Entangled (24 page)

My mouth fell open at his admission. “You
broke into the cellar?” I asked, shock replacing my earlier
skepticism. His alarmed phone call to me about an intruder in the
winery during the night and subsequent installation of a very pricy
security system rankled in the forefront of my mind. “Why would you
do that? If you wanted to know what Jack did down there, why didn’t
you ever ask him?”

Charlie rubbed a hand over his face, a weary
gesture. “I guess I was afraid of what I wouldn’t find. But with
Jack gone, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to know if my thoughts
were just crazy nonsense.”

I leaned back in my chair, and studied the
man before me. Charlie always came across as stable, levelheaded,
sometimes too practical for business growth, but never unrealistic
or one cent short of a dollar. Obviously, he hid his crazy side
better than most.

“And were they?” I asked, not sure what his
thoughts entailed but still rankled that my private cellar had been
infringed upon.

Charlie released a sound heavy with
resignation. “I didn’t find anything.”

“What exactly were you looking for, Charlie?
And what does it have to do with your daughter?”

The denim shirt he wore today was faded and
softened with time and washings to a blue so pale it appeared
almost white. The cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealed an
abundance of curling, dark hair along his forearms that matched the
thick mass tumbling over his wide forehead. I couldn’t imagine him
fathering the petite woman who sat in my office just the other day.
They both had dark hair but otherwise I saw no resemblance. Alex
must take after her mother.

Charlie shook his head slowly, as he stared
at the portrait behind me, impotent anger turning his face a
blustery red. Jack’s abstracts were bold, designed to shock the
observer out of their humdrum world and into Jack’s world of
frenzied unease. In contrast, his self-portrait, for that’s what it
was, soothed the onlooker with muted color, and soft, blurred
lines, in a somnolent sort of way. Jack’s features were undefined
and yet you could see the personality of a man satisfied with life
and at peace with who he was.

“I’ve lost two daughters. I blame Jack for
both of them. He thought giving me this job would make up for
everything, but it only made me more suspicious.”

“Now I’m really confused,” I said, turning to
look at the portrait that had his attention, but couldn’t see what
angered him other than the way Jack airbrushed himself to look
handsomer than he actually was. Alex had obviously shifted her
affection for her father to Jack sometime after her parent’s
divorce, but what connection did Jack have to Sarah? I was afraid
to ask, reluctant to admit to Charlie that I’d discussed his
family’s personal lives.

He shook his head and stood up, his gaze
still fixated on Jack’s painted image. “It doesn’t matter anymore.
Jack’s dead. Hell will have to suffice. It’s out of my hands.” He
pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to me across
the desk. “I’m sorry about this, Ms. Fredrickson. I know you don’t
have anything to do with the past around here, but I still live
with it each and every day.” He cleared his throat before
continuing. “This is my resignation. I hope that’s all right, I
can’t afford to be fired at my age.”

Without another word he turned and hurried
toward my office door. I stood up, put my fingers to my lips, and
gave a loud blast of a whistle that nearly sent him into a
tailspin. “Charlie! I’m not finished with you yet,” I stated loud
enough for Sally to hear as she listened outside the door. “Sit!” I
demanded, pointing to the chair recently vacated.

Still stunned by my amazing ability to
whistle, he obeyed like a docile child, sat and folded his hands in
his lap. I moved out from behind the desk and took the seat beside
him. “Look. I’m not condoning what you did. In fact, I expect you
to pay for the cost of repairing the door and replacing the lock.
But — .” I held up the envelope and ripped it in two. “I have no
intention of firing you or letting you resign. I need you to run
this place, Charlie. I can’t do it without you. Please stay.”

Charlie’s face lit up, his toothy grin wide
and contagious. He nodded again and again until I thought he was
going to neigh with glee, but he started laughing instead, a
hee-haw sort of laugh that forever changed my horsy image of
him.

“What is so funny?” I asked.

He pointed to the torn envelope in my lap. “I
put cash in there to pay for the door and you just tore it up.”

*****

Handel called and asked if I could meet him
for lunch in town. He wanted to speak with me alone, without the
threat of interruption. After his abrupt departure the last time
I’d seen him, I was curious to know the outcome of his father’s
visit and whether my name came up in the conversation. I also
wanted to ask him about his grandfather and the fact that he
neglected to mention his family’s connection to the winery.

I left the office at eleven, ran to the house
to primp and change clothes, and pulled up to the bistro half an
hour later, right on time. Handel’s red Porsche was nowhere in
sight, so I sat in the car and waited.

A sharp rap against my window woke me from
the first real sleep I’d had in days. I jerked upright, my vision
blurred against the bright afternoon sun. Handel stood outside my
door, leaning down to peer in at me, wearing a curious look of
concern. I glanced in the rearview mirror, checking for any
embarrassing sign of drool, but luckily my makeup appeared
unmarred. I opened the door and he stepped back to let me out.

“Have a nice nap?” he asked, reaching out to
take my arm. His grin was more than teasing; it pulled me in with
warmth. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners and a small line
creased his left cheek, small signs of his advanced age, two whole
years past me. At thirty, his male attraction meter was just
nearing the peak, whereas, I assumed mine was sliding down the
backside of the hill.

“Yes, thanks. Nice that you could show up,” I
said, not willing to let his tardiness go unspoken. He had asked me
here in the first place.

We walked into the bistro and soon had a
small table for two in a snug corner beside a potted fig tree.
After ordering, we sipped iced teas and listened to a man perched
on a stool strum an acoustic guitar. The bistro was vibrantly busy,
the sound of voices rose and fell, laughter burst out unexpectedly
here and there, and a waiter sent a glass crashing to the floor.
But our table was an oasis in the midst of churning life, the
hubbub simply white noise, calming my nerves as I sat across from
Handel. Small talk floated between us, words of ease and
insignificance, when all the while I wished to reach out and touch
his cheek, ask him if he still loved her, whether he could ever
love me. I don’t know where those thoughts came from. I certainly
had not been consciously entertaining them.

“My father mentioned that he spoke with you
again.” Handel’s statement tore my gaze away from the man playing
on stage and back to him, my secret thoughts fluttering away. “You
didn’t mention it the other night,” he said, his voice a reprimand,
sounding hurt rather than anger.

I licked my lips. “I’m sorry. I meant to, but
you left so abruptly.” I didn’t bring up the fact that our
conversation had taken a left turn that night and wandered into the
past. The subject of Sean Parker didn’t seem noteworthy after
hearing Handel’s confession of love for Sarah Simpson.

He nodded, his hands absently folding the
napkin before him, a telltale sign that he wasn’t anymore in
control than I. “I guess I did.” He reached out and touched the
back of my hand and I released the grip on my glass and laced my
fingers with his. The connection gave me hope, a tentative grasp on
his affection.

The waiter brought our food and I pulled
back, folding my hands in my lap as serving dishes were placed
before us. The sizzling platter of thinly sliced beef, onions and
peppers gave off a spicy cloud of steam. Handel offered me the
container of warm tortillas and we prepared our fajitas, my
appetite suddenly taking precedence.

The sensual, thrumming melodies played on
stage filled any uncomfortable silences we may have had, allowing
us to eat and drink without self-consciousness. I noted Handel’s
hearty appetite and was encouraged. He couldn’t be mad at me if he
was hungry, could he?

“How is everything?” The waiter asked,
bending over our table with a pleasant smile on his face. “Can I
get you anything else right now?”

Handel and I shook our heads, our mouths too
full to respond politely, and the man moved on to another
table.

“I’m stuffed,” I said twenty minutes later as
I pushed my plate away. “I can’t eat another bite.” I lifted my
glass and took a sip, watching Handel over the rim.

He finished the last of his third fajita
before answering. “I could probably pack one more in but I’d regret
it later.” He laughed and threw his napkin on his plate. “Are you
up for dessert?”

I shook my head, my eyes wide with amazement.
“Not me, but go right ahead. I’ll watch in awe.”

“I better not. Just have to work out harder
later.”

We sipped our drinks, our glances straying
toward the stage. Handel leaned across the table and touched my
arm, getting my attention and sending a jolt through my veins. His
touch was light, lingering moments after I met his gaze.

“I need to clear up some things with you,
Billie.”

I nodded, giving him the go ahead, as though
he were the only one unclear and I had all the answers.

“I told you about Sarah because I wanted you
to know that I wasn’t taking your feelings lightly.”

I narrowed my gaze. “My feelings?”

He exhaled and started again, his voice
patronizingly patient as though I were a child. “You asked about
Alex and whether I was still seeing her, even though I’ve blatantly
been pursuing you. Alex is just a friend.”

“Does she know that?” I asked, annoyed by my
feelings for the man, and the jealousy I reluctantly acknowledged
to myself.

“Of course. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s
been seeing someone else for the last few months. But she wouldn’t
talk about it when I asked. I hope he’s not married.”

“And why are you so worried about it? She’s
not your responsibility.” I didn’t like the idea that he was at
another woman’s beck and call.

“I’ve tried to be there for her whenever I
could. She’s as much a sister to me as Margaret.” He reached out
and tried to take my hand in his, upsetting my glass in the process
as I pulled abruptly away. The cold liquid ran across the tabletop
and into his lap. He yelped, then jumped up and slapped at his
slacks, trying to keep the tea from soaking in.

I laughed, and covered my mouth with my hand
as the waiter miraculously arrived with a towel and began cleaning
the spill. After he left, I leaned back, the grin still on my face.
“I’m sorry.”

Handel stared at me across the table and
slowly shook his head. “You are the craziest woman I’ve ever met,”
he said in all seriousness. “I don’t know why I find that so
attractive.”

I burst into laughter again; catching the
attention of many in the small restaurant as the musician ended his
song on a plaintive note and stepped off the stage for a break. I’d
been called crazy before, but never with such angst-filled
sentiment. Finally, after catching my breath, I pushed our drinks
deliberately to the side and reached across the expanse of the
table, my fingers open and inviting. “Maybe because you’re just a
little bit crazy too,” I said.

He hesitated, and I worried that I’d gone too
far, pushing away another man I cared for out of nebulous fear.
Then he laced his fingers with mine. He leaned forward halfway and
I leaned in to meet him across the tabletop, our lips coming
together in a simple kiss of truce.

He pulled back and stared down at our linked
hands for a moment. “My father said you offered him a job.” My
expression must have been horrified because he quickly shook his
head. “I’m not angry with you. He explained that you wouldn’t help
him unless he spoke with me first.”

“He was very persistent,” I said, squeezing
Handel’s fingers in a plea to understand. “I was more or less
trying to get rid of him. Mother even threatened to call the police
if he didn’t leave.”

“Was he violent?” he asked, his features
stiffening into a mask of anger.

I quickly shook my head to reassure him. “No,
no. Nothing like that. Mother just overreacted, that’s all.”

He released my hands and sat back, crossing
his arms, as though putting up a defense against emotions he didn’t
know how to deal with. “Margaret and I talked with him the other
night. He gave some song and dance about leaving twenty years ago
because he didn’t want to hurt us anymore. Said he came back
because he was a changed man and hoped we would give him a second
chance. I didn’t believe a word he said, but Margaret did. At least
she wanted to, bad enough to fight for Davy’s right to know his
grandfather. I couldn’t very well win against my sister’s
arguments. She’s always been a woman with a mind of her own. I just
hope she isn’t sorry in the end. I’ve never wanted to be wrong so
badly in my life.”

The longing in his tone was surprising, and I
didn’t believe he was thinking only of Margaret. I assumed he’d
given up completely on his father, wished for nothing more than to
never see him again. But a little boy peeked out from behind his
eyes, desperately needing to feel the love of his dad.

“So, what are you going to do?”

He cleared his throat. “I was hoping you
could help me with that.”

The waiter took the rest of our dishes and
left the check. I propped my elbow on the table with my chin in my
hand. “What can I do?” I asked.