In His Eyes. Emmie Dark

looked like pretty average curiosity about the naughty teenager who’d been sent away to get straightened out. And some of the people had been genuinely friendly and sweetly concerned for her. It was just so hard to let go of her ingrained memories of Tangawarra—and of the people who’d watched her live through some of the most miserable years of her life.

      It was exhausting. Not only the nonstop chatter, but the constant second-guessing of herself. The only good thing was that Hugh Lawson had turned invisible—he’d organized this thing, dumped her in it and then disappeared. It annoyed her, even while she knew she should be grateful that he wasn’t around to further upset her equilibrium.

      Patricia appeared just as Zoe’s polite smile was growing ragged around the edges.

      “Zoe? Why don’t you come over here with me and take a seat?”

      Zoe could have hugged the woman in gratitude. She’d worn her heels—still thick with mud—figuring she’d be on her feet only an hour or so for the funeral. But now, after three hours, her toes were blistered and the balls of her feet were burning. Patricia steered her to a padded-leather bench seat that ran along one wall of the restaurant.

      “Have you had anything to eat or drink?” Patricia fussed around her like a mother hen. Usually the attention would have made Zoe uncomfortable, but for the moment she was immensely grateful.

      Zoe grimaced. “I haven’t had a chance. Too many people want to grill me.”

      Patricia gave her a frowning look. “Grill? I don’t think—”

      Before she could finish, the crackling sound of a PA system interrupted. Someone blew into a microphone and the din of conversation in the room hushed.

      “Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?”

      A chorus of people yelled out that it was, in fact, on. A rotund man Zoe vaguely recognized struggled to stand on a chair and everyone turned to face him. Grateful for her seat, Zoe stayed where she was.

      “We’re here today to celebrate the life of Mack Waters.”

      A muted cheer went up and everyone held their wineglasses aloft.

      “Mack kept himself to himself, but as many of you know, the Waters family were the original trailblazers of wine-making in this valley—a trail that many of us here today have followed. Mack carried on his family’s tradition in his own way. He only ever sold his wine by mail order because, in his own words, it meant he’d never have to deal with any bloody customers.” The portly man laughed at his own wit and an answering ripple of laughter ran around the room.

      “We also know that although he wasn’t a joiner, Mack was a part of this community in his own manner. He helped out his neighbors—well, some of them, anyway…”

      The man paused for the wave of hushed tittering at his unsubtle reference to the long feud between the Lawson and Waters families—a matter that was widely known but rarely discussed publicly.

      “…although I guess today goes some way to seeing that put to bed.” He gestured to their surroundings. He didn’t have to say anything more. A member of the Waters family being farewelled on Lawson Estate property spoke volumes in itself.

      Zoe watched everyone nod. The lump in her throat rose again to block her windpipe, surprising her with its intensity. No crying. She tried to take deep breaths to hold the emotion at bay, but her chest just wouldn’t expand properly.

      “Mack also raised his granddaughter, Zoe, after Margie was killed in that awful car accident.”

      Zoe tried hard to ignore the fact that almost everyone in the room turned to look at her as they tut-tutted in what could only be fake sympathy. No one in Tangawarra had liked her mother, either.

      She swallowed again, but the lump didn’t move.

      “We all know Zoe gave him a run for his money.” He paused for a hearty chuckle that a few in the crowd joined. “But we also know that once she found her way onto the straight and narrow he was rightly proud of her. Mind you, she tested him—and most of us—along the way.” Another jovial laugh. “I remember when she was fifteen and she was caught spraying graffiti on my store…”

      That’s where she knew him from. Frank from the hardware store. He’d just put on a lot of weight and aged ten years.

      The room closed in. Her lungs seized. There was no air.

      Whatever Frank said that caused another wave of laughter in the room passed her by as her ears buzzed with growing panic.

      “Zoe, are you all right?” Patricia whispered nervously at her side.

      “Now, Zoe,” Frank boomed. It was clear he had no need of a microphone—that voice of his resonated in Zoe’s bones without any kind of amplification. “It’s your turn to come up and say a few words about your grandfather.”

      Zoe tried again, unsuccessfully, to take a deep breath. She waved him off, even as a spattering of applause began, encouraging her to take the microphone. Zoe had done plenty of public speaking, led talks in front of many large groups—wine appreciation societies in the main. But now? Invisible bands tightened around her chest and her heart skipped and thudded as if it were about to grind to a halt.

      “Come on, Zoe. Everyone wants to hear from you. Just a few words. Come on, lass.”

      “I—I have to get out of here…” she stammered to Patricia. “Fresh air…” She couldn’t breathe; the temperature in the room had just gone up ten degrees.

      “Leave the girl alone, Frank,” Patricia called out. “She’s had enough to deal with today.”

      She had to get away. Escape from the staring and the accusations and draw a breath. Zoe rushed from her seat and took a hurried step toward the nearest door. That was when the room blackened around her and her knees buckled.

      CHAPTER THREE

      HUGHHADBEENWATCHING proceedings from the sidelines. It had taken him a while to calm down his hot-tempered chef, furious that Hugh had sprung catering for a crowd of at least fifty on him with about ten minutes’ notice. And right before a fully booked dinner service, too. As the chef had railed about the insanity of the idea, Hugh had been on autopilot, placating him while at the same time he was internally agreeing with him.

      He’d made up some rational-sounding reasons, but the whole thing was crazy. Why was he doing this? As a tactic to warm Zoe Waters to the idea of selling Waterford to him, it had already failed miserably—her reaction in the car had told him that as much as her forced smile from across the room did now. He couldn’t pinpoint why he’d thought it might work in the first place.

      Mack Waters and he had certainly never been friends. The bitter enmity between Mack and Hugh’s father, Pete Lawson, hadn’t ended at his father’s death—it had simply been transferred to Hugh. And, if anything, Hugh had even more reason to dislike the stubborn old goat. The cantankerous-but-kind-at-heart-if-you-look-hard-enough man people were speaking of today was not someone Hugh had ever known. Mack Waters had been cranky, vengeful, rude and argumentative.

      Hugh had gone out of his way to try to move on from the past, to offer assistance as it became clear that Waterford was foundering under Mack’s failing health. Mack hadn’t even pretended to listen.

      It didn’t help that whenever he and Mack had tried to talk business they seemed to be stuck in a time warp. When they were forced to interact, Mack always treated Hugh as if he was still seventeen and Hugh found himself responding in kind. It frustrated him no end that no matter what he’d achieved in life—the money he’d made, the wine he’d created and sold around the world—as far as Mack was concerned, Hugh was still the boy who’d taken his granddaughter’s innocence.

      Hugh had never bothered to correct him, but in truth it had very much been the other way around. Zoe Waters had been like a thrilling adventure park in comparison to Hugh’s sheltered upbringing and good-boy persona. She’d introduced him to sex,