Entangled (5 page)

Mother made a noise that sounded like a
whimper, but when I reached my hand out toward her she remained
still, her beautiful face turned to stone. Petrified mother. I
placed my arms on the table and leaned toward Handel, lowering my
voice now that all hell had broke loose. “What are you talking
about? You’re crazy,” I said, although I felt the truth in his
words even though it was hard to believe them. Somehow I knew that
my father had done the very thing Handel accused him of, and yet I
couldn’t dredge up even an ounce of regret.

“We never saw Jack after that trip,” my
mother finally said, her face suddenly pale with the shock of
Handel’s admission.

I guessed what she must think. Dad knew of
her feelings for Jack and beat him in a jealous rage. “Mother, it
had nothing to do with you. Brothers get into fights all the time,
for a myriad of reasons, most of which is plain old sibling rivalry
tacked on to a healthy dose of male ego.” I reached out and took
her hand, trying to convey reassurance. “Besides, there is no sense
in becoming distressed over something that happened over twenty
years ago. If Dad really did what Handel remembers, then he must
have had a good reason. He was not a violent man.” The one time I
wished for my father’s aggression, he’d remained silent and
passive, letting me, his only daughter, bear the shame for
something beyond my control.

“Excuse me,” my mother said, rising from her
chair. “I’ll be right back.”

I released her hand and let her walk away,
knowing full well she didn’t want me to follow. We were really more
alike than people realized, keeping our true feelings hidden from
the world as much as possible. She often tried to discuss my
personal life openly, but immediately shut down when I pressed her
about her own.

Handel expelled a sigh and leaned forward
across the table, his fingers nervously folding the edge of his
napkin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset your mother.”

“But you have no problem upsetting me,
right?”

The waitress returned with our drinks, and he
waited until she moved on before responding. “That’s not true. I’m
sorry you had to hear that about your father. It must be
painful.”

“Don’t worry about it. As they say, the truth
will set us free.” I didn’t really believe it and I don’t think
Handel did either. I took a long drink of iced-tea and wished I’d
ordered something stronger.

~~~

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he memorial service
was rather simple. Jack had been cremated, per his written request,
and wanted his ashes scattered by crop duster over the Fredrickson
Vineyards. I for one was not going to be involved in that
procedure. The urn that Jack’s remains now occupied sat on a
pedestal at the front of the chapel along with an enlarged
photograph of Jack facing the mourners as though he didn’t want to
miss a thing.

Mother and I sat on the right side of the
chapel, in the front row, the somewhat-grieving extended family.
Well, Mother did have a tissue handy in case she got teary-eyed.
Fredrickson vineyard employees sat on the left, along with a few
local vintners Jack had been acquainted with over the years. Handel
arrived with a pretty blonde woman who reminded me of a very young
Marilyn Monroe, and the little boy I’d spied from the bedroom
window the day before. His sister and nephew. They took the seats
directly behind us.

Handel reached out and touched my shoulder.
“Good morning. I see you found the chapel all right.”

Mother and I turned to look back and I
nodded. “You gave good directions.” I glanced at the woman next to
him and smiled. She smiled back and nudged Handel.

“Oh, sorry. Billie, Mrs. Fredrickson — this
is my sister, Margaret. And this big guy,” Handel patted the boy’s
knee, “is David. But he likes to be called, Davy, as in Davy
Crockett.”

“Mrs. Fredrickson sounds so formal,” Mother
said. “Why don’t you call me Sabrina?”

“Its nice to meet you, Sabrina, and you too
Billie. I’m just sorry that it’s under such sad circumstances,”
Margaret said.

“Yes, thank you,” Mother murmured as though
Jack had actually been someone she’d often thought of during the
past twenty years, and I wondered if it were true.

The nondenominational minister stepped to the
front of the chapel and cleared her throat for attention. “Welcome,
friends and family members of the late Jack Oliver
Fredrickson.”

The service was short, rather like the guest
list, and no one hung around longer than it took to pay their
respects and eye me, the heir to the Fredrickson Vineyards, with
suspicion. Only Charlie Simpson dared approach, a solemn smile on
his lips as he held out a hand.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms.
Fredrickson,” he said. “I hope you know that I’m available whenever
you want to discuss the operation of the winery.”

He was shorter than he’d appeared through the
window of his pickup truck the day before. His head and torso
looked as though they belonged to a much larger man, but his arms
and legs were stubby, reminding me of one of those miniature
horses. I shook his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson. I appreciate that.”
I had no intention of keeping and running the winery, but this was
no time to divulge that information. Other employees of Fredrickson
Vineyard were standing nearby, obviously waiting for confirmation
that their jobs were intact. A twinge of guilt pricked my
conscience as I met their eyes across the room.

I agreed to meet with Handel in his office
after I took Mother back to the house. The area was already
becoming familiar and I marveled at the clear blue skies and
continued sunshine after the bout of rain and clouds we’d endured
in Minneapolis lately. There was something about California that
drew people in, whether a combination of sunshine, year-round mild
temperatures, fresh fruit, movie stars, and wineries, or just a
special magic God imbued it with when he said, “and let there be
California.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”
I asked, glancing at my mother.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, honey.
You can tell me all about it later. I’m going to lay down and see
if this headache will go away.”

She’d been unnaturally quiet since dinner
last night, and I worried that she was taking my father’s actions,
twenty years ago, personally.

I waited as she climbed out of the car. She
turned and smiled in at me before shutting the door and starting up
the walk. I watched until she let herself in the house before
heading back toward town.

Handel’s office was located in a conventional
style building, lots of glass sparkling in the sun. I took the
stairs to the second floor and introduced myself to his secretary,
a thin middle-aged woman in a conservative brown linen suit. Unlike
Jody, my part-time secretary/receptionist/gopher/advice-giver, this
woman exuded confidence and professionalism. She looked busy
without appearing harried or stressed, something Jody was working
on. The woman buzzed Handel on the intercom. “Mr. Parker, Ms.
Fredrickson is here to see you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The door to his private office opened and
Handel waved me in. “You got here rather quickly. I just walked in
myself after dropping Margaret and Davy off at home.”

“I’m ready to get the paperwork finished up.
I have clients to get back to. I can’t hang around here forever, no
matter how beautiful it is.” I flashed him a smile, feeling more
relaxed since the funeral was out of the way.

He nodded and offered me a seat in one of the
chairs across from his desk. They were made of redwood with soft
Moroccan leather covering the seats and backs, smaller versions of
his chair except for the swivel base. His desk was massive, shining
from a recent oiling, the top cleared except for a folder placed
directly in front of him.

“Jack made a video that he wanted you to view
before we go over the will,” he began, opening the folder and
pulling out a thick manila envelope. He slit the top with a letter
opener and shook out a DVD disc, then swiveled his chair around and
inserted it into a combination DVD/television on a shelf against
the wall. With the remote in hand, he came around the desk to sit
in the chair beside me.

“Before you begin,” I said quickly, “I want
to thank you for all your help. You have obviously gone above and
beyond a lawyer’s duties to accommodate everyone involved. Although
you feel that you owe my uncle, you certainly aren’t in any way
obligated to my mother or me, and yet you went out of your way to
take care of us while we were here. I appreciate it.”

He raised his brows a fraction, surprise
evident in his expression. “Wow. After the way I screwed up last
night, I didn’t expect a thank you.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Let bygones be
bygones. As I recall, I’ve said a few things lately that I’ve
regretted.”

“All right. Are you ready?” He lifted the
remote and pressed play. “Jack dated the disc a week before he
died,” he explained as the picture blinked on.

The recording was obviously made in the
living room of Jack’s house. He’d positioned the chair close to the
fireplace for ambiance or something, and sat in it with his hands
lightly gripping the arms, as though uncomfortable with the whole
process.

Jack Fredrickson was tall and thin, his black
hair peppered with grey but still abundant. His face held a slight
resemblance to my father through the nose and mouth, but his eyes
were hooded, his brows dark and thick, and his skin weathered from
living most of his life outdoors. For a man who would die within
the week he looked extremely healthy. He sat stiffly, his gaze rapt
on the lens of the camera as he spoke.

“Hello, Billie.” He smiled and I felt as
though he were looking right at me, a ghost from my past sending a
chill down my spine. His voice was gentle as I imagined a
wild-horse tamer’s would be, and yet there was something about it,
an inflection perhaps, that wasn’t quieting, but frightening to
me.

“It’s been many years since we met, and yet
each day I look out on the vineyards and relive those moments we
had together. They were precious to me as I hope they were to you.”
He paused a moment and licked his lips as though pondering.

“I know the winery was a magical place for
you then and I believe it can be again. Give it a chance. Soak up
the colors and smells like a true connoisseur, live in the moment,
and yet dream of the past when we were together and time stood
still for two weeks.” He picked up a bottle of wine from the floor
near his chair and held it up. The label was unlike any I’d seen
before, the picture of a clock, obviously drawn by a young child,
and the words,
Time In A Bottle
, emboldened in black.

“Remember our special wine that we made
together? I kept it for you.” He stood up and stepped toward the
camera until his torso filled the entire frame, and the camera
blinked off.

Handel glanced at me, a puzzled frown between
his brows, and clicked off the television with the remote. “Okay,
that was strange.”

I felt a tremor in my chest that began to
spread outward to my limbs. “You never saw it before?” I asked, my
voice cracking on the last word. What in the world was wrong with
me? I felt as though I were having an anxiety attack. Something I’d
never experienced personally, but had witnessed more than once with
emotional clients.

He slowly shook his head, his eyes on me;
probing for answers to questions I couldn’t ask myself. “The
envelope was sealed. Jack didn’t share its contents with me. Just
asked that I give it to you in the event of his death.”

I stood up abruptly. “I have to go,” I said.
My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. “I have to
go,” I repeated breathlessly as I pulled open the office door and
hurried out.

“Billie!” Handel called after me, and then
the door closed and I was heading for the stairs.

I stopped and leaned against the wall,
breathing deeply through my nose, unable to stop the acceleration
of my heart. The only thought running through my head was that I
needed to get to my mother. She would know what to do.

“Billie!” Handel caught up to me and caught
me by the forearms just as I felt my knees begin to buckle. “What’s
wrong? Are you sick?”

His voice was muted as though someone had
turned the volume down on his mouth. I tried to read his lips, but
then the picture went out too, and everything faded to black.

*****

When I came to, I was lying on the couch in
Handel’s office, my shoes off and a wet cloth pressed to my
forehead. I looked up and found Handel and his secretary both
staring down at me, their eyes filled with concern.

I pushed the cloth away and tried to sit up.
Dizziness slowed the process and I put my hand to my head, feeling
the beginnings of a major migraine coming on. “I’m fine,” I lied. I
tried to smile up at Handel, but from the expression on his face it
must have looked more like a grimace. “I’m all right, really. I
just haven’t eaten anything since last night. That’s all.”

His secretary smiled brightly. “You see, Mr.
Parker, I told you she’d be fine. Funerals are very stressful.
Grief affects everyone differently.” She patted my shoulder as the
phone on her desk began to ring. “Hope you feel better soon, dear.
I’ll leave you in Mr. Parker’s capable hands.”

“Thank you, Patty,” Handel called after her
as she hurried to answer the call.

I put my feet on the floor, slipped my heels
back on, and attempted to stand. Handel grabbed my arm for support.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” I said firmly.

He stepped back, his arms loosely at his
sides. “I hate to contradict a client, but you don’t look fine.
You’re white as a sheet.”