … did he know …” Maggie slumped back on the sofa and blew a breath into her hair. “My head hurts.”

  “He’s been trying to find me since the wedding. I kind of disappeared. On purpose.”

  Maggie clamped her hands on top of her head. “I know I’m married to Max, the best man in the world, but Isabella. Harry’s a really great guy. I met him when Simon arrived from California with his folks. And he’s your husband?”

  “Not for much longer. As soon as he can get the paperwork sent over from the States, it’s over.”

  “Are you sure he wants a divorce?”

  “Yes. He wants to marry someone else.”

  “Hmm,” Maggie pondered. “It’s just that I saw you two heading off to the dance floor tonight and there was some chemistry happening there. I was patting myself on the back for my excellent matchmaking skills. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that he was your actual husband. Pity about the whole marrying someone else angle.”

  “We need to get on with our lives. We’ve agreed that we’ll keep it a secret. If anyone finds out, I’ll be ruined in this town. And you won’t have a celebrant and … I’m not putting all this at risk because of one stupid mistake.”

  The two friends sat in silence for a moment. Isabella knew Maggie was thinking about Max. And Maggie damn well knew Isabella was thinking about Harry.

  Sex with Harry had been as much fun as every joke they’d shared that night, as intimate as the conversation they’d fallen into, and as hot as Vegas in July. She’d wanted him like she hadn’t wanted any other man she’d ever met; he’d satisfied the ache and the need and the longing in her, with his lips and his hands and his body. And tonight, when she’d been in his arms, pressed up against him on the dance floor, his hard chest pressed against her breasts, one of his legs between hers, moving with the rhythm of the music, everything good rushed back.

  And that was so, so bad.

  “The thing is … what if I never have sex that good ever again?” Isabella whispered.

  “That good, huh?”

  “That good.”

  “So let me get this straight. You liked him. A lot, clearly. You had fun. You got married and had sex—mind-blowing sex—and then you left.”

  “Yep.”

  “He wasn’t cruel or horrible or creepy in any way, shape or form?”

  “No.”

  “Not married, engaged, living with someone, gay or otherwise not available?”

  “No.”

  Maggie reached for Isabella’s hand. “And you’re getting divorced.”

  “Yes.”

  “That sucks.”

  Isabella’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach, heavy. “It really, really does.”

  Chapter Seven

  Women, he didn’t think he would ever understand, but he knew wine. That’s why, the day after the wedding, after he’d hugged a koala and petted a kangaroo at the wildlife reserve with Simon’s family, Harry found himself driving a hire car north out of Wirralong into the heart of Victoria’s wine country. It had been a good morning. They got to pat kangaroos, so tame they hopped over to the group and ate food from their hands, before bouncing away into the scrub. He’d stood in line and posed for a tourist-y photo with a dozy koala, a protective jacket over his chest to protect him from the marsupial’s sharp claws. He’d sent the shot as a direct message to Tess, not caring what the time difference was and expecting that the ping of her phone would probably wake her. A minute later, she pinged back:

  OMG that is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Not you, the koala. Hope you’re having fun xx

  Fun? Was he having fun?

  Fun was not a word that sprang readily to mind. And at times like this, when everything else was a mess, he needed to be surrounded by vines and wine and wine people.

  Harry had grown up on the family’s vineyard in California’s Napa Valley and it was the expectation, always unspoken but as set in stone as the hundred-year-old vines across the sprawling property, that he would work in the family business. His first memories were of the yeasty smell of crushed grapes in wooden barrels. The distinct and musty smell of the cellars, labyrinthine tunnels under the large sheds, which held some of Harrison’s Wines most precious vintages. Acre after acre of vines in full leaf in the summer, then bare sticks in autumn and winter.

  It had been settled years ago that his older sister, Amy, would take over running the show when their father retired. That hadn’t happened yet and the way Charles Harrison was going, it wouldn’t happen for a good while. He himself was the fourth generation of Harrisons to be involved with the business, and had made his mark. He’d bought up land, planted more vines and grown export markets. Harrison’s Wine was now in stores all over Europe, Canada, even South Korea. He’d grown the business by building on what his forebears had done: investing and growing. Amy was so much like their father—stubborn, determined and single-minded—that she was the obvious choice to shepherd the winery into the future.

  Harry and his siblings were glad of it. Harry and his younger sister, Tess, were all about the wine and the legacy of a good drop, not the legacy of a name on the label. Their younger brother, Everett, didn’t care so much what they produced as long as the labels on the bottle looked sellable and there were markets for their product.

  And that’s how the fight had started.

  When Harry and Tess had taken their plan to the boardroom two months ago, they’d stared down their father, Amy and the other wing of the Harrison family: his uncle Peter and aunt Deborah.

  And they’d been knocked back. Not just knocked back, they’d been laughed at.

  *

  “Organic wine?” Charles stared at his two children as if they’d suggested he give up drinking.

  “Harry, are you nuts?” Everett tapped his fountain pen on the board papers and frowned. “Tess? Has he forced you to go along with this?”

  “He’s not nuts, Dad,” Tess explained. “There are markets for organic wine, and they’re growing.” Tess looked imploringly at Harry.

  He’d leaned forward in his chair. “This could be a point of difference for us, a new market. I’ve done my research. The number of organic vineyards around the world has almost tripled in the past seven years. Organic wines have a market share of about 5 percent, so there’s potential there for Harrison’s. Spain leads the world now, but why can’t California have its slice of the action?”

  “We already have markets and they’re growing, as you would know if you ever bothered to read the board papers I spend so much time preparing,” Amy huffed. “Did you notice on page seventy-nine that we’ve signed a deal to sell our merlot to Switzerland?”

  Harry flicked through the papers. “Yeah I did. Congrats.”

  “And we got that deal by doing things the old-fashioned way. Following the traditions of what we’ve done here for a century. The right way.”

  Charles cleared his throat. “The Harrison way.”

  “This proposal is about growing the business and the brand, too. We’re going to be left behind if we don’t think about it, at least.” Harry’s words seemed to bounce off the highly polished boardroom table and disappear. “Other winemakers here in California are beating us to market.”

  “It’s a no from me,” Amy said. “It’s just too risky. We’d have to wait years for all the non-organic residues to clear the soil. Not to mention the whole process of organic certification.”

  “It’s a no from me,” said their uncle Peter.

  “Likewise,” said their aunt Deborah.

  Harry turned to Tess. Two years younger, she too had an oenology degree and fresh ideas about the business. Just like him, she wasn’t as bound up as their father and Amy were with tradition and history.

  Tess chewed her bottom lip and glanced from Harry to Amy. “I think it’s something we should think about. I know that Oregon and Washington are right up there in the US market, but the Aus
tralians are doing some interesting stuff.”

  “The Australians?” Charles asked.

  “Yeah. There’s one region in north-eastern Victoria, which is the part at the bottom right of that huge continent, kind of like Florida is to the States. Some of the wineries there have been winning medals in the major international wine competitions for their organics.”

  Tess scribbled something on the agenda of her board papers and slid it along the table to Harry.

  Matthews Wines, Wirralong.

  “Dad?” Tess looked to the head of the table. “We’ve done our homework. This is a really good idea.”

  Charles was unmoved. “We’ve made a decision. The answer is no.”

  Their father got to his feet, pushed his pile of papers to Amy. “Meeting over.” And he strode across the boardroom, his feet heavy on the Persian rug, and slammed the door behind him. Their aunt and uncle followed, leaving the four siblings alone in the boardroom. When they were children, they used to run around the board table. Now they had a seat at it, although the way they were brushed off just now made Harry doubt whether they would ever be taken seriously.

  “Did you have to do that?” Amy demanded.

  “What? Have an idea?” Harry shot back.

  “I meant, lob that thought bubble into the meeting like that. What were you two thinking? You should have followed the proper processes and notified me a month ago so I could have put it on the agenda for official discussion. But no, you do it right now, with Thanksgiving and Christmas right on our doorstep.”

  “Amy, you are so much like him, I can’t even …” Tess rolled her eyes and sat back in the chair, crossing her arms.