Entangled (4 page)

The sky had darkened considerably by the time
we returned to the house. Mother was sitting on the solitary
leather couch reading a book when we walked in. She’d changed into
a blue silk blouse and black slacks, her hair and makeup returned
to perfection, and she looked beautiful. I was struck as always by
my mother’s presence; she exuded femininity, an alluring sexuality
without being overt. At fifty years of age she still caught and
held men’s eyes when they passed. I was always flabbergasted when
people commented on our similarity, unable to see it for myself. A
matching shade of dark-brown hair did not make us equal. I would
never be as beautiful as my mother.

“Well, it’s about time you two returned,” she
said, setting the book aside and giving me the once-over, a look
that spoke volumes. I could look forward to a talk after Handel
Parker went home. It brought back memories of my teen years, spent
trying to evade those conversations and heart-to-hearts with my
mother. I had no intention of spilling my guts to her now. Besides,
there was nothing to say other than, the sooner I put this place up
for sale and got on with my life the better.

“Mr. Parker was showing me the tasting room.
It was very nice, oak wainscot, historical photographs, and
excellent wine,” I said, summing up the experience quickly and
simply. “You’ll have to go over and see it before we leave on
Wednesday.”

Mother raised her brows. “You weren’t
drinking, were you, Billie? You know how alcohol affects you.”

“She only had half a glass, Mrs. Fredrickson.
At my insistence. I thought she should be knowledgeable of the
product she now owns.” Handel smiled easily at my mother, something
that appeared much harder for him to do when it came to me.
Resentment raised an ugly head and I tried to stomp it down,
knowing that Mother was accustomed to attracting male attention,
where as I seemed to scare them away.

“Oh. Well I guess half a glass won’t
adversely affect the evening.” She stood and looked at me. “Are you
wearing that to dinner?” she asked, in a voice that wasn’t really a
question but an opinion.

I sighed and looked down at my skirt and top.
“I guess not.” I turned to Handel. “Excuse me, I’ll only be a
minute.”

“Take your time,” he said dismissively, his
attention completely on my mother now. He smiled and asked if she
would like a glass of wine before dinner.

I rolled my eyes and started toward my room.
“You two could always go without me, you know. I’m really not very
hungry.”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Handel stated
smoothly before my mother even had time to object.

*****

According to Handel, nightlife was plentiful
in the surrounding towns, with hundreds of clubs, bars, theatre,
and restaurants to choose from. Jazz bands were hot in the area,
momentarily reminding me of Kent, who loved Jazz almost as much as
he loved sports. He hadn’t tried to contact me since our aborted
date on Friday night and although I had no intention of making up
with him, I held his passiveness against him too. I swept him from
my mind, and focused on a lone sax player performing on a street
corner we passed, drawing a crowd of music lovers. The bluesy tune
found its way into the car, temporarily filling the space with a
bone-aching melancholy until the distance became too great and the
notes were lost in our exhaust.

Handel drove Uncle Jack’s four-door BMW; I
sat in back while Mother flirted outrageously with the man up
front. It was truly appalling. Even so, twice I caught Handel
watching me in the rearview mirror, his eyes probing as though he
could see inside to the place no one was allowed, that room of my
heart only I knew existed but refused to visit.

“I made reservations at a popular French
restaurant,” Handel said. “Its up highway 29 in Yountville. Not too
far.”

“I can’t eat French food,” I said. “It makes
me sick.”

“Billie!” Mother once again reprimanded me. I
was beginning to think I’d never graduated from kindergarten.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked,
throwing up my hands. “Hold my tongue now and practice Bulimia
later? French cuisine is too rich and it makes me sick.”

Handel tried not to smile but I caught his
eyes in the mirror silently laughing. “Well, how about a sushi
bar?” he suggested, knowing full well what my reaction would be to
that.

“How about a hamburger? I’m from the Midwest.
We like our meat cooked and everything else deep fried.” Let him
think of me as a redneck, I didn’t care.

“Now you’re just being silly,” Mother said,
shaking her head as though I never failed to amaze her with the
crazy things I said. “We didn’t fly all the way to California, get
dressed up, and press this handsome man into escorting us to
dinner, to eat a hamburger. I for one want to go somewhere
memorable.” She fluttered her mascara-laced eyelashes and placed
her hand on his arm. “You take us wherever you think best and we
will be eternally grateful. It’s not every day we have the chance
to enjoy an evening in the Napa Valley.”

“Well, now that your daughter owns
Fredrickson Vineyard, you’ll have ample opportunities to visit,”
Handel said, implying, I suppose, that I would keep the winery.

My mother flashed me a look of concern,
probably afraid I would make some comment to disparage that theory,
but I remained silent, sat back against the glove leather seat and
stared into the night outside our car, a black well of ink filling
the sky like billions of words used up during the day.

The vineyards outside Yountville sparkled
with hundreds of lights as the car’s headlights swept past. “What
in the world…?”

Handel glanced toward the fields. “Reflective
foil is used to scare grape-eating birds away. It works rather
well, actually.”

I narrowed my gaze, taking in the metallic
twinkling with interest. I could imagine how in the light of day,
the birds would be startled continually by the reflection of the
sun as the foil moved with the breeze. “Then why doesn’t
Fredrickson’s have foil up?” I asked.

He shrugged. “That’s Charlie’s call. And it’s
a little early yet.”

Yountville was the Beverly Hills of the Napa
Valley, less populous than the city of Napa but more gentrified.
Huge estates scattered further apart, shouted money and social
standing. In the downtown area, wild flowers thick and lush with
color, were planted along the streets, following the sidewalks set
with half-moon pavers. Bathed only in streetlight, the effect was
quaint and charming.

“I’ve had reservations for over three months
for The French Raven,” Handel complained, “but I’m sure some lucky
couple from Nebraska or somewhere will be thrilled to take our
place.”

His sarcasm grated on my nerves. “Why would
you make reservations three months ago? Did Jack tell you we were
coming — before he died?” I asked. As soon as the comment was out
of my mouth, I regretted it, but as usual, too late.

He took a right turn at the next corner.
“No,” he said. “The French Raven is renowned for their cuisine.
What with the folks driving down from San Francisco on a regular
basis, and the tourists flocking here year-round, it usually takes
much longer to get reservations at the Raven, especially weekends.
I’d planned to invite my sister and her son to go with me, but
things change.”

“Oh, Handel, I’m sorry,” my mother crooned,
her manner apologetic. “I wish you would have told us you already
had plans. We never would have expected you to entertain us like
this.”

Personally, I didn’t think he’d done that
great a job of entertaining us so far, but a tweak of guilt crept
into my conscience unbidden. “Yes,” I said, “I’m sorry too. If you
want to go to the French place, I’m sure I can find something to
eat that won’t make me sick.”

“That’s very generous of you,” he said,
meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror, “but I brought you to
Antonio’s instead.” He pulled into a parking space of a brightly
lit restaurant and shut off the engine. “Here we are. I hope
Italian food doesn’t make you sick.”

I suppose I deserved his mocking tone but I
didn’t like it, or the accompanying laughter from my mother. Not
waiting for him to open the door for me, sure he would do so just
to rub salt into my wounded ego, I climbed out and looked around.
Clusters of people stood about with drinks in their hands, waiting
for a table inside. A bar was set up on a wraparound deck area, the
bartender mixing drinks as fast as he could.

“Are you sure we’ll be able to get in
tonight? It looks awfully busy.” I glanced at my watch. Dinnertime
was six o’clock at home and here we’d already gone back two hours.
I was starving! Fast-food would be more than fine with me at this
point.

He turned toward me with a self-satisfied
smile, one side of his mouth turned up more than the other,
extremely sexy but irritating nonetheless. “Don’t worry. I know the
chef.” He let my mother tuck her hand in his arm and hesitated as
though I would take his other side.

I ignored the unspoken offer and walked
beside my mother, trying to appear graceful in my new three-inch
heels. The dress I wore was a black sheath, sleeveless, the hem
hovering a few inches above my knees. I’d bought it in a moment of
weakness some time back, thinking I would wear it to a party with
Kent. The party never materialized and I brought it along to
California not knowing what occasions to pack for. This seemed just
right, but now I was wishing for jeans and tennis shoes. I was
already tired and ready for bed, but starving too. This dress was
not a dress to stuff oneself in - literally. I didn’t have an ounce
of space to spare.

“Handel!” A man called as we stepped in.
“Long time no see. Where have you been? Setting more criminals
free?”

Handel grinned broadly. “Something like
that,” he said. He raised his brows and leaned in to speak in a
quiet voice. “You wouldn’t happen to have a table for an old
friend, would you?” he asked.

The other man pretended to peer around
Handel’s shoulder. “What old friend would that be?” he asked. Then
he slapped Handel on the back and laughed. “Of course! Let me have
one readied for you.” He glanced appreciatively at my mother
standing there with her hand tucked possessively in the curve of
Handel’s arm, and then at me. His eyes widened with curiosity but
he didn’t comment, just signaled a waiter to clear a table for
us.

Five minutes later we were seated in the
corner of the dining room, the smell of oregano, basil, and garlic
permeating the air around us as a waitress appeared in a starched
white shirt and black slacks and set bread and olive oil on the
checkered tablecloth. While she took our drink orders I started in
on the bread, wondering if my dress would stretch to accommodate
what I planned to pack into it.

“Are you sure you only want iced-tea?” Handel
asked. “This is wine country, you know. We have the largest
selection of wines here than anywhere else in the country.”

I shook my head. “I’m aware of that, but one
wine is as good as another if you’re a violent drunk,” I said,
pointedly meeting his gaze across the table.

He expelled a frustrated breath. “I didn’t
mean anything by that,” he said.

Mother watched us both, clearly losing the
thread of thought. “What are you two talking about?”

Handel ran a hand through his hair and
sighed. “It’s nothing. A misunderstanding.”

I shook my head but held his gaze as I
explained. “I told Handel the story of my teenage drinking
experience. You know, the one where Paul went to the hospital for
stitches after attacking me, and then told all the boys at school
that I came on to him?” I cleared my throat, still emotional about
it after all these years. Date rape was a common term now, but then
it was something altogether different. “Funny thing though — they
believed him, and so no one would ask me out through the rest of
high school.”

“You don’t have to talk about this,” Mother
said, her voice soft with feelings floating to the surface. She’d
been the one to hold me afterward when I woke from nightmares,
thrashing in my bed against a shadowy villain, unable to see his
face but quite sure that he would look exactly like Paul in the
morning light. My father, who normally coddled me, shielded me from
bad influences when he could, and naturally tried to keep me his
little girl, drew away and became distant. He never came to my
defense when the police questioned me about Paul’s injuries, but
shrugged it off as teenage shenanigans. I never understood what
precipitated the change in his attitude toward me. I suppose he
blamed me, as most people did.

“No,” Handel echoed. “Lets change the
subject.”

I detected pity in his voice and I couldn’t
stay quiet. “Wait a minute! I want to know what you meant by your
comment. Violence runs in the family.” I stared him down, my hands
clasped tightly in my lap. “Was Uncle Jack violent? Is that why he
painted all those wacko pictures?”

He slowly shook his head. “No. Jack was very
patient and kind to everyone I ever saw him with.”

“Then what did you mean?” I opened my eyes
wide in mock surprise. “You weren’t implying that my mother has a
violent streak, were you?”

“Billie!”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be your expert
witness.” I pointed my finger in Handel’s direction. “My mother has
never raised her hand to me in anger. She is the epitome of
restraint. Although, she has been known to raise her voice slightly
when she says my name.”

“Billie!”

“You see?” I reached for another slice of
bread. “This is really good. Thanks for bringing us, Handel.”

Handel rubbed his palm along his jaw line and
cleared his throat; obviously uncomfortable with the direction the
conversation was going. “I wasn’t referring to your mother either,”
he finally said. “I told you I worked at the winery doing odd jobs
when I was a small boy. Well, I remember the weeks you were
there… vividly. I was asked to go behind the winery and carry
some old grape crates up to the equipment shed. When I rounded the
side of the building I saw your father standing over Jack, kicking
him in the ribs. Jack’s face was bleeding and he lay curled up on
the ground in pain. Your father turned and saw me. His eyes were
cold and filled with rage. That’s what I remember. He walked away
and I ran home, afraid to tell anyone for fear he’d come after me.
That’s the same day you left and went back to Minnesota.”