Entangled (9 page)

A couple minutes later I watched through the
front window as Handel pulled away in his red Jag, heading to town
and his law office. I missed my own practice, mostly for the time
spent solving other people’s problems, my thoughts turned outward
rather than inward, my days filled with work and research. At night
I had no time for dreams or self-discovery, but fell into bed
exhausted enough to sleep uninterrupted until morning when I would
do it all again. But here things were different. Here I was
actually trying to find out what I wanted, what I had or something
new, a law practice or a winery, an exhausting but fulfilling job,
or—a life.

~~~

CHAPTER SIX

“
I
always prefer the
red wines. The rich color makes me think it tastes better. I’m not
much of a drinker,” I explained as Charlie Simpson took me through
the winery.

Charlie nodded, his eyes alight, eager to
share his love for the wine making process. “You’re absolutely
right.”

“What did I say?”

He chuckled as though we shared a joke. “You
said the color makes you think it tastes better. The color is sort
of an optical illusion. The eye tells the brain your tongue is
going to taste a more concentrated wine, but in fact the color is
not necessarily connotative of depth of flavor.”

“Really? So, what makes wine red? Darker
grapes?”

He put out a hand and placed it on the side
of the wine press machine. “Not always. The same grapes can be used
for white, but when the grape berries are crushed in the press, we
immediately separate the skins and seeds from the free run juice.
That eliminates most of the color. For red wine, the grape berries
are introduced whole into tanks.”

We walked on as he pointed out other
machinery and explained their part of the process. By the time he’d
gone through clarification, filtration, and aging, showing me step
by step the birth of a new wine, explained temperature and humidity
control, and introduced me to many of the employees, I was
exhausted.

I stared up at the oak barrels lining the
decanting room and shook my head slowly. “Wine making is truly an
art, isn’t it?”

Charlie smiled, his top teeth protruding
slightly over his bottom lip. “I never thought of myself as an
artist, but I guess so. Harvesting the grapes at the exact right
time, the separation process, everything you do decides the outcome
of the wine, whether it’s a good year or a terrific one.” He seemed
pleased by my acknowledgement and his bulky chest puffed up even
more.

“Well, I’m certainly no expert, but it
appears you’ve done a good job running the place, Charlie. I
understand my uncle wasn’t much of a hands-on vintner.”

He cleared his throat and looked away when he
answered. “Jack was busy with other things. He left the running of
Fredrickson Vineyard and Winery to me most of the time. Every so
often he would come take a look around, check things out, and make
sure there weren’t any catastrophes to speak of, then he’d be off
again. Either traveling out of the country, or on his
sailboat.”

“Was that what kept him busy? Traveling and
sailing?” I asked. Didn’t he like Uncle Jack?

He met my gaze, his brows nearly connecting
in a thoughtful frown over pale blue eyes, faded with sun and time,
edged with dozens of tiny lines caused by squinting into the light.
“That and something else. He has a workroom here, an underground
cellar that was built years before he bought the winery. He spent a
lot of time down there. He said he was perfecting a wine that would
revolutionize the world.” He shrugged, his palms raised toward the
ceiling. “Whatever that means. He would carry grapes and supplies
down for making small batches, but I never saw a finished product.”
His tone spoke volumes about what he really thought. He believed
Jack was a nut. It was as simple as that. But that deeply ingrained
sentiment, Never speak ill of the dead, kept him from saying
so.

“I see. Where is this cellar?” I asked. “Have
you gone down and checked it out since he died?”

“Can’t. Not unless I have the door taken off.
Thought I should wait for the new owner’s approval,” he said with a
grin. “Jack installed a lock and didn’t bother to leave me with a
key.” He led me through another doorway and pointed ahead. “But I
can show you where it is.”

I followed eagerly, suddenly energized by the
thought of discovery. Could this be the door I had the key for? We
passed through two other rooms filled with wine barrels and finally
stopped before a door marked
Private
. He jiggled the knob as
though just this once it would be open and we could explore.

“This is it. The secret cellar,” he said with
a smirk.

“You mean no one has been down there except
Uncle Jack?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Not
since I’ve been working here.”

I had no intention of exploring the room with
Charlie watching over my shoulder and so I made no mention of the
key I kept in my purse. I would come back later when everyone had
gone home for the night. On the video disc Jack presented the
special wine we made together when I was eight years old, and I was
curious to know if it was the same secret concoction he’d continued
to work on over the years, alone in this cellar, without any other
soul knowing what went on down there.

I thanked Charlie for the tour and promised
I’d be back to learn more. I wanted to know exactly what I’d gotten
myself into and whether wine making was something I might be good
at. There was certainly a lot to learn and it wouldn’t come about
through osmosis. It would take time and patience working under
Charlie’s mentoring, along with a significant amount of
perseverance and natural talent.

Dusk was settling into night when I waved
Charlie off in his pickup and headed back to the house. I hadn’t
left a light burning, and shadows blanketed the interior, still
unfamiliar enough to cause me to stub my toe against something in
the hallway. I reached the living room before finding a light
switch, illuminating the sparsely furnished room now complete with
empty walls.

The light blinked on the answering machine at
the kitchen counter and I listened to a rambling account of
Mother’s flight and subsequent ride home from the airport with my
brother Adam before she collected her thoughts, her voice becoming
warm as fresh muffins as she ended her monologue.

“Honey, I just want you to know that you can
call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk. I love you.
I’ll catch up with you later.” The machine was quiet after that
with no more messages to impart.

I sat down at the table and looked around.
The house remained quiet, unwilling to intrude upon my thoughts
with creaks and groans as it had the night before when I tried to
sleep. The yellow flowered wallpaper pressed in around me, ebbed
and flowed as I breathed in and out, and I knew I’d gone too long
without adequate sleep. My eyes started acting up when I was
tired.

Thoughts of the locked cellar door and what I
might find down there clashed in my mind with the more pressing
concern of Handel’s dinner invitation, or intrusion, however you
looked at it, sending me hurrying off to shower and change before
he showed up. Exploring my uncle’s secret room would have to
wait.

*****

Handel brought a bucket of fried chicken,
biscuits, and potato salad, holding them out at the door like a
peace offering. “How’s this? Deep-fried heart stoppers. What do you
think? Is it mid-western enough for you?” he asked with a grin.

I waved him in. “It’ll do.”

He followed me to the kitchen and set the
food on the table while I searched the cupboard for plates. Uncle
Jack’s old china still remained, chipped and marred with hairline
cracks, edged in faded Morning Glories, odd numbered stacks of five
plates, three cereal bowls, six cups and saucers. Obviously, I was
unprepared to give a formal dinner party.

“So, how was your tour of the winery?” Handel
asked, as he reached for a third piece of chicken. “Did Charlie
answer all your questions to your satisfaction?”

“Only the ones I could think of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a lot to take in. He showed me around
and tried to explain all the machinery involved, the creation of
wine, etcetera, but I’m sure what’s really needed is in-depth
research and hands on involvement to fully understand everything.
Or even know what questions to ask.” I sat back and stifled a
yawn.

“You’re right. I’ve lived around the winery
most of my life, but I don’t know if I’d be able to explain all
that goes into wine making. My father always lost me when he
started droning on about clarification and the like.”

I picked up my plate and carried it to the
sink. Outside the trees were lit up, individual leaves reflecting
the moon’s yellow glow, sparkling gaily as they moved with the
breeze. A perfect night in wine country.

“I thought the purpose of your return tonight
was to tell me how you heroically saved my life so long ago,” I
said, filling the sink with soapy hot water. “Or have you forgotten
the details as well?”

“That isn’t possible. A boy doesn’t become a
hero every day, you know.”

I turned around, a small smile of
encouragement curving my lips. “I expect not. So…? What’s the
story?”

He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “You
were playing hide and seek one morning. You climbed into an empty
barrel and pulled the lid on. I happened to be skulking around,
looking for something to do, and saw you. Your uncle walked right
by the barrels and on into the winery. A couple minutes later my
father showed up. He noticed the lid was loose and stopped to tap
it down with the hammer he always kept on his belt. Lids have to be
tight around here or mice tend to move in and occupy the joint.” He
grinned. “Free room and board. Anyway, I knew you were stuck and
probably finding it hard to breathe. I waited until my dad went
around back of the buildings before running over to help you. By
the time I got that lid back off you were white as a sheet. You
threw your arms around me and held on like a cocklebur.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s how you saved my
life?” I asked. “By opening a lid? I could have yelled for help and
any number of people would have let me out.”

His blue gaze darkened like the sky before
nightfall. He shook his head. “You would have stayed in that barrel
for hours and never cried out. Being sealed in there frightened
you, but something outside frightened you even more. All I know is,
you were pretty happy when you opened your eyes and saw me.”

“My eyes were shut?” The notion seemed odd.
It took my mother years to wean me from the nightlight in my room.
I’d wake in the dark, my eyes wide with the strain of trying to see
beyond the veil of shadows. Wasn’t it natural to try to see even
when there was no light?

He bit at his bottom lip as though thinking
back. “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Until I spoke your name.”

I turned back to the sink and washed my plate
and glass. The full moon caught my attention through the window and
pulled my thoughts like the ocean tide.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Handel
asked, reaching around me to set his plate in the sink. I felt as
though he’d read my mind when he said, “The moon’s full enough to
light our way. Besides, I need to work some of this off.” He patted
his stomach, but his body looked firm and well toned in the jeans
and yellow t-shirt he wore. I knew from experience that an office
job was not compatible with staying in shape. It took running at
least four times a week to maintain the size I’d been since high
school. He obviously worked out at a gym on a regular basis.

“Sure,” I said. He didn’t step back when I
turned, but stayed where he was, filling my personal space like an
extra passenger on a single person raft. My lower back pressed into
the edge of the counter as he leaned in, his face mere inches from
mine, like a butterfly’s antennae feeling me out for approachable
sweetness. I cleared my throat and the moment was gone.

He drew slowly back, his eyes dark and
hooded. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, moving away, suddenly intent on
escape, leaving the impression of warmth on my skin and a
debilitating fear in my heart.

Taking a chance was something I’d never truly
done. Kent was not a man I took seriously. I knew in my heart that
his actions at the sport bar, although hurtful to my pride, were
something I’d almost expected. He thought football was the
cornerstone of America and families were just an afterthought in
God’s plan. But Handel was something else entirely. I had no idea
where he fit into the scheme of things. Or whether he would
fit.

In my small world-view, women mooned after
men, then realized they were married to a werewolf and wanted out.
I helped them break the tie that binds, but more often than not
they went right out and did it again. Divorce law could definitely
be lucrative if you took the right clients, but not fulfilling. Why
had I ever thought so? It made me tired, depressed, and leery of
all men, approaching them as wild stallions that would bolt and run
at the first hint of trouble.

The back door was our quickest escape. I
followed Handel out onto the flagstone path, feeling the cool
breeze caress my heated cheeks, and waited for his lead. He seemed
to know where he was going, a plan of some kind already formulated
in his mind. He took my hand and headed through the trees to the
vineyards beyond, his fingers entwined securely with mine and yet
loosely enough to pull away if I had the urge to be free.

“Have you ever walked through a field at
night?” he asked, his voice soft as the night air around us,
blending with the cricket’s music and the tune that the breeze
played on the leaves of the trees.