Entangled (19 page)

“Are you saying he wasn’t judicious in his
choice of an heir?”

Mother’s radar must have lit up. She pointed
for me to turn at the next right. A large furniture store sprawled
on the corner. Next to that a paint and carpet store. Just what I
needed. I parked the car between a little convertible and a huge
SUV and shut off the ignition.

“Honey, his judgment was as sound as a newly
tuned piano,” she reassured me. Smiling, she snapped her purse shut
and opened the door of the car.

“For a crazy man,” I added under my
breath.

*****

After two hours, and endless arguing over
what I wanted and what Mother thought I should want, I ordered a
camel leather couch and recliner to match, a new butcher block
kitchen table set, and a lovely landscape to hang above the
fireplace. I wasn’t so impressed with the frame, but thought it
might be the same size as the fancy one on Jack’s giant abstract
and I could trade off. Delivery wouldn’t be for three or four days,
and that gave me just enough time to get the walls painted.

By the time we went next door to the paint
store I was too tired to fight over degrees of white. I allowed
Mother to choose the perfect shade for my bedroom and kitchen while
I gathered brushes, rollers and drop cloths for the job. I enjoyed
painting. The simple chore was an inexpensive form of therapy for
me, relaxing my mind and giving me something to focus on besides
the usual suspects.

A young man helped carry all the things to
our car. Mother waited as I thanked him and shut the trunk, then
pointed across the street to a fancy coffee shop with outdoor
seating. “Let’s sit a minute and relax. The striped umbrellas over
the tables look inviting. And I bet they have those chocolate
muffins you like so much,” she added, as though that would clinch
the deal.

After shopping I needed a jolt of caffeine
and wasn’t about to shoot down the best idea she’d had in hours. I
ordered espresso but Mother decided to have a blended coffee,
saying it made her feel so very Californian. We sat at one of the
tables sipping our drinks and watching passerby, the camaraderie of
fellow shoppers after a successful mission warming our hearts.

“Don’t you find it strange that Handel’s
father disappeared and never returned?” Mother asked, as she
stirred her drink, slowly mixing in the whipped cream and drizzled
chocolate. She took a sip before meeting my curious gaze.

“What are you getting at? There are people
all over the country that walk out on their families and never come
back.” I shrugged. “Besides which, he was an alcoholic. He could
have wandered off and fallen in a canal for all we know, been swept
out to sea and eaten by little fishes.”

Mother didn’t smile at my joke, but pressed
her lips in a straight line. “An
abusive
alcoholic - isn’t
that right?” She nodded at my look of surprise. “I saw the bruises
on Handel when he was a boy.”

I leaned forward, intent on the conversation.
“Then why didn’t you do something?”

Mother folded her hands on the table and
stared into her glass. “You know it’s not that simple. I didn’t
know for sure and by the time I met his father and realized the
truth, we were leaving.”

“You met his father?” I asked. My eyes
narrowed with interest. “What was he like?”

“Very attractive, a dark-haired version of
his son, only he had a harder edge to him, probably due to the
drink. He was polite enough and friendly when approached, but there
was something about him…”

“Meanness?” I finished for her, my spirit
ready to champion Handel even when he no longer needed it.

She shook her head. “No. Secretive. That’s
the word I would use to describe him. A man not to be trusted.”

“Well, I’m glad he disappeared and Handel and
Margaret won’t ever have to see him again.” I picked up my cup and
swallowed the last of the strong brew.

“That’s the problem.” Mother held my gaze
steadily across the table. “I saw a man lurking out behind the
winery the other day. He was older and definitely worse for wear,
but I’m pretty sure it was Sean Parker.”

“What?” I demanded. Several people at the
nearby tables turned to look in our direction. I leaned forward,
barely able to restrain my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were in the winery following Charlie
around that day and I’d forgotten all about it by the time I saw
you. When Handel showed up this morning, the incident suddenly
popped into my mind.”

I bit at my bottom lip, wondering how this
would affect Handel and his sister. Would they be relieved to
realize their father was alive after all, or resentful of his
survival when their mother had gone to an early grave. I knew how
bad childhood experiences often follow us into adulthood, not
letting go, but clinging to the back of our minds with razor sharp
claws. Whether Handel admitted it or not, the abuse from his father
and subsequent disappearance continued to influence him. Time
doesn’t always heal all wounds.

Mother glanced across the street, her gaze
following a man walking a very large German shepherd. They turned
the corner and disappeared from sight before she spoke again. “I
have a bad feeling about this,” she said, her voice low but vibrant
enough to be heard above the street noise, like a seer with her
sights set on a future time and place.

I was beginning to feel a little creeped out
myself by the way she was acting, but I wasn’t about to let on.
Even if Handel’s father had come back to town, what did that prove?
That even a bum comes home to roost? I stood up and threw my paper
cup in the nearby trashcan.

“Ready to go?”

“Aren’t you even worried about Handel’s
reaction?” Mother asked, as she followed me across the street to
the car. “You are going to tell him, aren’t you?”

I unlocked the doors and slid behind the
wheel. “You don’t even know for sure that the man you saw was Sean
Parker,” I said, turning the key in the ignition and glancing in
the rearview mirror. “And if so, why did he show up at the winery
and not his own home? The Parker’s live in the same house they did
twenty years ago.”

She nodded. “That’s a good question. Perhaps
he was looking for Jack. I understood they were friends as
teenagers. That’s why Jack was letting Sean work at the winery even
though he’d been fired from multiple jobs because of his drinking.”
She secured her seatbelt as I pulled into the street.

“So, he thought after a twenty year coffee
break he would be welcomed back with open arms? That must have been
some friendship.” I shook my head, and snorted a laugh. “I guess he
realized with Jack out of the picture his chances of employment
here were pretty slim, so he took off again. I admit Handel would
be angry if he knew that his father had been skulking around, but
I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Sean Parker, or whoever
the man was, is probably long gone. Don’t you think?”

Mother’s silence filled the hot car.

Silence from Mother was usually not a good
sign. She was telling me something by not telling me something. The
trouble being that I wasn’t clairvoyant. I’d passed through the
fire of silence more than once as a kid and come out the other
side, learning a valuable lesson by Mother withholding the gift of
her voice. Adam and I would rather be yelled at than get the silent
treatment. But I knew this time her silence wasn’t intended as a
reprimand but rather because she didn’t have an answer.

We were turning onto the gravel drive when
she reached out and brushed my cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“Maybe it’s time to go home, Billie,” she said. “There are so many
problems to deal with here. Are you sure you’re ready to take them
on?”

My answer was sharp. “You were the one who
said I should stay. You said being a divorce attorney was
depressing. I thought you wanted me to make the change.”

Mother pulled her hand back as though I’d
slapped her. “I only want what’s best for you. Since you’ve been
here you haven’t been sleeping, your nightmares have returned, you
seem unsettled. Now you’ve taken up with Handel, a man with enough
problems of his own.”

I pulled into the garage and shut off the
engine, my temper flaring as hot as the black metal hood of the
car. “Whoa! This is starting to sound a lot like meddling. I know
you came back because you were worried about me, but I’m fine. And
I don’t know what you mean by “taken up with”, but I can assure you
that Handel and I are just friends. Not that I need your
permission.” I jerked open the door, climbed out, and slammed it
behind me.

~~~

CHAPTER TWELVE

P
lastic sheets
covered the countertops and floor of the empty kitchen, splattered
with droplets of Dovetail white paint. Mother stood on the third
rung of a ladder, touching up the edge of the ceiling with a tiny
brush, her movements meticulous and sure. She didn’t turn or
acknowledge my entrance, although the crinkling of the plastic
under my feet was like a trumpet proclamation.

Like an unspoken agreement we began painting
walls this morning, Mother in the kitchen, and I in the bedroom.
The atmosphere in the house had begun to feel pressurized. I was
afraid the roof would blow off any minute.

The paths we trod throughout the house
remained separate, not stepping into a room already occupied by the
other. Except for the DJ on the radio, yapping in between sets of
country music, no words had been spoken since yesterday afternoon.
My foray into the kitchen now was out of desperation. I needed a
soda.

The refrigerator was also draped with plastic
and I awkwardly held it up and away to get the door open. The
coolness inside was enough to make me yearn for a Minnesota
snowstorm. Paint fumes gave me a headache, so I thought keeping the
windows open and the air flowing through the house would counteract
that. But instead I had a headache from the heat. I reached behind
the milk carton and a container of cottage cheese and pulled out a
can of cola.

“This is beyond silly, you know,” Mother
said, one hand holding the wet brush in mid-air, the other grasping
the side of the ladder for balance. “I ought to be able to say
what’s on my mind without you getting all bent out of shape and
giving me the silent treatment.”

I popped the top of the can and took a long
swallow, not meeting her gaze, feeling the power of silence. My
mother could always win an argument simply by saying nothing. Now I
was in control, not responding, letting her brew in her own juices,
as I dealt in payback.

“The only reason I said anything was because
I heard you talking in your sleep again night before last. I’m
frightened for you, honey. You seemed so desperate.” She stepped
down from the ladder and set the brush on the edge of an empty
paint can.

I pushed the door closed and found my way out
of the plastic sheeting. Holding a grudge against my mother because
she cared about me was ridiculously foolish. My lips curved up
mischievously as I held out the can. “Want a drink?” I asked.
Mother had germaphobia, or at least that’s what Adam and I called
it. She would never drink from the same glass as someone else and
warned us against the dangers of sharing with our friends. Adam
had, on occasions, drank from her glass when she wasn’t looking,
just to see if her dire predictions would come true.

She narrowed her eyes, the better to hide her
amusement. “No, thank you. I think I’ll have a glass of water.” She
stepped past me and tried to get into the cupboard for a cup.
Finally, she just pulled the whole sheet down and wadded it into
the corner of the room. “Well, I’m about done in here anyway,” she
said.

“You did a great job, Mom,” I said, looking
slowly around the room. The kitchen walls reflected the light from
outdoors, making everything bright and shiny. “I thought maybe a
paint called Dovetail would be a little dingy, like dirty sheets,
but no.” I grinned. “It’s as white as fresh bird droppings hitting
a pane of glass.”

“Funny girl.” Mother made a face. “That’s the
last time I help you choose paint.”

“Promise?” I lifted one brow and held out a
hand to shake on it.

“Get out of here and finish your bedroom
while you still have the best light. If I don’t get this kitchen
cleaned up we won’t be having lunch any time soon.” She swatted me
on the seat of my pants as I turned to leave. All was forgiven.

*****

“Charlie, what in the world is this?” I
asked, pointing to a column in the Cost of Sales report. I leaned
back in my chair as he stood beside me and ran a finger slowly down
the page, clicking his tongue at each entry.

Finally, he cleared his throat and shrugged
his shoulders, a sheepish look on his face. “I don’t know. That’s
what we have an accountant for, isn’t it?”

“This is going well,” I muttered. I stood up
from the rectangular conference table and pushed my chair in.
“Obviously, Fredrickson’s is not always running in the black, and
one of the many reasons is that the head doesn’t know what the hand
is doing and the hand doesn’t know what the foot is doing.”

“Huh?” he scratched his chin and glanced
toward the door, his attention divided between me boring him to
death and waiting expectantly for the pizza we’d ordered to be
delivered for lunch.

“If you don’t know what this amount is for,
neither does the accountant. An accountant only uses the numbers
you give him, unless he’s got a creative streak and that could end
badly with a long prison sentence.”

“Well, I can’t remember everything. Jack was
overseer; I’m best at managing people and keeping things running.
Tim does most of the ordering and Sally manages the office.”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a calm
sea, but instead saw only crashing waves as my patience neared its
end. “Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. “I appreciate your help
but I need to set up an appointment with our accountant. What’s his
name?”