Entangled (3 page)

I was not seduced by his placating words. I
knew he resented me for being Jack’s niece. I cleared my throat and
looked at mother. “Well, of course we’ll stay if it’s all prepared.
I just didn’t want to presume.”

Mother laughed lightly, her eyes crinkling at
the corners the way I liked to see. A person that laughed without
laugh lines was not truly happy or amused. She seemed to sense my
mood and wanted to lighten it. “You aren’t worried about Jack’s
ghost, are you honey? Because if he’s hanging out around here, I’m
sure he’s a friendly ghost. After all, he gave the place to
you.”

I released a breath and hoped the tension I
felt would expel from me as well. “Please show us to our rooms
then,” I said, looking at Handel silently waiting.

“Right this way, ladies.”

*****

My earlier notion of touring the winery was
forgotten as quickly as Handel Parker left the house, speeding away
to town in his red Porsche. He needed to attend to some things, he
said, but then he would be back to take us to dinner. The thought
of spending more time with the man made my heart thud in my chest,
anxiety filling me like a teenage girl on her first date, except it
wasn’t anxious excitement over the prospect, but an
incomprehensible foreboding that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I knew he questioned the validity of my receiving my uncle’s
holdings, as though I’d conspired to put a voodoo curse on Jack
before he died, which was preposterous since I was raised
Lutheran.

The bed in the room prepared for me was one
of those monstrous, four-postered things that take up nearly the
entire room. Three steps were built into the side so that anyone
other than Paul Bunyan could get in without a catapult. I spread
out and closed my eyes, relaxing into the soft comforter, imagining
myself the Raggedy Ann doll that I once owned. The cloth doll was
literally torn to shreds when my father ran over it with our riding
lawnmower one summer, leaving me heartbroken and him guilt-ridden.
He replaced it with another doll, similar in looks and clothing,
but I knew it wasn’t mine and refused to play with it. Mother
placed it on my bookshelf. Limp and bent over at the waist, it
continued to grin down at me, an evil doppelganger.

The house seemed hushed as though even the
walls knew there had been a death in the family. I could hear faint
sounds from outside my window, birds chirping happily, a motor of
some kind humming, but in this room only my quiet breathing broke
the silence. I turned over, curled up into a fetal position and
slept.

~~~

CHAPTER THREE

D
reams of shadows
hovering over me stole the restfulness from my sleep, and I woke
still tired and irritable. I got up and moved about the room,
admiring the view from my window, and taking a closer look at the
artwork on the walls. In here too was an assortment of paintings,
abstract and bold in composition, frightening in intensity. I
didn’t like them and blamed the room’s heightened atmosphere for my
less than adequate nap. I promised myself that I would take them
down and store them in the back of the closet before I slept in
here again.

I stole into my mother’s room and saw that
she was still sleeping, a little mascara smudged beneath her eyes,
but her hair quite perfect in its protective shell of spray. Mother
was one of those people who always woke fresh as a spring flower,
happy and talkative. When I woke, no matter how long I slept or how
still I lay, I always looked like Attila the Hun after a night of
pillaging and mayhem.

The sound of a child singing wafted through
the open window, and I tiptoed past the bed where Mother slept to
lift a slat of the closed blinds and peer out. Our rooms were
situated at the back of the house where the view of the vineyards
was obscured by dozens of full-grown oak, redwood, and eucalyptus
trees. A small boy of about six was sitting in a tire swing,
suspended from the branch of a tall oak. He pushed his bare feet
against the ground for momentum as he sang at the top of his
voice.

“Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be
cowboys…”

I watched him for a moment, a smile on my
lips, as he swung higher and higher, his voice floating up into the
branches of the trees. Suddenly I felt a shiver run down my spine
as the scene changed and I imagined myself as a little girl sitting
in that tire, swinging back and forth, back and forth, like the
pendulum on a clock, unable to stop or get off.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. What was
wrong with me? I wasn’t remembering this place, that swing, the
week I spent here as a child. I blew out a breath of exasperation,
realizing my imagination was working overtime. My father had hung a
tire from a large maple tree in our yard in Minneapolis when I was
seven. That’s what I remembered. I’d fallen out of the thing one
time and broke my arm. I turned away from the window and silently
exited into the hall, closing the door behind me.

Exploring the house alone was like rummaging
through a stranger’s underwear drawer. I felt strangely
voyeuristic. I knew it would all belong to me eventually, once the
paperwork went through, but I didn’t necessarily relish the idea.
Inheriting “holdings” was one thing, but becoming the proud owner
of someone else’s toilet brush, kitchenware, and music collection
was quite another. I made a mental note to schedule a yard sale as
soon as possible.

The kitchen door opened into the backyard,
and I went out in search of the boy. Was he one of the field
worker’s sons or a neighbor child wandering aimlessly, looking for
entertainment in the long afternoon? I followed a path of
stepping-stones through the trees to the back section of the house
where I’d seen him swinging. The tire hung empty now, but still
moved gently with the breeze as though a ghostly hand were in
control. I stood there a moment, straining for the sound of his
voice in the distance, but there was nothing but the creak of the
branches above me and the rattle of leaves in the wind.

I walked toward the front of the house,
following the flagstone path back past the kitchen windows and on
around to the garage. Rose bushes climbed a trellis along the
outside wall, reaching for the sun, their blooms a deep, startling
red against the pale brick. I picked one and held it beneath my
nose, breathing in the heavy, sweet fragrance that I loved,
enjoying the touch of the delicate petals against my skin.

“I see you’re making yourself at home.”

Handel’s caustic voice brought me out of my
mellow mood and straight into defensive mode. “You startled
me.”

“Sorry,” he said, stepping closer. He’d
changed clothes at some point. Now wearing khaki slacks, a pale
blue polo shirt, and a dark blue sport-jacket, his hair combed
straight back from his forehead; he looked like a model for a
sailing magazine. “Did you find everything to your satisfaction?”
he asked.

I met his gaze, my eyes narrowed against the
setting sun, and nodded politely the way I’d been raised to. My
mother would be so proud. “Yes, thank you.”

“Well, if you and your mother are interested
I could give you a tour of the winery before dinner.”

“My mother is sleeping. Traveling always
wears her out. But I’d be interested, if it’s not a bother,” I
said, giving him my brightest smile. Perhaps the old adage was
true, you caught more flies with honey. Not that I wanted to catch
him. I just wanted to be treated with respect, and ironically, also
admired for my long legs.

“No bother. Most of the employees have gone
for the evening. You won’t be in the way now,” he said, as though
my presence earlier would have set back wine production
indefinitely. “Shall we go?”

I breathed in the heady fragrance of the rose
bushes once more before following Handel Parker toward the
winery.

A pickup was just pulling away as we
approached and the man inside waved as he stepped on the gas.
Handel waved back. “That’s Charlie Simpson. He manages the
place.”

“I imagine he feels an extra weight of
responsibility since my uncle’s death.”

Handel slowed his pace for me to catch up. I
could tell from his expression that I had surprised him once again.
Did he think of me as a spoiled brat, oblivious to the world around
me? I’d worked to pay for my own things from the time I was
fourteen, a year before my father’s death, and even more so after
that. I never had it easy, as Handel seemed to assume.

“I suppose he does,” he said, opening the
door for me. “Although, Jack hadn’t been hands-on at the winery for
years. He pretty much let the crew do their thing, and allowed
Charlie to make most of the important decisions without him. He
started traveling again off and on, and as you can see from the
artwork in the house, he spent a great deal of time painting.”

“Those are his?” I asked, suddenly wondering
just what kind of demons my uncle had been exorcising.

The winery was dimly lit, quiet after work
hours. We passed offices, computers turned off, desks empty now,
and paused in the open doors of the wine tasting room. Unlike many
of the larger, fancier wineries that had separate buildings for
their customers to come for wine tasting tours, Fredrickson’s
included it all under one roof. Long mahogany tables ran the length
of the room, displays of wine bottles arranged on crisp, white
tablecloths. Crystal goblets, placed upside down in rows of four,
awaited the tourists that came by each afternoon to sample the best
that Fredrickson Vineyards had to offer.

“Does Fredrickson’s have tour buses or just
individuals dropping by?” I asked, never having been to a wine
tasting event myself.

“Both actually. During the summer months we
usually get more planned tours. We were lucky to be included on the
Napa Valley registry of wineries.”

I found it interesting that Handel used the
word
we
, but didn’t comment. Instead, I stepped into the
room and approached the tables, picked up a bottle of Chardonnay
and held it to the light. Wine bottles have always intrigued me,
whether from my forgotten time in this place, or my innate love of
all things glass. The brown, green, and rose-colored bottles,
darkened to protect the wine from harmful light, were long necked
and graceful, their labels always printed in a sophisticated font
and often trimmed in gold, adding to their allure. I liked the
notion that until you poured the wine you didn’t really know what
was inside.

“Would you like to try a glass of this? It’s
one of Fredrickson’s most popular.” Handel said, taking the bottle
from my hand and uncorking it as though I’d already consented.

I shook my head. “I’m not much of a drinker.
I just like to look at the bottles.” I raised one eyebrow as he
filled two glasses anyway. “In fact, I have a collection of wine at
home. But I rarely indulge.”

He narrowed his eyes as he lifted a glass and
held it toward me. “I see. Well, since this is all going to be
yours, perhaps you should at least taste your own product.”

“All right, but just a taste. The last time I
drank too much it was not pretty.” I took the glass and raised it
to my face, pausing to swirl the amber liquid and breath in the
bouquet as I knew was expected of me, although I was tempted to
chug it in one gulp just to get his reaction. “Very nice,” I said,
after taking a sip.

“What do you taste?” he asked, raising his
own glass to his lips.

I found myself mesmerized by his throat
muscles contracting as he swallowed. The collar of his shirt was
open at the top and his tanned skin didn’t stop at the base of his
throat. Obviously, he didn’t wear a suit all the time. Maybe he did
own a sailboat, as I’d imagined earlier.

“Grapes?” I volunteered.

He smiled and his eyes lit up, crinkling at
the corners. And then he laughed. “Someone finally speaks the truth
in the tasting room,” he said, his voice filled with irony.
“Usually amateur wine tasters detect all kinds of things that
aren’t there because they’ve read a book about wine. Having worked
here in this tasting room for two summers during my college years,
I can appreciate your honesty.”

I shrugged and gulped the rest of the wine in
my glass before handing it back. “Glad I could be of service.”

“And when was the last time?” he asked, his
voice curiously seductive.

“What?”

“The last time you drank too much. You said
it wasn’t pretty.”

I shook my head and turned to study the black
and white framed photos adorning the walls; they were original
photographs of the winery and vineyards from its inception. “You
don’t want to hear that.”

He stood close behind me; I could feel his
warm breath on my neck as he peered over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t
have asked if I didn’t want to hear.”

“Just high school shenanigans, as my father
used to say.”

“And how did it turn out ugly? Were you sick
as a dog?” His voice remained soft as though he’d asked if I loved
sunsets. He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face
him. His gaze held mine with unexpected warmth, foreign yet
familiar at the same time.

I licked my lips nervously, tasting the
clinging sweetness of the Chardonnay. “No. A boy attacked me and I
hit him with the bottle. Broke his nose, fractured his skull, and
didn’t have another date for two years.”

He dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Violence seems to run in your family,” he murmured. He corked the
bottle and turned back to me again, suddenly all business. “Well,
are you ready to see how wine is made?”

Perplexed by his comment and sudden change of
subject, I glanced at my watch. “My mother is probably awake by
now. Perhaps we should go to dinner and you can give me a more
thorough tour after the funeral tomorrow.”