Entangled (23 page)

“Holy moly. What are you still doing here?”
Sally asked, suddenly popping up at my elbow. She had a habit of
surprise attacks and when I teased her about it she admitted being
sneaky as a child.

“Not much.” I inclined my head toward the
pair working behind me. “They seem to have everything under
control.”

“It’s what they do and they do it well,” she
said, her eyes alight with humor. “What are you looking at?” A slow
grin turned up the sides of her mouth when I pointed out the
picture. “Getting an idea of what he’ll look like in a dozen more
years?”

I narrowed my eyes, frowning. “He who? I’m
not following.”

She tapped the glass over the face of the
man. “Handel Parker. This is his grandfather, the original H.P.
Didn’t you know?” she asked, stepping back to let me take a closer
look.

I shook my head, completely baffled by the
news. Handel never said a word about his family ties to this place.
He had to know, living here his entire life, and perhaps clinging
to the belief that it would all be his again one day. Was that the
resentment I’d felt from him upon my arrival at the winery?

“How long ago was this?” I asked, facing
Sally.

She bit at her bottom lip and tilted her
head, her eyes rolled upward in thought. “He lost the winery in the
1950’s, so I suppose this picture was taken late 40’s.”

“What happened?”

Sally shrugged, a movement that usually meant
I don’t know
, but with her meant
well, it’s like
this
. “A few years in a row of a poor yield, not enough rain.
Then with the war, there was a shortage of employees. All the
young, working-age men took off for Europe with dreams of killing
Nazi’s and returning home as conquering heroes. What they finally
returned to was being unemployed. Factories and businesses shut
down in their absence, and women had replaced them in those that
didn’t. The Parkers struggled on for a few years, but finally
Handel’s grandfather couldn’t afford to make the mortgage payments
and ended up selling to these folks.” She pointed to the next
picture in the series.

A couple surrounded by five children, stood
huddled in front of the winery. Above them over the doors hung a
new sign with the name,
Wines of Sanchez
. Dark-haired and
stout, with pleased toothy smiles, they all faced the camera except
for the father, who with arm raised pointed proudly toward the
sign, and was frozen in time.

“And where is the Sanchez family now?” I
asked, my eyes moving to the next picture, also taken during the
Mexican family’s reign. Mr. Sanchez and his eldest son held bottles
of new wine for the photographer to record into history, while
workers scurried in the background loading a truck with cases of
the same.

Sally reached out and straightened a picture
that hung slightly off kilter. “Jack told me the Sanchez family
wanted to move back to Mexico. They thought our country was too
materialistic.” She laughed and shook her head. “So, they were
happy to accept Jack’s offer to buy them out. That was during the
height of hippies and flower power, so maybe the whole bell-bottom,
fringed-vest, thing scared’em off.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her suggestion.
“You’re probably right.”

The cleanup crew had already left the room
and I looked around at the bare tables. Tomorrow morning everything
would once again be prepared for our guests, spotless linens,
sparkling crystal, and the best of Fredrickson’s wine set out for
their enjoyment. I felt a sense of pride in the small
accomplishment.

Sally also gazed about the now quite empty
room. “I better go as well. I’ve got a date tonight.” She fluttered
her lashes and grinned. “I need to recoup and reapply the war
paint.”

“Have fun. See you tomorrow,” I called as she
headed out.

I took another look at Handel’s grandfather.
With knowledge comes recognition. Now I could see a family
resemblance. Sean Parker had the same lanky, rawboned form, the
same grim set to his mouth and jaw. The little boy on the wagon was
obviously Handel’s father, his tow-headed appearance so like Davy.
It made me smile.

But I was also curious as to why Handel felt
it necessary to keep silent about his family’s connection to the
winery. Why withhold the information? I would have better
understood his proprietary air about the place and perhaps even his
earlier suspicious attitude toward me if I’d known. But now I felt
deceived. Did he purposely divert the conversation and my attention
away from the pictures the day he gave me a tour of the tasting
room?

I took another glance about the room, shut
off the lights, stepped out and closed the door. I went toward the
offices. The outer rooms were dark, but a light had been left on in
the conference room; the door stood ajar as though someone might
still be around.

“Charlie?” I called, pushing the door open
and glancing about. But the room was unoccupied. I absently
straightened the chairs around the table; a silly habit picked up
from my job as desk monitor in third grade. At the door I looked
around once more and then flipped the light off.

A man’s stocky frame suddenly blocked my exit
from the room, a menacing shadow close enough to suck the air from
my lungs. I would have screamed if I’d had the breath to do so.
Charlie’s voice pulled me from the void. “Did you call me?”

My heart raced like a favored long shot
pounding toward the finish line. I took an involuntary step back. I
couldn’t catch my breath and probably looked like a fish on dry
land, floundering about.

“Ms. Fredrickson, are you all right?” Charlie
asked, and he reached out and flipped the light back on. The look
on his face reminded me of someone doing an impersonation of
Richard Nixon, blustery and puffed up, eyes bulging as he stated,
“I am not a criminal,” but Charlie’s expression was obviously only
worry for me.

I nodded, still unable to speak and pulled
out a chair at the table. My legs were shaking so badly I thought
it would be prudent to sit before I fell. Charlie watched me from
the doorway, a man consumed by guilt but unable to fathom what he
did. I tried to smile through my anxiety attack.

“I’m fine.” I finally managed to gasp
out.

“I’m real sorry for scaring you. I didn’t
know anyone was back here. I was going to shut off the lights when
I heard you call.”

I shook my head and took a deep breath as my
heart slowed its frenetic pace. “It’s all right, Charlie. I
shouldn’t have stayed up and watched that horror movie last night.”
I tried to laugh it off. “I don’t usually fall apart so easily. But
you are rather scary in the dark.”

He chuckled, his head bobbing up and down.
“That’s what my wife used to tell me.”

His comment reminded me of the estrangement
between him and Alex and I wondered if their damaged relationship
had anything to do with his elder daughter’s suicide. Death often
pulls family members apart rather than strengthening the bonds. But
now was not the time to question. I stood up and stepped past him,
letting him get the lights and close the door. “Goodnight,
Charlie.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Fredrickson.”

~~~

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I
awoke screaming in
the night three times, the nightmare descending upon me with
ferocious intensity. I don’t know whether the small scare with
Charlie in the offices set them off or my mind was just teetering
on the brink of collapse but real sleep eluded me. Perhaps my
mother was learning to sleep through the commotion because she
never came to my bedside, or more likely, my screams were only
imagined, lingering flotsam floating to the surface of my mind.

Finally at three a.m., unable to take
anymore, I climbed from bed and wandered to the kitchen, exhaustion
weighing me down. Not wanting to wake Mother — she had the nose of
a Beagle — I took a can of diet cola from the fridge instead of
brewing a pot of coffee. After satisfying my thirst, I slipped on
my shoes, unlocked the back door and stepped out into the night. A
gentle breeze blew through the trees, a cool caress upon my heated
cheeks. I was glad I’d pulled on jeans with my t-shirt after
waking, as the night temperature sent a shiver along my arms.

I walked slowly around the house and toward
the road, trying to clear my head of the dream’s haunting memories:
groping hands, stifling darkness, clinging vines that held me down
as panic swelled my chest. The recurring nightmare clung like
spider web, clouding my clarity with a film of dread. It seemed the
world had gone deathly quiet, but soon I realized the night sang a
melody all its own. A low hum of energy, pervasive and soothing,
punctuated by the crescendo of a cricket’s chirp, filled the grass
on every side. The starry hosts gazed down, reverent observers, a
million celestial eyes watching earth’s nightly orchestrated
performance in God’s theatre.

I continued toward the highway, keeping my
step light so as not to disturb the stirring repertoire of the
night. The crickets paused in their song as I passed, as though an
invisible conductor motioned them to stop, and then resumed when I
was further along.

Caution brought me to a standstill at the end
of the drive. The black ribbon of highway melted away in both
directions, the white lines dissolving into the night. I could
still feel the heat of the day emanating from the pavement, drawing
creatures to its warmth. A siren call to death. I knew how they
felt, yearning for peace and a place to lay their head, to rest
from the cacophony of life.

The low hum of a motor dragged me from my
reverie. Whether an early morning commuter heading to the city or a
lonesome trucker crossing the country with a full load, the sound
was a wake-up call to my senses. I turned away from the road and
started back the way I’d come. Headlights pierced the darkness,
flashed around a curve in the road and lit up my small section of
the world for one brief moment, before rushing by at sixty miles an
hour.

I didn’t remember leaving even one light on,
but now the house was aglow, quite possibly outshining the San
Pablo Casino thirty or forty miles away. Mother sat on the front
steps, huddled in her sleepwear, clutching the phone in one hand
and holding the front of her robe together with the other. She
looked like the outcast at a sleepover party, the girl that gets
locked out of the house as a prank. Hair drooped around her face,
the curl nearly gone, as artificial light leeched its color, giving
her a vapid appearance. I hadn’t seen my mother without makeup for
many years. She seemed much older and more fragile. I wanted to
wrap my arms around her thin shoulders, to protect her. Until she
spotted me and opened her mouth to speak.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, leaping
from her perch on the top step and hurrying toward me. “I was ready
to call the police. I thought perhaps you’d gone sleepwalking and
been forced into a car by a serial killer. This is California after
all.” She ran out of words by the time she reached me and instead
of continuing her tirade, threw her arms around me and wouldn’t let
go.

“Mom, I’m fine.” I finally drew back and
managed a smile. “I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. Completely
awake, I might add.”

“Honey,” she said, her voice quiet now but
resonating alarm. She cupped my cheek with her free hand, her palm
vibrantly warm against my cool skin. “You’ve got to get some help.
This can’t go on.”

I didn’t argue; my insides twisted at the
thought of the nightmare winning. I knew the ten years of relative
peace I’d had was over. The dream had returned full-force and I
could no longer ignore the implications. My past struggles were not
dead and gone, or peacefully in repose, but on walkabout, satiated
by my fear.

We went back inside. She tucked me into bed
the way she had dozens of other nights so long ago, smoothing the
hair back from my forehead and replacing it with a kiss. But
instead of leaving, she climbed into bed with me and held my hand
until I fell asleep.

*****

Charlie showed up at the door of my office
the next morning around nine. He appeared reluctant to step inside,
hovering there with his hands in his pockets. I waved him in and
pointed to a chair.

“Please sit, Charlie. I won’t be comfortable
sitting here if you’re standing way over there.”

He sat down and gripped the arms of the chair
as though afraid it might lift off the ground. “Ms. Fredrickson, I
need to tell you something,” he said.

I hoped he wasn’t quitting. Charlie was not
the most qualified manager in the world but he was honest and hard
working. I had enough to deal with right now without finding a
replacement. I bit my bottom lip and waited.

He cleared his throat. “I haven’t exactly
been forthright with you,” he said, a hint of defiance in his words
even as our eyes met. “Alex Becker is my daughter.”

I nodded, my expression unchanged. “Yes, I
know.”

He licked his lips, his eyes narrowed in
thought. “You knew? Did Alex tell you?” he asked. Bright
expectation filled his face and I wished I didn’t have to dispel
it.

“No. Sally told me.”

“Oh.” He frowned down at the surface of my
desk, the lines around his eyes deepening into a sunburst of age as
he tried to hide his disappointment. Then he drew a deep breath and
looked up again. “There’s something else, ma’am. Something I’m
ashamed of.”

I had no idea what he was referring to and
couldn’t imagine anything he would be ashamed of. Everyone loved
the man. His slow and steady wins the race attitude might annoy me
at times but he was a cuddly, warm-hearted character I couldn’t
dislike.

His front teeth protruded over his lower lip
as he hesitated, and he shifted in the chair. “I’m the one that
broke into the cellar. I had to know what Jack was doing down
there. Something isn’t right about this place. My daughter…” He
stopped and shook his head, unable to go on.