Entangled (22 page)

~~~

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
he rope creaked
against the tree limb with the burden of my weight. I leaned back,
my hands gripping the sides of the tire and gazed up at the sky.
Leafy branches obscured much of my view, but stars were already
filling up the darkening expanse, producing a vibrancy never seen
within city limits. There, streetlights and neon signs seemed to be
at war for attention, blocking out the beauty of nature with a
brilliant façade. But one person’s tattoo was another person’s
masterpiece. I used to be one of those people that preferred rush
hour traffic and crowded malls to two-lane highways and corner
stores. But after the last few weeks my brain no longer buzzed with
impatience or stressed about unfinished business. I could sit in my
backyard and gaze at the sky, not worrying about anything. Except
for what Handel would think when he heard what I told his father.
And that was a pretty big
except for
.

“Been waiting long?”

Startled by his sudden appearance, I lost my
grip on the tire and fell backwards, my legs sticking stiffly up in
the air like a plastic doll. Handel laughed and helped me up and
out of the tire. The smile stayed on his face even after my feet
were back on the ground.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I
reminded him, glad for the cover of night so he wouldn’t see the
flustered color in my cheeks.

“I’m just glad you didn’t hit me in my
privates again.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the grim look he
made in retrospect. “I told you I was sorry for that.”

He stroked his chin. “Actually, you
didn’t.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

He smiled and took my hand as we walked
toward the vineyard. The swish of our feet in the tall grass
reminded me that I needed to mow back here. A handyman would be
nice, someone to keep the yard up, paint the sheds, install a new
garage door opener. Sean Parker came to mind, but I quickly
banished him from my thoughts. Handel would never approve of
helping his father stay in town by giving him a job. He wanted
nothing more than for his quick departure.

The First Quarter Moon shone the best it
could at half strength, the dark side mysteriously shadowed, a
bicameral orb containing both light and dark. I felt that way
myself at times, holding to what I knew to be right and yet in a
separate compartment of my heart planning the overthrow of my
scruples. Good and evil, humanity’s age-old struggle.

The rows of vines along each side of our path
grew thick and lush with grape leaves, which Charlie told me was a
good thing, for the vines’ sucrose would be translocated in low
concentration from leaf to fruit during ripening. I looked forward
to seeing the process all the way through. Uncle Jack taught me the
rudiments of winemaking but Charlie said you had to experience the
entire growth period of the vines, from spring leaves to winter
dormancy, to really appreciate what went into the art of wine. I’d
convinced him he was an artist, and I was now his star pupil.

“You seem happier,” Handel said, breaking in
on my random thoughts, his voice soft so as not to disturb the
ambiance of the vineyard. He squeezed my fingers slightly and then
released them to pull a candy bar from his back pocket.

“Happier?” I asked, with a glance at his
darkened profile.

“Happier than when you got here. Like you’ve
finally accepted this place as your own.” He offered the bar to me,
but I shook my head. He took a bite and chewed around his words.
“You’ve been learning the business, painting the house, buying
furniture, and kissing your uncle’s attorney. I rest my case.”

I smiled in the dark. “Oh yeah? I would call
that circumstantial evidence. Happiness cannot be bought with
things, or so I’ve been told.”

He stuffed the rest of the candy in his
mouth, leaving nothing but the wrapper in his hand and the hint of
chocolate in the air. The tug of his hand on my arm brought me to a
stop. I slowly turned, seeing his features by the glow of the moon,
shining darkly as though made of onyx.

“You are going to stay, aren’t you?” he
asked, his fingers clasped warmly around my forearms.

“For now,” I said, unsure of what the future
held. Handel seemed to want more than I could give at this time. At
least, more than I was ready to give. The attraction between us was
undeniable but attraction could also be immaterial when it came to
a lasting relationship.

He nodded. “I guess that will have to
do.”

“By the way,” I said, curiosity overriding my
better judgment, “what’s your story with Ms. Alex Becker? I heard
you two were an item.”

I felt his grip tighten almost imperceptibly
and then he dropped his hands to his sides. “What do you mean?”

Counter a question with a question, an old
male ploy. I laughed softly. “I wasn’t asking for intimate details,
Handy, just wondering if you’re still seeing her.”

The hum of a low flying plane thrummed above
us, the sound cheerily out of place. I glanced up and caught the
twinkle of lights before it disappeared over the house and oak
trees, heading south. Handel glanced up as well. He seemed
startled.

“Where did you get that information?” he
finally asked, his tone obviously annoyed. He started walking back
toward the house and I fell into step with him, not willing to let
him cut our conversation short by leaving early.

“Are you still seeing her?” My bulldog
mentality had served me well in court but with men it often proved
destructive. I would continue to question even when commonsense
prodded me to stop, coming to the startling conclusion that men did
not enjoy being grilled.

“We went out a couple of times last year, but
no. We’re just friends.”

As we approached the house, the warm glow of
the porch light stretched forth to meet us. Mother must have turned
it on after we left. Something in the set of his mouth gave me
pause. Was his relationship with Alex over or just postponed?
Sadness showed in the droop of his shoulders, the slowness of his
step. I wished I’d never brought the woman’s name up. I bit at my
bottom lip, unsure how to respond.

He stopped when we stepped onto the flagstone
path. I could see him clearly now and sensed that his soul was
about to be bared to me as well. He pushed the hair back from his
forehead and met my gaze. “I went to high school with Alex’ older
sister. Sarah was the reason I made it through my junior year. I
was ready to drop out. I’d had enough of school, teachers, people
telling me what to do. My mother was dying from cancer and Margaret
and I were just trying to hang on. I felt as though a hidden
current was pulling me under.”

His eyes shimmered with dark pools of
sadness. I held my breath waiting for him to go on and yet unsure
if I wanted to know the depth of his feelings for another
woman.

He continued, his gaze straying from mine.
“Sarah was in my English Lit class. She wrote beautiful, haunting
poetry, full of pain and sadness. Words that grew from something
ugly in her life that she would never talk about. I fell in love
with her. Everything about her. Her lisp. Her dark curls. The way
her eyes lit up at the sight of her cat. And I hate cats,” he
admitted with a bittersweet smile. “I dreamed all year of kissing
her, but she just wanted to be friends.” He swallowed hard and
pushed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “The first day
of summer vacation we went to a movie together. She cried all the
way through it. I can’t even remember what we saw; I watched her
instead of the screen.” He fell silent.

I waited, knowing when he was ready he would
continue. The neighbor’s dog barked in the distance.

Handel drew a deep breath and slowly released
it. “I drove her home and she said goodnight. I knew something was
wrong, but I didn’t know what to ask. I just turned around and
left.” He looked up and I saw anguish in his eyes.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice a mere
whisper of sound.

“She killed herself the next day. Jumped into
the canal and drowned. It wasn’t an accident,” he said, his voice
choked with tears. “She didn’t know how to swim. I’d promised to
teach her that summer.”

“I’m so sorry.” I wrapped my arms around him
and leaned my head against his chest, trying to give him comfort
while the steady beat of his heart held me there.

The back door opened and shut and we drew
apart, the moment shattered by the force of my Mother’s curiosity.
She stood under the porch light, squinting across the yard toward
us. “Handel? Your sister called. She wants you to come home. Your
father is there.”

Handel’s shoulders stiffened. He turned back
to me but his attention had already deserted. “I have to go.” He
didn’t wait for an answer but sprinted toward his car out front.
Before I could catch up with him, he’d already spun the Porsche
around and was driving away, the back tires kicking up gravel and
dust. I stared after the car’s taillights and hoped he wouldn’t do
something foolish in a moment of anger.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Mother joined
me, gazing down the dark, dust-filled drive. She slipped an arm
around my waist.

“I had every intention of telling him, but
the conversation took another direction and then …”

“And then it was too late,” Mother finished
for me. There was no reprimand in her words but only commiseration.
“Well, to be honest, Margaret sounded rather happy about her
father’s return. So perhaps everything will be fine.”

“I doubt Margaret really remembers Sean’s
brutality. Handel said she was only four-years-old when he
disappeared.”

“That explains a lot. It’s much easier to
forgive and forget things you can’t remember.” She gently tugged me
toward the house. “Let’s go inside, honey. I’m sure Handel will
call if he needs to talk.”

I followed her inside, my insecurities
tagging along behind. Handel had just opened himself to me,
recounted a moment from his past that still caused him pain, and
although I felt blessed with the knowledge that he trusted me with
his secrets, I also felt guilt that I caused him more pain with my
suggestion to his father. Sean Parker’s fortuitous return had put a
damper on everything.

*****

The tasting room overflowed with customers, a
busload of already tipsy people, hopefully at the end of their tour
for the day. I glanced at my watch and was happy to see we would be
closing in another hour. An amorous young couple, obviously
newlyweds, sat in a corner of the room, their lips tasting each
other’s as much if not more than the wine. The remaining group
consisted of mostly retirement age couples, and four single men
ranging in age between thirty and forty. I moved among them,
greeted each one, and gave a little history behind
Fredrickson’s.

An elderly man swirled his wine and stared
pointedly at me over the rim. “You seem awfully young to be a wine
vintner, Ms. Fredrickson. Your husband must run the business end of
it and you do the entertaining, huh?”

I smiled and tried not to take his comment
personally. There were still men my own age that thought women
incapable of managing a business. I wouldn’t hold it against
someone who grew up in a different era and was taught no better. “I
haven’t been a vintner for very long, Mr. James.” I pointed to the
historical black and white prints hanging on the wall across the
room. “Those pictures tell the history of Fredrickson’s. My uncle
was the vintner here before me. I’m not married, but he seemed
quite confident that I could run the place just fine on my
own.”

The admission of my unattached status brought
two of the single men my way. They hovered and asked inane
questions, while trying to prove their expertise at wine tasting. I
made small talk until the driver of the bus informed his passengers
that he would leave in five minutes whether they were on board or
not. Then he went outside to wait behind the wheel. One by one the
room cleared out, those who had already paid for a case of our wine
were met at the bus with their purchase.

The room fell silent as the newlyweds, the
last to leave, exited the building, still touching and caressing
even as they walked, as though unable to get enough of one another.
I shook my head and turned back to the tables, now in complete
disorder, spilled wine and overturned crystal marring the once
immaculate tablecloths. Instead of the formal presentation our
guests were met with, the room now lounged in dishabille. As soon
as our guests were out of sight, Alice and Benny, the cleanup crew
for the tasting room, began stacking wine glasses in a plastic
container to be washed, and throwing the soiled linens into a
laundry sack on wheels. They worked together like synchronized
swimmers, emptying glasses, stripping tables, dumping the wine
spittoons.

My services no longer needed, I found my
attention drawn toward the framed history on the wall. I stepped
closer, my reflection staring back at me on the surface of the
protective glass. I’d pointed out the collection to those customers
that professed interest in the history of Fredrickson’s, but hadn’t
really examined them thoroughly myself except for the brief glance
upon my arrival in California.

In the oldest photograph, a tall, spare built
man leaned in the doorway of the winery, a common farmer in
overalls and a long-sleeved shirt. A droopy, felt hat shielded most
of his face from the lens of the camera. Parked nearby was a wagon
filled with sun-ripened grapes, and a small boy in the midst, his
head peeking out between stacks of overflowing crates. The winery
looked much different than now, and smaller, a glorified barn
really, complete with hayloft doors and chickens scratching at the
ground near the man’s feet.