Authors: Barbara Ellen Brink
2 Crushed
Crushed
Copyright
March 2011 by Barbara Ellen Brink.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
~~~
Cover
design by Katharine A. Brink
Edited
by Nancy Hudson
~~~
This
novel is a work of fiction.
Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or
persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the
author.
Table of Contents
This
book is dedicated to my daughter, Katharine.
Your
light shines bright and makes my world a better place.
His voice, familiar as silk on
skin, sent shockwaves through Margaret. The thick Italian accent she once
swooned over was now polished to an aristocratic smoothness. She dropped the
spatula she was flipping pancakes with, and turned to stare at the tiny
television on the counter behind her.
“Of course Minor Hurricane is a
long shot, but I have brought him to America to run and he shall certainly do
so.” Agosto Salvatore smoothed his tie and smiled at the camera with an
impressive set of bleached teeth. He would make a perfect model for Esquire. He
continued, “And I have no doubt he will rise to the occasion and surprise his
competition.”
The reporter appeared completely
dazzled as though Europeans in Armani suits were worth much more than a dime a
dozen. She asked, “Aside from the business of racing, do you have plans for a
holiday during your stay in California?” Her expression said what her words did
not, that she’d be more than happy to fit in with them.
He shrugged; one side of his mouth
lifted. “Perhaps, but first I plan to visit my son.”
Margaret gasped and stared numbly
as the picture flashed to the racehorse in question, Minor Hurricane, being
exercised by a groom.
“Thank you, Mr. Salvatore,” the
reporter’s voice-over concluded. “And good luck to Minor Hurricane on Saturday.
This is Jane Goodall with channel five news at the Golden Gate racetrack.”
“Your pancakes are burning,” Handel
said as he strolled into the kitchen and set his briefcase on the floor by the
door.
Margaret continued staring at the
television screen.
“I didn’t know toothpaste
commercials could be so mesmerizing.”
“You promised me I would never have
to see him again.” Her voice was soft, an undercurrent of hysteria running
through it. “That Davy would never have to know him.” She looked up and held
her brother’s gaze. Her lips trembled as she tried to gain control of her
emotions. “Now what?”
*****
“Now what?” Agosto folded his arms
over the top of the fence and watched Minor Hurricane prance in a tight circle,
defying the rider’s instructions. The Jockey used his crop to get the horse’s
attention and Minor reared up in anger. Agosto frowned, and cursed under his
breath. “What are you doing, Giuseppe? If you can’t control him now, how in
hell are you going to ride him to victory in the race on Saturday?” He felt a
tap on his shoulder and turned from the fence.
One of the young men who worked in
the stables stood there in filthy boots, a leather grooming-apron covered jeans
and a t-shirt. “A guy wants to talk to you, Mr. Salvatore. He’s waiting over
there.” The teenager pointed past the buildings to the parking lot in the
distance where a man stood with arms crossed, leaning against a red Porsche.
“Another reporter?” Agosto frowned
in annoyance. He turned back to the fence in time to see his prize horse throw
Giuseppe from the saddle. The jockey grabbed the reins before the stallion
could run off.
Agosto snorted his
derision as the jockey was nearly knocked to the ground again. He glanced back.
The boy was still waiting. “Tell him I don’t want to give anymore interviews.
Ms. Goodall was exclusive,” he said, and smiled remembering just how exclusive.
The boy shook his head and held out
a business card. “He’s not a reporter. He’s a lawyer. He said to give you
this.”
Agosto took the card, read the
words, and glanced quickly toward the parking lot.
“Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
The boy ran off and Agosto released
a breath. He reached inside his suit coat for the silver cigarette case he
normally kept there, but realized he’d left it in the hotel room earlier.
“Damn.” He patted his other pockets. None.
“Take Minor back to the stable and
have him rubbed down,” he ordered the jockey who had finally gotten the horse
under control. He watched the pair canter down the track before he straightened
his tie, slowly turned, and strolled toward his visitor.
The tall, blonde man took a step
forward as Agosto approached, his gaze bold and direct even in the bright
afternoon sun. Agosto saw a bit of Margaret in her brother’s features, though
broader in stroke. The familiar curve of the brow, wide mouth, and slanting
eyes appeared rather ominous on Handel Parker, like an angry wolverine ready to
pounce.
“Ciao, Handel! I’m surprised to see
you here at the track. I didn’t think you went in for racing or games of
chance.” Agosto held out his hand but Handel ignored it, the firm set of his
lips and iciness of his gaze fair warning that this was far from a friendly
visit to an old acquaintance.
“Why are you here, Salvatore?”
Handel’s question, blunt and to the point, put an end to formalities.
“I’ve come to see my son.” He
smoothed his hair with one hand, a nervous gesture that he stopped abruptly as
he realized what he was doing. He hated feeling small and insecure, and Handel
had always made him feel so. Margaret’s brother, responsible, athletic,
intelligent, and damn tall, was a thorn in his flesh. He would have to be taken
out of the way before Margaret would listen to reason. “A boy needs his father
to teach him to be a man.” He waved an arm toward the track. “I can show him
another world. He should know where he came from, what he’s missing. My son
should not have to live as though he has nothing when I can give him
everything.”
Handel leaned on one hip, his arms
casually crossed over his chest. He let out a short, mirthless laugh and shook
his head. “How do you expect to teach something you’ve never learned yourself?”
Agosto felt the sting of the words
but held his tongue. There would be time enough for getting even. He sighed
expressively and spread his hands in supplication. “I had hoped we could come
to some sort of agreement for the boy’s sake, but if you intend to fight me on
this…” He let the unspoken challenge hang between them.
Handel straightened to his full
height, pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his front pocket, slowly slipped
them on. Precise movements of extreme control. “There’s nothing to fight about.
You have absolutely no connection to
the boy
. His birth certificate does
not bear your name. You are nothing to him, and nothing to Margaret. You
severed any ties you might have had when you ran off to Italy ten years ago,
abandoning my fifteen-year-old sister as though she were nothing more than a
rich boy’s broken toy. If it weren’t for my friendship with your cousin, you
wouldn’t be standing here today.” Handel turned and opened the door of his car,
revealing black leather interior and a rich wood console. He slid into the seat
and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. “Do yourself a
favor and stay away from the Parker family.” He slammed the door and hit the
gas. The car’s tires spun around on the concrete. A cloud of smoke lifted at
his departure, and floated on the breeze toward the stables.
Agosto stared after the car for
long seconds, his teeth clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. No
one talked to him like that and got away with it. He glanced toward the paddock
and saw the young groomer watching. He turned and strode across the parking lot
toward his car, angry heat rising from his collar. Stay away from his own
son?
Handel Parker’s ultimatum was
a lot of hot air.
Agosto needed the boy. It was the
only thing that would satisfy his father, who seemed to be in an all-out
campaign to pressure him into producing an heir. His father had been pushing
him toward marriage and a son as though the pope himself had ordained it. But
his riding accident three years ago had caused more damage than anyone else
knew. He would gladly appease the old man if that’s what it took to have him
relinquish control of the company, but an operation to reverse the damage
proved fruitless; the doctors said there was nothing they could do. The son he
conceived with Margaret Fredrickson was the only heir he would ever have.
Nothing and no one could keep him from
his own flesh and blood. The boy was his. Papers or no papers.
Perhaps he needed to go at this a
little differently though. He let himself into the back of the limousine.
Margaret was the key. She’d been head over heels for him ten years ago. She
would be again.
The driver, dozing at the wheel,
abruptly woke at the slamming of the door. He straightened and waited for
instructions.
“Take me to the hotel,” Agosto
demanded and reached for a cigarette. He lit it and leaned back against the
plush upholstery, inhaling deeply. After his nerves calmed, his thoughts were
clear. Yes.
Seducing Margaret again
would not be hard. She was a lovely girl, most likely a beautiful woman. He
stared out the window, but instead of scenery, sweet memories filled his
vision…
Long
blonde hair fell over his chest as they made love. The twin bed in her room creaked
with their combined weight. Margaret smiled, leaned down, her breasts grazing
his skin as she whispered the Italian words he taught her, words she is afraid
to say too loud for fear someone will hear, words of lust and need. Later, she
was pale and fragile beneath his hands when he moved above her, touching,
caressing, teaching…
Agosto crushed his cigarette in the
ashtray remembering Handel’s sudden return from the winery that day. The
interruption had been most unfortunate. He’d wanted Margaret to crave his touch
like an addict, to scream for more until he was through with her. Perhaps this
time he would have the chance to make her beg.
Adam strolled through the airport,
his guitar strapped to his back, following straggling fellow passengers headed
for baggage claim. People stood three deep around the carousel eagerly
anticipating their first bag sighting. He slid the book he’d been reading on
the plane out of his jacket pocket, and patiently waited on the outskirts of
the mob.
“Here for vacation or coming home?”
a woman asked beside him.
He looked up from the page he was
on. In a short denim skirt, skintight tank top, and three-inch heels, the woman
looked like man-candy on a stick. “An extended stay,” he said, trying not to
stare at the cleavage pouring from her neckline.
She reached across him, brushed his
arm, and tipped the book up to read the title. “Ahh, you’ve come to tour
wineries.” Her lips curved into a teasing smile.
“Don’t stay too long. You won’t be able
to walk straight back onto the plane.”
He closed the book with his finger
in the page. “Thanks for the advice, but I’m not touring. I’m going to work at
my sister’s winery in the Napa Valley.”
“Really? What’s the name?” she
asked, perfectly plucked brows raised with interest.
“Fredrickson’s.”
She leaned in close when he spoke
as though she were hard of hearing and slowly shook her head. “Don’t recognize
it. I live in San Francisco. There are a lot of wineries around here. I’d be
glad to take you on a tour of my favorites sometime, if you’d like.” She
slipped a card between the pages of his book, traced her top lip with the tip
of her tongue, and smiled seductively.
“That’s very generous of you.”
The baggage carousel started up
with a loud clunk and the belt began to move. The woman inched forward,
straining her neck for a view of the bags coming down the line. Adam’s height
was a bonus today as he could easily see over most of the heads crowding before
him.
Five minutes later he snagged his green
duffel bag and headed for the nearest exit. He glanced back. The woman was
still searching for her luggage. She looked up, waggled her fingers at him, and
mimicked the sign for
call me
.
Truthfully, he’d had quite enough
of aggressive women in college. He wanted to be the pursuer, strike up a
romance, and take a relationship to the next level. A woman who knew what she
wanted was one thing, but pursuing a man with teeth and claws extended and a
rope in hand was quite another. What ever happened to strong women that allowed
their men to be stronger?
*****
Margaret sat perfectly still at the
kitchen counter, her hands gripping the edge, her bare feet propped on the
spindles of the stool. She stared at the moving images on the muted television
screen. Still wearing the cutoff sweatpants and tank top she’d thrown on when
she got up that morning, she waited for the phone to ring. Handel promised to
call as soon as he knew something. But although she glanced at the telephone
every couple of minutes, willing a connection between her brother and herself,
it didn’t ring.
Since Davy left on the school bus
that morning she’d spent the intervening hours scrubbing bathrooms, vacuuming,
doing laundry, and basically keeping herself busy while she waited for Handel’s
call. Now, fresh out of chores and unwilling to work in the yard in case she
missed hearing the ring, she waited, suspended between the present and the
past…
Agosto Salvatore wasn’t her first
crush, but he was her first lover. Her only lover.
She was fifteen when he came to live
with his cousins Antonio and Carl Franzia, attending college during the day and
waiting tables at his cousins’ restaurant at night.
Carl and Handel had been on the
football team together in high school and although they went separate ways
through college, Handel to law school, Carl to a school of culinary art, they
remained friends. After Handel and Margaret’s mother died, Carl made a habit of
showing up at their doorstep at least once a week with a huge container of
Ravioli, Lasagna, or tortellini and a poor excuse for being in the area at
suppertime with enough food to feed a Mormon family.
That summer the restaurant business
took off and Carl couldn’t leave as often as he would like, so he sent his
cousin in his place. Agosto at twenty was darkly handsome, wise beyond his
years, with worlds of experience oozing from his pores. Or at least that’s how
Margaret saw him. He was her ticket out of town, away from the pitying looks
people cast her way because she’d lost both her parents; one to alcohol, the
other to cancer.
Margaret knew she was pretty. She
didn’t flaunt it, but she didn’t look in the mirror and dwell on imperfections
either, as some girls were prone to do. She saw herself the way others did.
She had curves in all the right
places, a wide mouth meant for kissing, high cheekbones and a pert nose. Her
face framed by naturally blonde hair rivaled any California beach bunny. That
was a lot of power to keep harnessed, especially at fifteen. But she managed to
keep it reined in. Until Carl and Antonio’s young cousin came to town.
When Agosto stood on her doorstep
with a container of linguine and cream sauce, his dark eyes undressing her in
the dim light of the porch, she didn’t want to hold back. She wanted to let
loose. She was an innocent, heat-seeking missile and he was a black hole
pulling her in to her destruction. She lost part of herself forever in their
time together. Despite her love for Davy, regret ran deep and painful in her
soul.
She knew there were men out there
with scruples, trustworthy men, honorable men, unlike Agosto, but she had yet
to meet them. Only Handel held a place of esteem in her heart. Sometimes she
was jealous of Billie Fredrickson for her relationship with Handel. But
jealousy soon turned to guilt. Handel wanted a family of his own someday. He’d
been a surrogate father to Davy for so long she didn’t know what she’d do
without him. On the other hand, she didn’t want to stifle his dreams or hinder
his chance at love. Even if it meant she and Davy move out and make it on their
own.
It was time to prove she was more
than a pretty face, the dumb blonde sister knocked up at fifteen. She may have
gotten her high school diploma late and only succeeded in finishing a few
college credits online, but she had skills. Given a chance she could…
The doorbell shook her from her
reverie. She bolted off the stool, sending it tottering on two legs. She
quickly righted it. The doorbell chimed again. She hurried to answer it. Who
would stop by at this time of the afternoon? Other than the mailman with a
package or Billie driving Davy home from the winery after dark, no one used the
front door. The sound was always jolting, like an ambulance with the siren
blaring suddenly in the road behind you.
She opened the door, her eyes slanted
against the afternoon sun that poured through the screen. A man stood there, a
duffel bag and leather guitar case propped against the porch railing, his hands
jammed in the front pockets of a baggy pair of jeans. He stared across the
south vineyard toward Fredrickson’s winery.
“Can I help you?” she asked,
keeping the screen door closed between them.
He was a stranger but something
about his jaw line seemed familiar. His shaggy auburn hair glistened in the sun
as though full of burning embers. When he turned to face her, surprise was
evident in his expression. “This isn’t Fredrickson’s, is it,” he said. He
frowned and glanced down at a map folded in his hand.
“Nope.” Margaret opened the screen
to step out on the porch beside him. Harvest time was close and the almost
overpowering sweetness of vine-ripened grapes mingled with the man’s musky
scent.
His t-shirt was damp with
perspiration along the neck and sleeves, and he smelled like Davy did when he
came home from playing soccer after school. She glanced over his shoulder but
didn’t see a car in the driveway. She pointed across the field where he’d been
staring moments before. “Fredrickson’s is on the other side of that vineyard.
You’re almost there. Just another half mile down the road.”
He groaned, reluctantly lifted his
bags, and slipped the straps over his shoulders.
“Half a mile, huh? Great.” He blew out a
breath of frustration. “It’s my own fault. I should have called Billie for a
ride, but I thought—hey, this is California, everyone hitches. Darned if
I didn’t have to walk the last ten miles. Apparently, folks around here are
either leery of hitchhikers or they want to kill them. That was the most
dangerous road I’ve ever walked on.”
“You know Billie Fredrickson?”
Margaret asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Sure. I’ve known her since I was a
baby. She’s my sister.” His gaze abruptly left her face and traveled downward
with blatant male appreciation, as though suddenly seeing her for the first
time. He grinned and whistled through his front teeth. “I
am
definitely in California. Has
anyone ever told you you’re the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe?”
Margaret crossed her arms over her
chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard a man express appreciation of her
resemblance to the Hollywood icon. In fact, in the past year it had been almost
commonplace. So much so, that she contemplated dying her hair a dark shade of
brown. But this time it didn’t irk her—it angered her. Maybe because he
was Billie’s brother, or maybe because he was an immature, scruffy, smelly man,
and she’d taken an instant dislike to him. Whatever the case, there wouldn’t be
any happy family get-togethers during the holidays if Handel married this
jerk’s sister.
“Gee, aren’t you original. Your
sister must be so proud.” She snapped the screen open, stepped inside, and let
it bang shut behind her before she closed and locked the front door.
*****
“Terrific.” Adam stared at the
ancient two-story house. Billie would not be happy. He’d just offended one of
her neighbors. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? A curtain fluttered at a
side window and that was slammed shut too.
He let his gaze follow the curves
and lines of the shuttered house looming before him. It was a pretentious
farmer’s shelter to say the least, the windows inset with ornamental framing,
three chimneys rising collectively toward the sky, and a center tower that may
once have held a bell, but was now enclosed. He shouldn’t be surprised by the
inhospitable reaction of the owner. Only a snob would live in a house with a
bell tower.
He squinted up at the tower room.
It did add an air of mystery to the structure. It probably had great acoustics
too. Not to mention, the view from the windows would be amazing with a panorama
of the valley and vineyards. He could imagine plugging in his guitar and
jamming up there. He shook his head and turned away, retreating down the
oak-lined driveway. That was something he’d never experience.
Adam picked up his pace when he
heard the sound of an engine roaring to a stop at the end of the driveway.
Maybe he could catch a ride. A school bus had pulled onto the shoulder of the
road. The door opened. A young boy slowly hopped down the steps, one at a time,
as though he had all afternoon.
“Hurry along, Davy. I haven’t got
all day.” The driver scratched at his forehead where gray hair poked free of a
baseball cap.
The boy took a leap and landed on
the ground about five feet from the bus, a backpack clutched in one hand and a
soccer ball in the other. He dropped the ball and waved. “Thanks for the ride,
Mr. Hadley.”
The driver grunted, pulled the door
closed, and shifted into gear.
Adam picked up the dropped ball and
bounced it from one thigh to another, tapped it with the side of his foot and
sent it back to the boy. The kid dropped his book bag to catch the ball and
stared in awe. “Cool!
Are you a
professional soccer player?” he asked, blonde hair hanging limply over his
forehead and in his eyes. He combed it back with one hand and kicked the ball
to Adam.
“Nope, but I played in college.” He
deftly kicked the ball up and bounced it from his head and back again. “It
takes a lot of practice.”
The boy bounced the ball off his
head, but it flew too high and rolled along the driveway toward the house.
“Sorry.” He picked up his book bag and started running after the ball, then
stopped and looked back. The tip of his tongue stuck out the corner of his
mouth. “Hey, what were you doing at my house?” he asked. “Are you a friend of
Uncle Handel’s?”
The depth of Adam’s stupidity hit
him like a roller derby queen. Not only was Marilyn Monroe his sister’s
neighbor, she was also his sister’s boyfriend’s sister. That was a lot of
sister problems. He shook his head. “I’m Billie’s brother, Adam. And you are?”
he asked, already knowing the answer. The son of the woman who hated him.
“I’m Davy.”
“Davy!” his mother called from the
front porch, her voice sharp and forceful, not at all like the breathy movie
star she resembled.
“I better go,” Davy said, his grin
contagious.
Adam grinned too. He watched Davy run
toward the house and his waiting mom.