Entangled

Copyright 2010

Barbara Ellen Brink

~~~

Cover photo by Graphic Designer Katharine A
Brink

~~~

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

~~~

This book is dedicated to Leon, my husband
and biggest fan.

~~~

PROLOGUE

For years I’ve had nightmares. They started
when I was fifteen—after the night Paul attacked me and tried to
rape me. I dream of wine, and blood, and a desperate struggle.
After tossing and turning, I end up staring into the darkness of my
room, wondering why the past continues to have a chokehold on my
life.

Sleeplessness is a common feeling, always
craving one more hour of rest, but never getting it. Finally I
sleep, but it’s far into the night. In the predawn of morning my
body is pulled from slumber with a jolt of remembrance. Something
unspeakable sits in the shadows waiting to be recognized.

But weariness soon settles in and hides the
night’s truth with a blanket of fog. It feels as though only
moments pass and I awake at the sound of my alarm. The sun streams
through the blinds, and I curse the hands of time.

~~~

CHAPTER ONE

M
other often chose to
call when I was the busiest, informing me that her ESP just clicked
on and gave her no choice. I’m sure what she really meant to say
was she felt lonely and assumed I must be too.

“Uncle Jack died?” I switched the receiver to
my left ear as I tried to sign the papers Jody placed before me on
the desk.

“Yes, a massive heart attack.”

Jack was my father’s half-brother but I
hadn’t seen him since I was a little girl and couldn’t even
remember what he looked like. I assumed my father and he had a
falling out of some sort.

“He liked to travel but when he bought that
winery and vineyard out in California he was always too busy to
visit.” She sighed. “We didn’t see him after your father died. I
sent a Christmas card or two, but he never responded.”

I’d heard it all before, but Mother needed to
say it so I continued to listen while deleting Spam from my email
inbox. She told me she was going to California for the funeral.

“Why do you feel obligated to fly out there?
Doesn’t he have a family to take care of things?” I asked. Fridays
were always busy and I had another appointment in ten minutes.

“That’s the problem. He never married and we
are
the only family. Your father would never forgive me if I
abandoned Jack in his time of need.”

Mother’s sense of drama was always rich.
“They’re both dead. Neither will know if you choose not to go.”

“You can’t be serious! Your father would turn
over in his grave.”

I rolled my eyes and reached in the desk
drawer for the small mirror I kept there. “How’s that possible? I
thought he was in heaven.”

“Of course, honey. It was just a figure of
speech.”

“Which? Heaven or turning in his grave?
Because if it’s the latter, he probably needs to turn over. He’s
been in the same position for thirteen years.”

“Wilhelmina Fredrickson! That is
disrespectful.”

“Sorry, Mother.” I lowered the volume on my
headset and tried to touch up my lipstick. “I’ve really got to go.
I have an appointment.”

“I understand, but I haven’t told you the
real news yet,” she said.

“Can I call you back when I get home?” I
asked. “I’ve really got to go.” I clicked off before she could
respond. I’d probably pay for my rudeness later, but right now it
was worth it. I put my head down on the desk and closed my eyes, a
feeble attempt to ward off the headache I felt building.

*****

“Jody, go home to your kids. I’m going to
finish up this brief before I leave. No reason for you to hang
around.” I pulled open the top drawer of my second-hand desk and
rummaged around for a paperclip. An ancient coffee stain spread out
from the middle of the drawer’s bottom like a one-celled organism
magnified to scary proportions. My father built the desk before I
was born. He said he felt the need to do something useful with his
hands during my mother’s pregnancy. She said it would have been a
heck of a lot more useful to build a bassinet. But in hindsight, at
twenty-eight and unmarried, the desk served me better.

Jody stood with her arms crossed over her
chest, staring out the narrow window behind me. “Looks like a
storm’s setting in,” she said. “Abigail hates storms. I imagine
I’ll be sharing my bed tonight.” My secretary, a former client that
needed a job after her husband gambled everything away, was a sweet
lady, but a little too touchy-feely for me. I preferred to take
charge of my emotions, lock them away during the day, and only take
them out at night if they were completely incapable of staying
hidden any longer. Emotions were messy, better left turned off
during business hours.

I smiled. “She’s thirteen, isn’t she? Don’t
they ever grow out of that?” I asked, even though I still fought
the urge to leave a nightlight on.

“Ann didn’t ask me to tuck her in after she
turned ten. But Abigail has always been my little girl.” She walked
to the door. “Don’t forget you promised to call your mother back,”
she said.

I waved her away. “Goodnight. Have a good
weekend.”

Alone in my office, I dropped my pen on the
desktop and leaned back with my hands above my head, stretching the
kinks out of my back. I needed to go to the gym and spend some time
on the machines. But I had an appointment with Kent to meet at the
Bullpen for dinner.

“Appointment,” I said aloud. “Why do I
call…?”

Probably because Kent always called during
business hours and set out dates up with Jody as though we were
meeting to discuss a civil suit rather than to spend intimate time
together.

The Bullpen was a raucous sports bar, where
food and fun meant loud and greasy. I preferred the dimly lit,
quiet ambiance of an Italian restaurant after a day at the office,
but Kent couldn’t be more than twenty feet from a television
screen.

I finished, slipped the papers into a folder,
and stood up. Maybe I would call Kent and cancel our evening. I was
tired and still had to return Mother’s call. If I didn’t, she would
be sure to call me. I flipped the lights off and had my key out to
lock the door when the telephone rang. Hopeful that Kent was on the
other end of the line and I could back out of our date gracefully,
I set my briefcase beside the door and picked up the phone on
Jody’s desk.

“Fredrickson Family Law.”

“This is Handel Parker. Jack Fredrickson’s
attorney.”

I picked up a pen and scrawled the unfamiliar
name across the top sheet of Jody’s notepad. “What can I do for
you, Mr. Parker?”

“Not a thing. It’s what your uncle did for
you. He named you sole heir of his estate.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked. My
brother Adam and his college buddies had pulled senseless pranks on
me before but this didn’t have the same immature flavor.

“I can assure you this is no joke.”

Why would a man I’d met only once leave
everything he owned to me? It made no sense. Nearly everyone had
friends or a lover — someone. “Mr. Parker, why —?

Could we arrange a time to discuss the
details after the funeral?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, but could you tell me
something about this winery? After all —”

“I’d be happy to answer all your questions
when you get here, but right now I’m running late for an
appointment.” He left me his office phone number and asked that I
call his secretary to let her know when I would be arriving so that
someone could meet me at the airport.

Moments later I hung up, and stared down at
the meager notes I’d scribbled. The thought of owning and operating
a winery brought up a dozen questions. What kind of wine did they
bottle? Was the business solvent or were there debts to pay? How
many employees were involved? Was there a manager in place or had
my uncle run things alone? But the question uppermost in my mind
was — what am I supposed to do with it?

It might seem romantic to own a California
winery, but as a Minnesota divorce lawyer my life was quite the
opposite. I couldn’t imagine depending on such an iffy thing as
weather conditions to make a living. Gardening had never appealed
to me for that very reason. I liked knowing what to expect, and
getting what I expected or a close proximity. When you file a
divorce you get what you ask for.

*****

At home the winery situation continued to
occupy my mind as I changed into jeans and a sweater. When I
returned Mother’s call it was to inform her that I was going with
her to California. She didn’t seem surprised, but she was ecstatic.
She kept me on the line for twenty minutes before it suddenly
occurred to me that I had never called Kent to cancel our date. It
was too late now. He would already be at the Bullpen, watching the
ever-present television screens while he waited for me to show
up.

“Mother, I have to go. I forgot about
Kent.”

“How could you possibly forget that man? He’s
adorable. Even if he does talk sports all the time.”

“Yes, well, learning I’m the owner of a
winery might have something to do with it.”

I grabbed my jacket and keys and flew out the
door. A light rain fell, slowing traffic already thick with the
Friday night crowd. I pulled into the Bullpen parking lot twenty
minutes later, glanced in the rearview mirror to reassure myself I
didn’t look as tired and drawn as I felt, and hurried inside.

The Bullpen was revved up. Most of the tables
were full, and the bar was swamped. Sport spectators knocked back
beers and argued at the top of their voices about the latest game.
I spotted Kent sitting at our usual table, his purple Vikings cap
on backward and his arm around a woman I didn’t recognize.

He did expect me to meet him tonight,
right?

His preoccupation with the woman nearly
sitting on his lap gave me the seconds I needed to sum up what was
going on. As I hesitated, she ran her hand along his cheek and
pulled him in for a kiss. I stared a moment, then spun on my heel,
and hurried for the door, nearly colliding with a waiter carrying a
tray of drinks. My departure was so fast I’m sure not even my
perfume had time to linger.

~~~

CHAPTER TWO

M
other and I flew out
to California on Monday morning. She sat puffed up with importance
as though I were receiving a title along with my inheritance. She
touched up her makeup before disembarking from the plane, no doubt
afraid that some reporter would seek us out and take our picture
for the National Enquirer.

“I always knew there was something special
about Jack,” she said as she powdered her cheeks. “He and your
father were opposites. Jack was an adventurer, while James was
down-to-earth responsible.”

“Does that mean Dad wasn’t special?” I asked
as I glanced out the window at the runway. The plane turned slowly
and headed toward the buildings in the distance.