Authors: Barbara Ellen Brink
“I saw him here again today in his
fancy car. I was worried about you so I asked Billie about him.” He didn’t want
to bring his sister into it, but he’d never been good at lying. “She told me
he’s Davy’s father.”
Margaret jumped up from the couch
and glared down at him. “How dare you? You blow into town and start tearing
into my life like you have a right. You don’t. I don’t care if you are Billie’s
brother. My personal life is not open to scrutiny.”
He stood up and faced her, wanting
to reach out and pull her close, but restrained himself. “This has nothing to
do with Billie. This is totally about us. You and me.” He took a step closer.
“I enjoy spending time with you and I’m attracted to you. I think if you admit
it to yourself—you’re attracted to me too. This two-year age difference
is not a breaking point. It’s not as if I’m an inexperienced frat boy trying to
bed an older woman. You’re twenty-five—not forty-five.”
She licked her lips, her gaze
riveted to his mouth. She moved in close and placed her hands flat against his
chest. Close enough to kiss, but a breath shy of actual contact. “Is this what
you want?” she asked softly. “Passion, excitement, the thrill of seduction?”
He pulled back and gently pushed
her hands away. He knew a test when he felt one. “Of course it’s what I want,”
he said, his voice thick with need. “What red-blooded man wouldn’t want you?
That’s not what I came for though.” He wanted to be absolutely truthful. She
needed to know where he stood. “You’ve made your point. I am inexperienced. In
relationships, in love, in life.” He shook his head. “But not anymore than you
are. Okay, you had sex with that guy and conceived a son, but were you in love
with him, or was it just teenage hormones raging out of control? I’ve had that
too. It wasn’t anything to write a memoir about.”
She turned away and moved out of
reach. Sitting on the edge of the piano bench, she crossed her legs and
released a quiet sigh. For just a moment he thought maybe she was giving him
the silent treatment, but then she started taking. “Agosto was twenty when I met
him. I was fifteen, going through a hell-bent rebellious stage. My parents were
no longer around and Handel was my keeper. He tried to do right by me, to make
sure I went to school and brushed my teeth and stayed away from bad influences,
but he was busy with law school and had no idea what went through a teenage
girl’s mind.” She made a self-deprecating sound and looked down at her hands
twisting in her lap. “I just wanted to escape my life. Agosto seemed like the
perfect channel.”
“Did you love him?”
She looked up. “I thought I did. I
was fifteen. Remember? But it didn’t matter, because to him I was just a fling,
a diversion to keep him from being bored while he was here. When I told him I
was pregnant, he accused me of …” she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“Doesn’t matter anymore. The short version—I was an American tramp he
could never take home to daddy. So he left without acknowledging his son and
now he’s returned—supposedly a more mature, responsible version of
himself—and wants to get to know Davy.” She fell silent, staring across
the room at the cold fireplace.
Adam didn’t know what to say. The
raw pain still evident in her voice, said it all. He picked up his guitar and
scooted to the edge of the couch. His fingers moved over the strings, holding,
strumming, plucking a bluesy tune from memory. He closed his eyes and played,
feeling the music vibrate through his fingers and fill his chest with the
familiar ache of sadness and loss. He moved on to something a little jazzier
and then riffed into a rendition of Heart’s
Crazy
on You.
The music tore through his fingers like a surge of electricity and
up his arms. He stopped abruptly, his hand muting the strings vibration.
When he looked up she was staring
at him like he had two heads and one of them had grown horns. “Wow,” she
drawled. “Wish I had a cigarette lighter, but this will have to do.” She stood
up, flipped open her cell phone and held it up, swaying to a silent beat.
Feeling embarrassed, he shook his
head and set his guitar against the books piled on the table. “Thanks. A
standing ovation from an audience of one. That’s probably a first.”
She smiled and snapped the phone
closed, laid it on the piano. “Not possible. I’m sure you’ve had many standing
ovations of one. Hasn’t your mother listened to you play?”
“She thinks I’m wasting my time.
Maybe she’s right.” He stood up and moved to the piano. She stepped back and
watched him play chopsticks with robotic flair. He finished and turned to face
her. “Music is a pipedream. Number crunching is a solid career. ”
She moved in so fast he didn’t have
time to anticipate. Her fingers sank into his hair and pulled him close. Her
lips were soft and supple and searching and he kissed her back with all the
urgency she gave. She smelled of shampoo and tasted of wine, and he couldn’t
get enough of her.
The sound of the garage door
opening outside was like a gunshot in a prison ward. She went stiff in his arms
and pulled away, smoothing her hair and straightening her top. He moved off to
stand at the bookcase and peruse the large collection of books and magazines.
He didn’t know if he looked innocent when Handel appeared in the doorway
moments later, but he felt less than honest.
“Hey you two. What’s up? Did I miss
all the fun?” Handel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his
forehead. “I hope you left me some food. I’m starved.”
Adam cleared his throat. “I s’pose
I should be going.” He turned and caught Margaret’s eye. Her cheeks were pinker
than they’d been a few minutes earlier.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” she
said, her voice slightly breathless. Slipping past her brother, she said over
her shoulder, “There’s leftovers in the fridge, Handel. It’s all yours.”
Outside, Margaret nervously picked
at a thumbnail, until Adam put his finger under her chin and lifted her gaze.
“You really haven’t dated since you were fifteen, have you?” he asked, knowing
the answer.
“I’ve dated,” she said, looking
away over his shoulder.
“Really? Who?”
“I’m not the kind of girl who
kisses and tells.” She met his eyes.
He pushed a stray strand of hair
away from her face and let his thumb gently caress her cheek. “Is that an
invitation,” he asked, even as he moved to capture her lips.
She kissed him back and finally
pulled away, breathless. “Don’t do that again,” she warned, her voice filled
with laughter.
“Why not?”
“I can’t breathe.”
He chuckled and pulled her close,
loving the feel of her in his arms, her hair brushing his face. They slowly
pulled apart and he opened the car door and climbed inside.
“Goodnight, music man.”
“Night, Meg.”
Out on the highway, he remembered
that he left his guitar behind. And smiled at the thought of a sweet reunion
concert.
Agosto paced in his hotel suite,
intermittently stopping to stare out the window. Sailboats skimmed the blue
waters of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge stretched in the distance. But he
couldn’t really enjoy it. His plans were not coming together as quickly as he’d
hoped and loose ends always made him nervous.
He knew Handel would be a problem.
The man hated him. That’s why finding an opportunity to speak with Margaret
alone had been his first move. And he’d done a fabulous job of showing his
vulnerable side. He stopped at the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt,
brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. He smiled at his reflection. She was
still not immune to his charm.
At first, she appeared
impenetrable, hardened from past experience. But he knew American women and
what made them tick. He’d said,
please
,
and her reserve crumbled like damaged, pocked concrete. He could see it in her
eyes, those blue depths that always gave away her feelings no matter how hard
she tried to hide them.
He glanced at his watch. It had
been two days. Why hadn’t she called? Had Handel convinced her otherwise? His
sources had informed him that Handel Parker was a formidable attorney in the
courtroom, that he could probably convince a jury that Charles Manson was
innocent if he tried. But he was Margaret’s brother, not her attorney, and from
what he remembered, she didn’t like to be told what to do—especially by
men.
His only option was to return to
the Napa Valley and see this through personally. If she wouldn’t initiate a
meeting between him and his son, then he would just have to manage one himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel desk.
“This is Agosto Salvatore. Please
have my car brought round and have someone come and collect my bag in ten
minutes.”
He opened the closet and found his
suitcase, threw it on the rumpled bed and began filling it with clothes from
the armoire. He heard the water shut off in the shower and a minute later the
door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and a tall, thin woman wearing one of
the hotel’s plush oversized robes. Strands of damp hair framed a face worthy of
the ten-o’clock news. “Agosto,” she said, her smooth brow wrinkling
unattractively, “what are you doing?”
“Checking out.” He turned to survey
the closet, chose two pair of shoes and a suit, zipped them into a suit bag. He
looked up and she was still staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“You said we were going to the
track and then tonight you’d take me out for dinner,” she said, tugging the
belt of the robe tighter. “What’s going on?”
“Get dressed and go home. I don’t
need you anymore.” He snapped the suitcase latches closed and moved around her
to get his things from the bathroom vanity.
She grabbed his arm. “Why are you
doing this? I thought we had something…” her voice trailed off as she met his
eyes, hard with impatience.
“We did. Now it’s over.” He pulled
away and gathered his toiletries.
A knock at the door came sooner
than he’d expected. He went to open it and saw that his reporter lady had
already managed to throw her clothes on and yank the door open for the skinny
bellboy. She slung her purse over her shoulder and moved quickly past him out
into the hall. Agosto gestured toward the bags waiting on the bed. While the
bellboy positioned them on his trolley, he followed her into the hallway.
“Thank you, Jane Goodall. I had a
lovely time. Perhaps when I’m in town again…”
She flipped him her middle finger
and stepped into the elevator.
He laughed softly and shook his
head. American women.
The bellboy trailed him into the
hall and stood attentively.
“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.
You can put those in the trunk of my car.”
“Yes sir.”
Inside the room, he dialed his
assistant, explained where he was going and demanded everything would be ready
when he got there. Handel might think he could control things for Margaret,
protect her from the big bad wolf, but he’d just made the wolf very hungry.
*****
“We need goats?” Billie repeated
blankly. “Nubian goats? Whatever for?”
Margaret opened the folder she
brought to the meeting and pulled out a magazine article she’d read. Her
Internet research had also reinforced the idea in her mind. Goats could be
tethered and allowed to feed on the weeds of the vineyard, cutting back even
more the use of pesticides and herbicides. They already had the special tractor
attachment Jack purchased before he died that gently moved between the vines,
tilling the weeds back into the soil. The goats would take care of the weeds in
between tilling.
Billie perused the article before
handing it back, her brows lifted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I think they would completely
negate our need of weed sprays, and being a greener business would put us in a
position to…”
Billie cut her off. “It was a joke.
Goats. Kids. Kidding. Get it?”
Sally, sitting across the
conference table typing notes on her laptop, snorted. “If you have to explain
it, it’s not funny, boss.”
Billie shot Sally a scathing look,
then turned to Margaret. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at your idea. I think it’s
great. Just trying to bring a little levity into our day.
Some
people don’t know humor when they hear it.”
“Some people don’t know humor,”
Sally muttered.
“Anyway, I’m definitely jumping on
the green bandwagon. I don’t think we’ll survive long in California if we
don’t. Regulations seem to be on everything around here. So, if goats will help
save the planet while weeding the vineyard, I’m all for it. Just make sure you
name one of them
Sally
.”
“Hey, I take offense at that!”
Margaret laughed at Sally’s
supposed outrage. She’d known her long enough to know that she’d probably be
proud to have a goat named after her. “Fine with me. I’ll look into buying
them. You can name them.”
Billie stood up and stretched.
“We’ve tackled enough new business for now. I love your idea of wineblending.
We have three varieties, two going back decades, and yet as far as I know Jack
always harvested and crushed them separately. If we could come up with an old
family wine recipe…wouldn’t that be awesome? People like drinking a bit of
history. It gives the wine respectability.”
Sally broke out singing,
“R-e-s-p-e-c-t…” and carried her computer from the conference room, swaying to
the beat.
Margaret picked up her folder. “You
know, my grandfather used an old wineblending recipe when he owned the winery.
I think he got it from the previous owners. I know it must go way back before
the property split. I remember my father talking about the formula when I was
little.”
“Before the property split?” Billie
pushed her chair in and leaned her arms on the back. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know?” She wondered how
Handel could have left that little tidbit out of their conversations for the
past eighteens months and whether he did it to protect her. He knew how much
she loved the vineyard. But he couldn’t possibly think Billie would try to take
it from them. “Our three acres used to be part of the winery land. When my
grandfather sold out, he managed to keep a plot for his family. My small
vineyard contains some of the original vines from the forties.”
“And you’ve been keeping that all
to yourself?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know it was
a secret. In fact, I’m sure the winery has records of the sale. There was some
dispute about the acres we kept, but when Jack bought the winery, he let it go.
He thought we’d been through enough I guess, without digging up ancient
boundary lines and taking us to court over them.”
Billie worried her bottom lip.
“Jack did have a soft side for the underdog.”
“I guess.” Margaret moved toward
the door. “I know I’ve just joined the team, but thanks for giving me the
chance to prove myself. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. You’ve already
proven you know the winery business. Fredrickson’s won’t fail or succeed
because of one person. It’s like you said—we’re a team.” Billie followed
her out the door and into the hallway. She linked arms with her as they strolled
toward the front office. “By the way, what in the world did you do to my
brother last night?”
Margaret cut a glance at her soon
to be sister-in-law. “Do?” she blew out a nervous laugh and shrugged.
“Nothing.”
“Not what I heard.” Billie led her
past the office and out the front door, mercifully out of Sally’s bionic
hearing. She turned to face her, hands on narrow hips. “He raved about your
cooking. To hear him tell it, you are the grill queen of California.”
Margaret could feel heat flush her
cheeks.
“He also said you make the best
wine he’s ever had. Which of course cinched the deal to hire you as our chief
winemaker.” She paused. “But I don’t think it was the food or wine that made
him come home singing,
This Kiss
. He
doesn’t even like country music.”
“He did not!” Margaret knew her
face was beet red. She looked away. “ It was stupid. He’s so young.”
“Margaret, he’s only two years
younger than you. And he really likes you. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Enjoy it.”
“I like him too. It’s just that I
come with excess baggage. Not that I consider Davy that way, but all the stuff
that comes with having a child—including the father who recently showed
up on my doorstep.”
“I heard about that. What are you
going to do?” Billie asked.
“I’ve gone over it in my mind a
thousand times since I heard he was here. My first reaction was to deny him
access to Davy. He didn’t deserve it. For the past nine years he was the
invisible father—never reached out to his son, wouldn’t even acknowledge
he was his son. Why now?” She released a sigh. “But then he came to see me
yesterday. He seemed different, less cocky, maybe a little remorseful for the
way he ran off.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Billie reached out and gave her arm
a gentle squeeze. “Well, call me when you do. I’m licensed to practice in
California now. Family law is what I know. I dealt mostly with divorce,
restraining orders against abusive husbands, that kind of thing, but I had a
few child custody cases. They can be brutal. Believe me, you need a good
lawyer. I know your brother probably thinks he can handle it, but he’s much too
close to the situation and it’s not his specialty. So, don’t hesitate to ask
for help.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes welled with
tears and she gave Billie a quick hug. “I’ll let you know.”
*****
The telephone was ringing when she
opened the door. The machine picked up before she could get to it. The caller
I.D. number wasn’t familiar, so she turned away and went to the refrigerator to
see what to make for dinner. The prerecorded message played, followed by the
beep.
“Hello, Margaret.” Agosto’s voice
reverberated through the tiny speaker. She froze. “I didn’t hear from you, so I
decided to forge ahead. Davy and I are going to the park to play soccer. I’ll
bring him home around five-thirty. Talk to you then.”
She slammed the door of the
refrigerator shut and flew to the machine, lifted the receiver, “Agosto!” she
yelled, but he’d already hung up. The dial tone droned like an angry bee. She
dropped the phone, grabbed her keys from the table where she’d tossed them
earlier and ran out to her car.
She heard the bus coming up the
highway. Maybe Agosto was playing with her. Maybe he meant he’d pick up Davy
and take him to the park to play soccer after he got off the bus. He couldn’t
have taken Davy from school. Wouldn’t the teachers, the bus driver, someone,
stop him, a stranger, from taking her son without permission?
She broke into a jog and got to the
end of the driveway before the bus arrived. The engine didn’t sound as though
it were slowing down. Mr. Hadley nodded hello as he drove by, but when she
waved her arms for him to stop, he didn’t seem to notice.
Sweat broke out on her upper lip
and she could feel blood pounding loudly in her ears. Davy was not on the bus.
Agosto had taken him. Where? She ran back toward the house. He said they were
going to the park to play soccer, but how could she know for sure he was
telling the truth? And which park? The one by Davy’s school?
She rubbed her hands over her face
and tried to think. This couldn’t be happening. Davy was taught never to get
into a car with a stranger. Why would he go with Agosto? He’d never met him or
even seen a picture of him. She turned and ran back to the car, climbed in and
started the engine, then shut it off. Where would she go?
Handel would know what to do. He
always knew what to do. She jerked the door open and ran back into the house to
retrieve her cell phone. She dumped her purse out on the table before she found
it in the side pocket, pushed Handel’s quick dial number and waited, biting her
lip and praying Davy was all right.
“Margaret?”
“Handel, he took him! He took
Davy!” She began to sob uncontrollably. She heard him say something but
couldn’t understand.
“Margaret!” Handel finally shouted
into the phone. “Who took Davy? Get a hold of yourself and tell me what’s going
on. I can’t help if you don’t…”
“Agosto,” she managed to say, his
name like a curse word grating on her tongue. She wiped at her face with the
sleeve of her t-shirt, stammering an explanation. “He called to say he took
Davy from school. To play soccer. Said they were going to a park. That he’d
bring him home at 5:30.” She sniffed and tried to breathe, but her chest hurt
at the simple action. Was she having a heart attack or was the thought of life
without Davy so horrendous to cause her heart to physically ache?