A Man of Influence (10 page)

CHAPTER TEN

“L
ADIES
,
WELCOME
TO
Harmony Valley Vineyards' chicken high-rise,” Slade said.

The winery owner had a dry sense of humor and Chad had been smiling a lot as he helped the two men, despite being on the roof and bending more than his share of nails. He didn't turn to see who the ladies were. Odds being the women were elderly.

“I had Jess bake some chocolate chip muffins for all your chicken coop troubles.” There was warmth and laughter in the woman's voice.

“Two stories is impressive,” Tracy said. “Hey, is that Henrietta?”

The hammer Chad wielded missed the nail and struck his finger. The nails he'd been holding in his mouth clattered to the shingles and off the edge. Later, Chad wouldn't admit he'd howled, but he wouldn't say he didn't either. His forefinger felt flattened and stung like the dickens.

“Good thing we didn't use the nail gun,” Flynn said. “We'd be headed to the hospital about now.”

“I knew I should have had Chad sign an accident waiver,” Slade said, only half-jokingly. “Come on down. Happy hour is early today.”

“Christine, where's your first aid kit?” Tracy was already backpedaling toward the main winery building.

“First aid under the sink. Ice packs in the freezer.” The cool blonde juggled a pastry box so she could kiss Slade on the lips. “I should have brought beer to make up for the mishaps.”

“You can make it up to me by spending five minutes alone.” Slade sounded like a man in love as he took the blonde and the muffins over to a patio with tables and chairs.

Flynn held the ladder while Chad climbed down. “I'd introduce you to Christine, our winemaker, but she needs five minutes alone with her fiancé.”

By the time Chad got his feet on solid ground, Tracy was back and breathless. She carried a first aid kit and an ice pack. “I...wasn't sure if there'd be blood.”

“No blood.” Chad glanced at his finger, which still hurt like heck, was deep red and looked as if it was going to turn a magnificent shade of purple.

“No blood, no foul.” Flynn scampered up the ladder like a sure-footed monkey. “No foul, no lawsuit.” He surveyed Chad's handiwork.

Meanwhile, Tracy had moved closer to Chad. She slid her palm beneath his and laid the ice pack on top of his finger. At his questioning look, she shrugged. “I'm a farm girl. We take care of our tools, including our appendages.”

“Thanks. I need my finger to type.” He wasn't—and would never be—a handyman.

She removed her hand and the ice pack. “You can suffer.”

She wasn't seriously spiteful. She allowed him to swipe the ice pack from her without a fight.

“I'll...add handyman to your list of weaknesses.” Tracy smirked.

“You have a list?”

She nodded. “Sadly. It's a short list.”

Chad's smile felt too big given he'd nearly taken a digit off his hand.

And then he spotted Henrietta lying on her side. “Is she breathing? Is she dead?” He rushed over and picked the blue-gray hen up, only to have her flap and squawk and fly out of his arms.

Tracy laughed. “Chickens sunbathe sometimes. She was enjoying the warmth.”

Chad reclaimed the ice pack, wiping off the dirt to cover his relief. He'd rushed to the rescue of a fowl. Dad would have laughed for hours.

“Nicely done up here, Chad.” Flynn stood on the ladder overlooking Chad's work. “Just a few more nails and Henrietta has a new home. Bandage him up, Tracy. He needs to finish.”

“Nope.” Tracy gave Chad a critical once over. “He's done swinging a hammer for the day.”

Again, Chad was struck by the way Harmony Valley residents absorbed visitors into their routines and made them feel as if they belonged. Tracy and Flynn hadn't asked him his preference about continuing work, although he agreed with Tracy about calling it a day. But there was a silver lining. “I never counted on learning a new skill when I came to town.”

“Life is full of turns, Mr. Midlife.” Tracy shooed him away from the ladder. “And before you go claiming a skill, you need to be able to participate without hurting yourself.”

* * *

C
HAD
KNEW
THE
moment he stepped into El Rosal for dinner that night he was in trouble. He thought he'd come in early—just after five—and would beat the Saturday crowd. The place was packed. No tables were free. No bar stool was empty. And there was a thirty minute wait for a table. The early-bird specials were apparently quite popular.

He'd only sat outside earlier. He hadn't experienced the full effect of color that was inside the dining room. Red, yellow, blue, green. The primary colors were everywhere—tables, chairs, walls. There was a small convenience store in the lobby selling ice cream, bread, milk and bananas. The place felt cheap.

“Chad! Chad!” The mayor waved him over to a small table near the kitchen door. Wearing a blue-and-yellow tie-dyed T-shirt, he'd almost blended into the color scheme like an aged and wrinkled chameleon.

Chad had to inch his way past wheelchairs, walkers and one high chair. Past exposed liver spots, swollen digits and ankles, and deep coughs. Should these people be out on such a nippy night? Many of them seemed so frail. He nodded to the young couple with the baby as he passed, and waved to a table with the bakery's checkers players. Tracy was nowhere in sight.

The mayor invited Chad to sit across from him and his empty plate. “You hit the Saturday night rush.”

“It's only five-fifteen.” Chad squeezed against the wall.

“And by six-fifteen this place will practically be a ghost town.” Larry chortled. His face was the wrinkled tan of too much sun and too little sunscreen. In fact, there was a spot near his ear that looked troublesome.

Chad opened his mouth to mention it, but the mayor beat him to the punch.

“I officially roll up the sidewalk at seven-thirty.”

“Really? Is there a curfew or something?”

“No.” Larry gave him a look that said Chad might be a disappointment. “That was a joke, son.”

Hard to tell when things were so very different in Harmony Valley.

A middle-aged woman with a frizzy black bun and a stained apron opened the kitchen door so wide it almost hit Chad. She surveyed the room with the sharp eye of management. And then she glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Luis, tables need more chips and more water.” She caught sight of Chad and said in a neutral voice that could have indicated welcome or intimidation if she'd been smiling or frowning, “Who are you?”

“He's the travel writer, Mayra,” the mayor said. “I told Enzo about him earlier.”

She smiled a welcome. “Ah, we'll fix you up. On the house.” She whisked Larry's plate from the table and disappeared behind the swinging door. But that didn't stop Chad from hearing her yell. “Enzo! Claudia! There is a travel writer at table one. Work your magic.”

“Oh, boy.” The mayor leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “You're in for a treat. I hope you don't mind sharing a bite or two. I ordered the early-bird special—enchiladas—which are good, but when Chef Enzo and Chef Claudia get to work, oh, boy.”

“Chefs?” The table tops were covered in low end, colorful square tiles. Everything about El Rosal said cheap but filling Mexican food. “This place has chefs?”

“Yep. Enzo and Claudia got married last spring. They run the Italian-Mexican café next to Mae's Pretty Things during lunch. And they cook dinner here.”

“Impressive.” Although Chad didn't have high hopes of being impressed.

“I wish I'd known you were coming. I'd have brought you a T-shirt.” Larry tugged at the tie-dyed cotton of his shirt. “I'm in the business. T-shirts, scarves, towels. You name it, I give it a kaleidoscope of color and a lot of good karma.”

Chad loaded a chip with salsa and took a bite, saving himself from commenting. Tie-dye was so 1970.

“Have you fallen in love yet?” Larry asked.

Chad nearly choked on his chip. “With who?”

“With the town. Who did you think I meant? Tracy?” The mayor shook his head. “You're a man of the world. And Tracy... Tracy doesn't know it yet, but she's never leaving. Not that that's a bad thing.”

Chad sure thought so.

“At one point in our past, we were a refuge for misfits,” the mayor went on.

Chad looked around the room. The residents didn't seem like misfits. They just looked old. Arthritic fingers that held forks awkwardly. Sallow complexions that indicated disease. Coughs that could be traced to pneumonia or cancer. Weak legs that needed help standing. Poor eyesight, balding pates, cancerous skin growths. Chad felt their fragility press in on him the same way it had when he'd watched his parents fade into their twilight years.

What was he doing here? Eight more days? There were a handful of people in this room who could kick the bucket by morning.

Chad started to sweat. He tore off his jacket.

A glass of red wine appeared before him and he took a generous gulp, gripping the glass too tight with his injured finger, making it throb in protest.

“Excuse me, Chad.” Larry stood. “I see a constituent who needs my help.” He hurried across the room to help someone into a wheelchair. And then he wheeled them out the door.

A plate of bruschetta appeared before him. Instead of parmesan cheese it was sprinkled with finely shredded colby-jack. The tomatoes had been coated in a light green sauce.

Chad took a bite. Bread, cheese, tomatoes and pesto with a hint of jalapeño. It was delicious. It went with the red wine. The blending of tastes rivaled five-star restaurants in San Francisco.

But the culinary excellence couldn't distract him completely from his surroundings. From the gawdy colors and mortality. His heart beat like a snare drum in his chest and he had the distinct urge to flee. Chad stared at the royal blue wall, trying not to see the end facing some of the restaurant patrons.

His mother used to say he'd been a sensitive child. Not exactly the way a man of thirty-five liked to think of himself. But yeah, he could remember battling an opponent for a soccer ball on the elementary playground. His strike at the ball swept the boy's feet out from under him. Instead of taking the ball, Chad had helped the boy up. And then when he was ten, he'd spent Sunday afternoons playing card games with retirement center residents while his mother visited her friends. He'd felt as if he belonged. Until Chad's favorite card player had died. Beau hadn't looked much older than Chad's father. Chad couldn't bring himself to go back.

Once he left Harmony Valley, he didn't think he'd return here either.

Tracy sat down across from him, panting. “Mayor Larry...said you needed help. Right away.”

Chad came back to the present and grimaced.

“He called me.” Tracy looked at him more closely. “Are you okay?”

“Compliments of the mayor.” Mayra set a glass of red wine in front of Tracy.

Chad's mental notebook, the one that never shut down, made note of Harmony Valley's matchmaking tendencies. Quaint, but unappreciated.

“What's wrong?” Tracy lowered her voice. “You look as if someone just died.”

“I...uh...” Chad made a weak gesture that encompassed the dining room. “My parents had me at a very advanced age.”

“What are we talking?” She hung her jacket on her chair. “Thirties? Forties?”

“Fifty.”

“That's not...much younger than my dad is today.” Comprehension dawned. “That...would make your dad eighty-five when he died?”

Chad nodded. “My mother passed a few years before Dad of heart disease.” His eyes found the one person in the room who had gaunt features and a sallow complexion. How long did that man have? “When I was a kid, maybe the third grade. I noticed kids assumed my parents were my grandparents. And when I was in middle school, my friends' grandparents started dying.”

Tracy made sympathetic noises.

He concentrated on steadying his breathing, on the sky blue of Tracy's eyes. “I was afraid every time I said goodbye would be the last.”

Tracy took a sip of her wine. “So. You look around. And see the Grim Reaper.”

“No.” He pushed the plate of bruschetta and the wineglasses toward the wall and leaned forward, letting the words and his fears tumble out. “I see kids and grandkids losing sleep over their health—every cough, every stumble, every forgotten word. I see stubborn independent streaks that put their health at risk. I see hospital beds and bedpans and the responsibility of unraveling finances after years of neglect.” And then he saw his father's manifesto and felt a surge of anger, still so fresh, it pushed his fears for others aside. “I see the best of intentions from family being taken for granted. Or worse, being feared.” Was that why his father had written his postmortem manifesto? Because he'd felt Chad had overstepped his power at
Bostwick Lampoon
?

Tracy pushed his wineglass back to him. “You need another drink.”

He took her advice and downed some more. It was good wine and deserving of a slower appreciation.

“You...went through most of your life expecting them to kick the bucket. Before you saw them again.” Her gaze was as soft as blue velvet. “That's scary. You're still grieving.”

“No.” Grief was the last thing he felt. It lagged behind loneliness and anger. The good thing about the anger was Chad was feeling more in control. “I haven't been surrounded like this. Faced with so much inevitability and loss.”

“Welcome to Harmony Valley.” Her mouth tilted up on one side. “I...never thought mortality would be your weakness.”

Chad sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“I know. It's not funny. It's a hang-up.” Her smile blossomed and her hands rose above the table to accent each word. “Just like me. And the passenger seat. And like my scar. You think too much. About old people dying.”