Entangled (25 page)

“Margaret invited him to stay at the house.
He wants to find a job to pay his own way, which is great, only he
insists on working at the winery. Says it’s the only thing he
knows. I told him I’d help him get a job in town. There’s even an
opening at my office building for a custodian. Someone to clean
after hours.” Handel rubbed a hand over his face, and shook his
head. “It was like talking to a brick wall. Finally, Margaret
suggested I speak with you.”

“Do you want me to give him a job?”

He hesitated, staring down at the tabletop.
His shoulders slumped as though the decision weighed more than he
was ready for. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not
comfortable with,” he finally said, meeting my gaze.

I had strong reservations against doing any
such thing, but those blue, dark-lashed eyes were impossible to say
no to. “I have a lot of small fixit jobs around the place, and
taking care of the grounds. If he doesn’t mind working in that
capacity, I could use the help.” He wouldn’t actually be working in
the winery, and hopefully the odd jobs would peter out quickly,
leaving him with nothing to do but disappear again.

One side of Handel’s mouth pulled up in the
semblance of a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll
tell him. Whether he’s interested or not, at least I can assure
Margaret that I tried.”

“If that’s what counts.”

He glanced at his watch and frowned. “Aww, I
have an appointment in fifteen minutes. I really wanted to talk to
you about something other than my family problems, but it looks
like it will have to be another time.” The musician stepped up on
stage again and prepared to entertain the bistro crowd. Handel
inclined his head toward the man. “You seem to like music. I have
tickets to the symphony later this week. Would you go with me?”

“A night out would be nice. Not that I don’t
appreciate Mother’s attentiveness to my every move, but I feel as
though I’m in adult day-care.”

“Try living with a sister,” he countered with
a grin. He straightened and picked up the check as though ready to
depart the restaurant.

“Hold on. I have a few questions for you,” I
said.

His eyes narrowed with a spark of interest as
he settled back into his seat, but I could tell his mind was
already on his coming appointment. “What would you like to
know?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your grandfather once
owned the winery? And why was Sally the one to tell me that those
pictures on the wall of the tasting room link your family to mine?
Did you think I’d feel threatened in some way?”

He frowned and leaned with his arms on the
table. “To be honest, I didn’t really think about it much at all.
That was a long time ago. Way before I was born. Why should the
knowledge threaten you?”

I licked my lips nervously, afraid I’d once
again misread the man. “I don’t know. Perhaps you have an evil plan
to take back ownership through litigation.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said, staring
pointedly at my mouth.

“What?”

“Lick your lips when you’re talking. I have
no idea what you just said.”

I reached out and punched him in the
shoulder. “I said get over it, the winery’s mine now!”

He laughed and stood up. “Shall we go?”

I slid out of my chair and he took my
hand.

~~~

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

S
ean Parker showed up
at the winery the next day asking for me. Sally pointed him toward
my office. Only half past eight in the morning, I still wasn’t
working on all cylinders. Three cups of coffee had only succeeded
in keeping me awake enough to make frequent visits to the restroom.
The shades on the window were drawn but the florescent light still
penetrated my half-closed eyes and aggressively fed the migraine I
nursed. I looked up and tried to smile a welcome when he tapped on
the open door.

“Hello, Mr. Parker. Come in.”

He wore a collared shirt, pressed and
starched if the stiffness with the way he moved was any indication.
Margaret probably wanted him to make a good impression even though
his employment was already a given. He hesitated before dropping
into a chair, his glance moving about the room and then stalling on
the portrait of Jack hanging above me. His evident interest
narrowed into a near-sighted squint.

I leaned forward, my arms folded on the desk.
“I see you’re eager to get started. Can I ask you what you find so
appealing about working here, Mr. Parker?”

His eyes were hooded like an old cobra. He
shrugged, his shoulders lifting and falling within the starched
shirt, bones of discontent eager to be free. “I’m sure you know my
father owned this place once upon a time,” he said, the raspiness
of his voice giving testimony to years of smoke inhalation. “I’ve
worked here most of my life. Thought it would nice if I could spend
my last days here.”

I raised one brow. “I hope you aren’t
planning your demise any time soon because I have quite a few jobs
for you to do.”

He shook his head but there was no hint of
humor in his person. “Not soon, no.”

“Great.” I stood up and slipped out from
behind the desk. He rose as well. “Why don’t I show you around and
you can get started.”

His low chuckle, halfway between a cough and
a wheeze, made me turn at the door and look back. “Did I miss
something?” I asked.

“Just think it’s funny you feel the need to
show me around.”

“I meant — show you what I want you to do.
Unless you’re clairvoyant. In that case, I won’t bother.”

He inclined his head. “Lead on.”

I strode out through the open door, nearly
having a head-on collision with Sally as she met me with a fresh
cup of coffee in hand, her way of finding out what was going on
without appearing nosey. “Sorry. I thought you might need this,”
she said, slightly off-balance.

I shook my head regretfully. “Thanks, but I
have to go out for a bit.”

Sean Parker followed me out of the winery and
across the yard to the house. I stopped at the open door of the
garage; glad to see Mother had taken the car into town for her
salon appointment. “I need you to cut the grass around the house
and winery, prune the shrubs, and tend the flower beds. Don’t
bother with the roses; my mother is an expert in that area. You
wouldn’t happen to know where the lawn equipment is stored, would
you?” I asked, my recent ownership glaringly obvious.

He nodded and pointed toward one of the
sheds. “All that stuff should be in there.”

“Okay. Well, then you know where to look.” My
lame answer elicited a small snort from Mr. Parker that I chose to
ignore. I showed him the garage door opener that I’d purchased,
still in the box. “I’d like to have that installed as soon as
possible. Do you think you can manage on your own or do I need to
get a professional?”

He bent over the open box, peering at the
instructions. “Looks pretty simple to me. I’m sure I can manage,”
he said.

“Good. But first I have a little job I’d like
you to do. Could you bring that ladder?” I pointed toward the back
of the garage. A ladder leaned precariously against a rolled up
garden hose hanging in a coil on the far wall. He got it and
followed me to the house.

“In the living room,” I said, as I held the
door wide and pointed.

The painting I’d purchased was not great art,
but simply a pretty landscape that complimented my new furniture.
The fancy frame from Uncle Jack’s large abstract fit the new canvas
perfectly. After messing with it the night before for over an hour,
switching frames, I left it propped against the wall behind the
recliner.

Sean Parker stood in the middle of the room,
the ladder resting on one booted foot, staring up at the empty
space above the fireplace mantel. I stepped around him and over to
the picture. “I’d like you to hang this up there,” I said, tipping
it up straight. “I just bought it the other day. What do you
think?” My question hung in the air between us like a cloud of
nonsense. The man did not look anything like an interior decorator,
but rather more like a demolitionist by the surly expression on his
lips.

“What happened to Jack’s painting?” he asked,
ignoring my question and dropping the ladder against my new leather
couch.

“Hey, don’t put that there. That’s glove
leather; easily damaged.”

I may have imagined the look of loathing when
his eyes met mine, but as his gaze dropped to the picture beside
me, relief was the emotion my overtired mind registered in his
face. “My frame,” he said, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Your frame?” I raised my brows and tightened
my grip. “What are you talking about?”

Sean Parker set the ladder up in front of the
fireplace before answering, his back to me. “I made it for Jack’s
thirtieth birthday. It was a gift.”

“Then that makes it my frame.”

He turned around and glared, and this time I
knew I wasn’t imagining the animosity he felt toward me. “If you
say so.”

I slid the picture forward and he lifted it
in both hands, carefully examining the frame as though reunited
with an old friend after many years. Without another word he
stepped up the ladder, braced his knees against the top rung, and
lifted the picture in place. I couldn’t help remembering the day
his son helped me lift it down. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of
Handel in this man, but more often than not they seemed worlds
apart.

He pushed the bottom left corner up a quarter
inch and tilted his head to look down at me. “Is that straight?” he
asked in his raspy voice.

I nodded. “It’s fine.” I hated the attitude
he was displaying. I was his employer, after all. The man was a bum
and out of the kindness of my heart I gave him a job. He could at
least appear grateful. “Is there some reason you dislike me, Mr.
Parker?” I asked as he stepped down from the ladder.

He took his time folding the ladder, a surly
slant to his lips. “Ms. Fredrickson, my family owned this winery
once and by all rights still should. Instead, my son and I work for
you, a woman who has no idea what’s she’s doing. Damn straight, I
have reason to dislike you.” He looked up at the painting once
more, satisfaction showing in the set of his shoulders. “Does
everyone have to like you, or can I just get paid for a job well
done?”

His sarcasm left me tongue-tied, which wasn’t
the impression I liked my employees to have of me. Taking my
silence for acquiescence he picked up the ladder and started
walking away. I stared up at the pretty landscape, and wondered why
I’d ever thought Jack’s abstract too severe. Right now I could
definitely use a dose of anger art to validate my rising
feelings.

“I’ll hook up that garage opener now if you
don’t have anything more pressing,” he mumbled snidely over his
shoulder as he headed out.

Shocked immobile, I stood and stared after
him. The bang of the front door made me jump an inch or two. I drew
a deep cleansing breath and slowly released it. “Love stinks,” I
said, to the empty room. Handel really owed me on this one.

*****

After retreating to the kitchen, I sat down
at the table for a moment and rested my head on my arms. The next
thing I knew Mother was shaking me awake.

“Honey, are you all right? What are you doing
home from the winery already? Don’t you feel well?”

I rubbed my hands over my face and blinked
sleep away as I straightened up, frustrated that the only time I
slept was by accident and never for long. “What time is it?” I
asked, ignoring her barrage of questions.

She set a grocery sack down and looked at her
watch. “Almost three. Did you come over for lunch?” She pulled a
carton of milk and a small bag of apples from the sack and stowed
them in the refrigerator, then faced me with a frown of
disapproval, her hands on her hips. “I see you have that man mowing
the lawn. I wish you wouldn’t have let Handel talk you into hiring
him. I don’t trust him. And neither should you.”

I removed the remaining items from the sack,
pleasantly surprised by the purchase of a large bar of dark
chocolate. The distant hum of the mower indicated that Sean Parker
had finished with the installation of the garage door opener and
started in on the grounds. Good. At least I wasn’t paying him just
to like me. “I never said I trusted him. Handel and Margaret wanted
me to give him a chance, and I am.”

“A Christian hand can only go so far with men
like that,” she said as she folded the sack and slipped it in the
cupboard under the sink.

“I can’t believe you said that. What ever
happened to forgiveness?” Mother always insisted the world would be
a much better place if folks would just learn to forgive.

She shook her head. “I’m sure that man has
had more than his share of forgiveness from family and friends over
the years. Look at his kids offering it to him once again. Like
lambs to the shearer. He’ll leave them bloodied and bruised and
their coats stolen.”

“That sounds awfully cynical coming from you,
Mother. Didn’t Jesus say we should forgive up to seventy times
seven? You insisted on it. I’m pretty sure I was forced to forgive
Adam more times than that. He was always doing something rotten.” I
stood up and stifled a yawn.

Mother reached out and brushed my hair behind
my ear. “I didn’t force you to forgive your brother, honey. And
Adam wasn’t that bad. Mr. Parker, on the other hand…” She stopped
as though losing her train of thought, then shook her head. “Don’t
listen to me. You’re right. Forgiveness is the high road.”

I narrowed my eyes. Mother was a forgiving
person under normal circumstances. But when it came to people who
hurt children, she wasn’t nearly so willing to forgive and forget.
Her own father had been somewhat of a bully and a perfect candidate
for anger management classes. Being the youngest, she didn’t
connect with that anger as much as her older siblings but saw
firsthand how destructive it could be.