Prologue

     “Now that I have everyone’s attention....” Jud Halston, Esq. moistened his lips and turned to the papers on Henri Marchant's dark oak desk.

     Julia Marchant sat up a little straighter in the carved wooden chair and cast a quick glance at her mother and Uncle Yves.

      The attorney cleared his throat and began his reading of Henri Marchant’s will.

     Julia's gaze followed the shaft of sunlight streaming through the three tall windows in the Marchant estate library. The amber light on the golden-brown wood reminded her of the gilded haloes of the Holy Family fresco at St. Margarethe’s. On any other occasion, she would find comfort in the understated elegance of the Persian rug over the Mexican tile floor, the Delft vase filled with yellow roses on the refectory table, but today...

     “...And to Julia, my only living child, I leave the operation of Marchant Vineyards on the condition--”

     Julia's indrawn breath was the only sound in the room. Uncle Yves sat stiffly in his charcoal suit, a splotch of color highlighting each gaunt ckeeks the only sign Halston's words had any effect on the older man. He raised gnarled fingers to the black armband fastened to his right sleeve. In California the traditional symbol of mourning seemed out of place. Well, maybe not in her family, Julia admitted. The Marchants lived and breathed tradition.

     Except for me.

     No matter. If her father wanted her to run the winery according to their time-honored methods, she'd do it. Art school had been a dream realized, but following her father's wishes meant more. She'd bring the winery back to full production, if only to prove to Uncle Yves that she could do it. She'd show him. She'd show them all.

     Halston faced her uncle. “I understand this is difficult for you, Mr. Marchant, but your brother’s wishes were explicit.”

     Yves tapped his head. “Henri was not well.”

     “I assure you he was of sound mind.”

     “Bah!” Yves heaved himself out of the armchair and turned his back on the attorney. He took one jerky step toward the French doors.

     “Please sit down, Mr. Marchant. I haven’t finished.”

     “Merde,” Yves muttered. “What more can you tell me that I want to hear?” He made a half turn, gazed for a long moment on Julia’s mother, then folded his slight frame into the leather seat next to her.

     Halston adjusted his glasses, and gave her a sympathetic nod. “You are not the sole owner, Miss Marchant. Henri--your father was under considerable pressure. It’s been a difficult year, and he had to cover operating expenses. And then his illness.... Your father revised his will the week before he died.”

     Halston’s patronizing tone sent a prickle of annoyance into Julia's belly.

     “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Halston?”

     “Your father consigned the crush to a consolidator.”

     “But--”

     The attorney cut off her reply gesturing to the paper in his hand. “I’m afraid you’ve no choice in the matter, Miss Marchant. Mr. Brandon, the Allied representative will be out to see you next week.”

     “Allied! My father would never--! Surely there’s been a mistake.” She raised her gaze to his. “How could they know about this before I knew?”

     Halston filed the papers in his briefcase. “Brandon knows about the consignment agreement--he'd spoken with your father. He doesn't know about sharing the operation with you. However, he’ll learn about that today.” Halston smiled. “I’m sure you’ll welcome him. It’s what your father wanted.”

     The attorney nodded to Julia’s mother, and the three of them made their way out of the library, leaving Julia alone.

Home

Web Design by D & D Productions
Santa Cruz, California

All contents Copyright ©2001-2010. All rights reserved.