New Growth (Spook Hills Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

He liked the glossy glide of glass under his fingers and the
way light passed through it, moving at various angles and lighting up his
studio in a variety of subtle shades.
 
At
times the cut edges twinkled around him, shooting sparks of light against his
hands, the bench and the white stucco of the building.
 
His goal of defining a style for a line of
home merchandise might take him several years.
 
Once he developed a better understanding of working with glass, he
anticipated touring studios and taking classes here in Spain
and
in other countries.
 
First
he needed the skills to produce fused glass wares without ruining so many of
them.
 

This life suited him, alone here in the mountains and away
from the village where he bought groceries.
 
The humble house nestled on a steep slope with its back to the north,
permitting it to capture full days of sunshine.
 
Working shutters helped keep the house cooler when the sun shone too
brightly.
 
Miles away his boat rested in
a slip, waiting for the next time he became restless or for when he might need
to move swiftly, make his way over
a low
saddle in the Pyrenees and activate his next survival strategy.
 
From here he could head down to the
Mediterranean, or hide out in the mountains or make his way into France and
over to Eastern Europe or even down into Turkey.
  

The ancient monastery bell started ringing for evening
prayers higher up in the Pyrenees.
 
The
way sound traveled, the
peals
were
clear
and mellow yet not competing with the birdsong or with the
tintineo
of the small bells
on the goats roaming the
hillsides.
 
The
goats came down at night to drink
water from the trough he refreshed daily.
 
While unsure who owned the goats, he delighted in their company and he
found supplying water and sometimes hay a fair trade.

Perhaps one day he would hike up to the monastery for
vespers with the monks.
 
Sometimes he
walked down to Botaya on a Sunday to partake of
mass
at the church.
 
Although he
was a lapsed Catholic, he longed to find clemency.
 
After his life in the drug world, he doubted
any amount of atonement would cleanse his dirtied soul.
 
Even so
he might find shards of redemption.
  
He
had lived his life
for
his brothers until
their continuing commitment to their illegal enterprises compelled him to seek
a different path.
 
For over a year and a
half, he existed peaceably in exile from them.
 
Even though loneliness sometimes tempted him to sign into an old email
address or dial them on his cell phone, he hoped by staying
away, they
would sell their businesses
sooner.
 
He also feared they would try to
ensnare him back into their
illegal
cartel if he contacted them.

He contemplated the row of glass
panels
resting in tall, narrow compartments of shelving.
 
Today he wanted to make a small, shallow bowl
where glass draped over a frame in the heat. The last one cracked when he
precipitously opened the door before
cool
down was complete.
 
His drawing for the bottom
showed a narrow leaf depiction in matching glass.
 
He took out a sheet of a watery aquamarine,
positioned it with care on the worktable and opened a book to verify his
technique and the measurements.
 
He began
scoring the glass to break it into the shapes he wanted.
 
He looked down at his hands ruefully, now
nicked and scarred where glass chips or sharp edges had sliced his skin.
 
He soon learned to keep a stocked first aid
kit nearby and to be meticulous about keeping his hands and nails clean.

Thoughts intruded from his old
life while he worked,
but he forced them away by concentrating on
measuring and scoring glass.
 
He could
not touch the past.
 
He was afraid to
consider the future.
 
Living in this day
and
this moment must constitute his outlook, taking
pleasure from his solitary life as an aspiring glass artist.
 
In less than a week, he should receive a rare
call from his twin brother, Cristo.
 
The
thought brought him comfort.

On Wednesday, Callie and her daughter Susannah traveled
up to her uncle’s Oregon
winery
for their
annual summer sojourn.
 
Her husband, John
Henry, planned to join them on the weekend.
 
However for these two days before he arrived, they planned to enjoy
their time together while basking in the kind attentions of her aunt and
uncle.
 
She savored the way her uncle’s
memories of his brother, who had been her father, gave her a sliver of her late
parents to keep with her.
 
Callie felt so
eager to be where she felt loved and
free that
her
escape was tinged
with
guilt.
 
John Henry had long ceased to be
the man she slavishly admired as a student ten years before.
 

Her first allegiance was to her daughter.
 
She stayed in her
oppressive
, disturbing and at times verbally brutal relationship
because she thought Susannah needed her father.
  
Sometimes
now John Henry directed his belittling and outright nasty comments not only at
herself
but at
Susannah as well.
 
Even though she owed
her husband her fidelity, her debt of gratitude must be paid by now.
 
A change
had to be made, no matter how hard.
 

She desperately needed to believe she possessed the courage
and fortitude to carry out her plan.
 
She
brushed her hair to fall across her shoulders, straight and dark like a bay
horse’s tail banged in a crisp line.
 
Then she tapped on a little make-up to mask the smudges under her
eyes.
 
She had lost weight in the last
year,
and her face was haggard from too many
nights of poor sleep as she worried about her marriage.
 
Her best failed to measure up to her
husband’s expectations.
 
Nothing ever
seemed good enough for him.

She stopped to remember him in her student days when he
taught one of her art history classes in her senior year of college.
 
As her
professor
he struck her as handsome, entertaining, knowledgeable and scholarly.
 
He was thinner back then, without his
drinker’s paunch and bloated faux bonhomie.
 
In the classroom and on campus, he projected the image of
an
intellectual professor.
 
She had
worshiped
him.
 

However even early in their lives together, John Henry had
wanted pleasures a man should not demand of a young woman as innocent as she
had been.
 
She had desired so much to
please him and in her unworldly way she thought what he asked for must be the
way lovemaking proceeded between a man and a woman.
 
Over the years, his penchant for lascivious
sex had continued until she became so debased she refused to participate.
 
Even now after not having had sex with him
for over a year, their life together struck her as all wrong.
 
He besmirched her womanliness with his
demands.
 
His last attempts had resulted
in his failure to perform, which he had blamed on her as he did everything
wrong in his life, including his lack of advancement in his professional life
and his seeking solace in drinking.

Before melancholy took hold, Callie rejected the
repulsive
recollections of their intimacy while
she trotted downstairs, stopping in the
spacious
sun-strewn kitchen for a mug of the coffee her uncle left on the warmer.
 
The rich brew of fresh ground beans laced
with a little cinnamon signaled morning and home to her.
 
She splashed in cream and a half spoonful of
sugar,
stirred and scuffed along in her
slippers through the big living room and down the hall.
 
When she tapped at the open door of his
office, her Uncle Rick peered over his glasses at her.

“Thought I might see you this morning,” he said in his firm
voice.
 
A thin, muscular man, he was
aging into what might be called wiry.

“Guess I’m fairly transparent,” she said.

“At least to me.”
 
Whenever he spoke to her, his voice carried a tender tone with affection
in the vowels and kindliness in the consonants.
 

Callie took a deep breath to make herself sound more like
a decisive
woman and less like a scared
teenager.
 
“When John Henry is here, I
expect to give him an ultimatum.
 
He must
stop his excessive alcohol consumption and go for counseling.”

“Or?” Rick asked, raising both eyebrows.

“I will leave him and take Susannah with me.”
 
Even though her voice quavered with
uncertainty, she said the words out loud in hopes the
small
statement could transform into reality.
 
Over the last years, her spouse’s denigrating
condescension had eroded her sense of worth.
 

“That is what you need to do.
 
He’s edging deep into alcoholism.
 
What if he won’t take action?”

“I will pack and leave,” Callie said, her voice coming out
thin and reedy.

“I’ll come down if you need my help.”

Callie nodded.
 
“You’ve been through your marriage ending with your first wife.
 
How
hard was
it to move out and carry on?”

“Hard to leave my kids, but easy to move forward in a new
life.
 
The relief I felt buoyed me
up.
 
For this change, Callie, you are
going to need a core of iron.
 
Remember
to look forward, not backward.”

“Am I wrong not to stick with my marriage? I made a vow to
stay for better or worse.”

“Damn malarkey from a bygone age.
 
You have every right to a good life and so
does your daughter.
 
You and Susannah
deserve happiness."

“I know,” she whispered.

“You will always have a home
here
when you want and for as long as you want."
 
He stopped speaking to let what he said sink
in.
 

A little hope stole into her heart.
 
He treated her more like his child than
either of his two grown children from his first marriage.
 

"Now give me a hug and let’s enjoy these next two
days.
 
Sassy is taking you and Susannah
off to a fancy spa up in Portland, followed by lunch and shopping.
 
I’m going to meet you all for dinner.
 
Tomorrow I want to tour the winery with you
and talk about a few changes here.”

She went to hug him.
 
Unhappiness and tension might dominate her life
,
but she was grateful for her Uncle Rick and Aunt Sassy.
 
Even through his grief at the loss of his
brother, he had comforted her during those black days after the death of her
parents.
 
They had been mowed down in an
automobile accident by a tractor trailer on I5 south as they drove home from a
weekend in Seattle.
 
She still remembered
his face when he took the call and how he had walked over to tell her that her
parents were no more.
 
Tears welled in
her
eyes,
and she gave him an extra
squeeze.

Mathew expected to enjoy the upcoming the Sunday lunch
get-together at their neighbors, Rick and Sassy Lindquist, following Steve and
Ivy’s return from Norway.
 
The party
would have the
bonus
of seeing their
niece, Callie, who he had heard was up visiting from California.
 
He
had
talked with her a few times before at a wine tasting and at her Uncle Rick’s
house.
 
While his knowledge of her was
limited,
he
approved of Callie’s
eye-catching allure, her honest gaze and what he understood of her
character.
 
Whenever he thought about a
woman to share his life, her face floated into his mind.
 
Callie, short for the Greek ‘Calista’, meant
beautiful and in her distinctive way she was.
 
Just too darn bad she was
married
to a drunken
cad
.

Pulling a
cabled
navy
cotton sweater over his white oxford shirt, he smoothed down his jeans and slid
on polished cordovan tassel loafers, hoping not to appear too informal.
 
From his rooms on the lower level of Steve
and Ivy’s house, Mathew walked upstairs to find Ivy ready to go.
 
In her denim slacks and a whisper of a
pink
silk blouse, Ivy retained her
femininity.
 
Steve strode out in a pair
of twill pants with a sharp crease and a crisp white and red striped shirt worn
open at the throat.
 
When he saw Ivy, his
changeable
fjord-blue eyes glowed with
warmth.
 
He smiled down at her and
stopped to pull her close.
 
Ivy tossed
her keys to
Mathew.
 
T
he three of them departed through the
conservatory, setting the alarm system as they went.

Once at the party they sipped Rick’s good pinot noir,
sampled the
hors
d’oevres
Callie and her daughter handed around and talked with the
vintners and neighbors at the gathering.
 
Mathew found himself turning and moving to watch Callie.
 
He wandered over a few times to chat with
her.
 
She tended to speak in such a soft
tone he inclined his head or took a step forward to be near enough to her to
distinguish her words over the surrounding chatter.
 
Closeness to Callie delighted him.

With Sassy serving platters of spicy fajitas and tacos on
the clay-tiled portico at the front of the house, the lunch celebration became
light and fun.
 
Mathew maneuvered around
until he found Callie sitting with her daughter Susannah while they ate
some lunch
.
 

“How long are you here for?” he asked, pulling over a chair
to sit with them.

“A week for all of us and maybe the two of us will stay on
longer,” Callie said.
 
Her daughter
grinned at her and shook her head to confirm.
 
“Susannah and I love it here.
 
This used to be my
home
after my
parents died.”

Callie glanced around the room and frowned.
 
Mathew turned to see her husband refilling
his glass of red wine, taking a long swallow and topping it up again.

“Would you ever consider moving back?”

“John Henry is committed to his career at Berkeley, but . .
.” Callie said, her voice trailed off as she gazed at her daughter who studied
her, not missing a word.

Mathew wanted to ask what the ‘but’ meant and yet it would
be too awkward with Susannah listening.
 
Why did this woman, this married woman, have such a strong effect on
him?
 
He had met troubled women
before.
 
Callie’s innate sweetness made
him want to protect her, even as he
wanted
to hold her lithesome body and erase the troubles that flitted across her face
when she gazed at her husband.
 
He
believed in marriage and was not a home-wrecker.
 
On the other hand, if Callie wanted to end
her marriage would he be wrong to help her?

Standing with Steve and Ivy after chowing down a big
plateful, Mathew found himself watching Callie as she circulated through the
group with a tray of champagne flutes for a toast to summer.
 
She fit well into this vineyard environment
and she was very close to her Uncle Rick and Aunt Sassy.
 
He wondered how she could bear living so
distantly in California.

Rick’s vineyard set a standard for the quality of wines it
produced.
 
They were delicate yet full
wines known for their subtle nuances.
 
Like Rick, the wines his vineyards produced had no pretentions.
 
Rick was a self-made man who had founded
several businesses, grew them and sold them for high dollar values.
 
Mathew suspected that the legacy he inherited
from his father was matched by Rick’s personal wealth.

Mathew turned his attention back to Callie when she stopped
nearby to chat with some neighbors.
 

Her husband stood near his left side.
 
Following Mathew’s
gaze, John
Henry said, “She’s not the temptress you might
envision.”

“Pardon me?”
 
Mathew
asked, not believing he heard the man correctly.

“I said, my wife is not the temptress you might
envision.
 
Not very sensual and not at
all venturesome,”
John Henry
said with a
sneer.

“Your comments are unwelcome and inappropriate.”
 
Without thinking, Mathew squared himself for
a confrontation.

Rick spun around.
 
“John Henry, put down your glass and take a long walk in the fresh air.”

Without even a glance at Rick, Callie’s husband said in the
loud voice of a man whose alcohol levels exceeded his sense, “You might think
those long legs of hers would make her a sex goddess.
 
H
owever
she fails to inspire.”

“Stop right now,” Mathew said.
 
“A man should not disparage his wife.”

Undeterred, John Henry said, “Someone like you might prefer
her languid disinterest.
 
Why don’t you
give her a try?”

While not a man to suffer from fits of temper, John Henry’s
remarks caused a
response
so intense
Mathew’s emotions took control.
 
Unaccustomed wrath surged through him at the insults to Callie.
 

Time slowed.
 
He
stepped forward and transferred his glass from his right hand to his left.
 
His knuckles clenched.
 
His right arm rose to arc through the air
until it hit John Henry’s jaw.
 
When his
fist landed, John Henry’s face registered surprise.
 
His head moved backward, followed by his
shoulders, his torso, his hips and his legs, and he fell
kerplunk
on
a
sturdy
wooden chair, bouncing off the arm and into the seat where he sat
stunned.
 

Mathew’s arm dropped to his side as he regarded John Henry
with a mixture of satisfaction and horror.
 
He belted the prick of a man with a robust right hook.
 
A little blood trickled from the corner of
John Henry’s mouth.
 

Time sped up again.
 
Steve jumped in front of Mathew, locking his arms to his sides.
 
Rick grabbed John Henry, pulled him to his
feet and hustled him into the house.
 
Steve remained with Mathew, regarding him sternly yet with respect when
he said.
 
“I think you should let Ivy
drive us home.
 
Give an apology to Sassy
on our way out.”

As they left, Mathew glanced back over his shoulder at
Callie
as she hastened after Rick and John
Henry.
 
When she peeked over at him with
a worried expression, a little smile curved the corners of her refined
lips.
 
No matter what the man said,
Mathew was disappointed in himself that his rage over the insults to Callie
hijacked his judgment.
 
Why did she stay
with the man?
 
A sweet, feminine woman
like Callie should be loved and protected, not disparaged.

Three hours later back at Spook Hills, the kitchen
overflowed with the tang of the homemade meatballs and spaghetti sauce Ivy
simmered in the kitchen.
 
Scenting the air
with an earthy essence, the fragrance of basil,
thyme
and oregano floated through to the living room where Steve and Mathew hovered
over a game of Scrabble.
 
The rat-tat-tat
of the heavy brass doorknocker interrupted their concentration.
 
Since they expected Lenny to join them that
evening, opening the door to discover Sassy and Rick
startled
Mathew.

“I am sorry,” he said
shamefacedly
.

“Don’t be.
 
I wanted
to belt the guy myself today and many times before,” Rick said, giving Mathew a
little mock tap on the jaw.
 
“Pompous,
drunken professor.
 
I crammed his stuff
in his suitcase and put him on a plane back to San Francisco.
 
He is not welcome at our home unless he
sobers up, apologizes to us and treats Callie right.
 
Little hope of his becoming a decent man.”

“Is Callie upset?” Mathew asked.

“About you?
 
Don’t
think so.
 
She may drop by with
Susannah.
 
She gave John Henry an
ultimatum to check int
o
rehab and to seek
counseling
.
 
She’s to go back in a week to check on him.”

“I’m not a man prone to irascibility.
 
The punch came out of I don’t know where,”
Mathew said shaking his head at himself, still puzzled by his uncharacteristic
behavior.

Sassy reached up, kissed him on the cheek and
whispered.
 
“It came from your heart,
making it lovely to see.”

They turned into the living room when Steve called out, “Hey
look who’s here!
 
Entertaining
get-together today.
 
We enjoyed the food,
wine
and company even with our bit of
drama.”

“The drama made the festivities extraordinary to us!” Rick
said with a satisfied grin as he turned and clapped Mathew on the shoulder.

Ivy came in from the kitchen, inviting them all to stay for
dinner as she wiped her hands on her bright red apron.
 
Mathew’s spirits lifted further when Callie arrived
with Susannah about a half hour later.
 
Callie’s face showed strain.
 
Nevertheless like her aunt, she kissed Mathew on the cheek and whispered
soft words of appreciation.
 
Right
afterward Lenny walked in from where he lived in a trailer near the barn.
 

Overhearing that Lenny liked to play backgammon, Susannah
led him to a small drop-leaf cherry table by the window set up with a leather
games board.
 
The late afternoon sun
streamed over them, but the fresh breezes flowing through the house kept the air
comfortable.
 
Susannah seemed
to trust
Lenny innately as the two of them
became engrossed in their game.
 
Her
little nine-year-old brow furrowed in a cute way when she assessed a move.
 
Crusty and grizzled as an old bobcat, Lenny
sat across from her more pleased than Mathew had ever seen him.

Shortly before seven Ivy came out of the kitchen, “Mathew,
will you take the dogs out for a walk?
 
They finished their suppers.”

“I’ll help,” Callie said, jumping up to go with him.
 
“What are their names?

“Cleo and Harry.”

As they stepped outside, Mathew went first with the corgis
pushing past him.
 
As had become his
habit since being spied on by the intruder the week before, he paused to survey
the surrounding hillsides before stepping aside to let Callie join him.
 
No additional signs of anyone watching him or
Spook Hills had turned up, but Mathew continued to act on the side of caution.

“What’s the trailer for?” Callie asked, pointing to the open
doors of the old barn.

“Lenny,” Mathew replied.
 
“He’s living out of a suitcase for a time, but wanted to be on his
own.
  
If he decides join us full-time at
Spook Hills, we’ll have to find more permanent housing for him.”

“How come he’s not in the house?”

Mathew shook his head, “Lenny is a bit of a loner.
 
Always has been.
 
He stayed with us for a night, but the next
day he wanted his own digs, such as they are.”

They walked out to head up to the little walnut grove where
Steve scheduled the contractor to begin work on the
tree house
he designed for Ivy.
 
On either side of the grassy path, the
neatly
planted
rows of grape vines bowed almost sensually along the contours of
the hilly landscape.
 
Each row and each
plant made Mathew proud.

“Callie, sorry for punching your husband.
 
He made derogatory statements about
you.
 
B
efore
I could stop myself, I knocked him over
into
a chair.”