Entangled (12 page)

“Find something interesting?” Handel appeared
at my side again and for some strange reason his presence felt
reassuring.

I set the bottle on the table and stuck my
hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “I guess this is the wine my
uncle and I made. The bottle’s dated and numbered.”

Handel tilted it back to read the label
better. “It says number 24 of 25. He must have expected his wine to
be worth a lot someday.” He grinned. “Well, there you have it. Your
fortune is made. At a million dollars a bottle you’ve got yourself
quite a little nest egg down here.”

I sighed, my mood suddenly changing to
resignation. I don’t know what I expected to find in Uncle Jack’s
lair, but now with the simple truth staring me in the face I could
stop imagining. “I won’t hold my breath - but you never know. Maybe
it is worth something.” I waved a hand at the full racks along the
wall under the counter. “There has to be at least three hundred
bottles under there. Maybe he really did hit upon a wine to
revolutionize the world.”

“Well, we won’t know until we try it,” Handel
said. He reached under the counter and randomly chose two bottles
from different years, and set them beside the first. “You don’t
have a corkscrew on you, do you?”

I shook my head, a small smile curving my
lips. “Sorry, haven’t carried a corkscrew in years.”

“This place is kind of creepy, don’t you
think?” He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting a spook to
pop up from between the old crates and barrels stacked in the
corner.

“Oh, I don’t know. It has a special ambiance.
Sort of pre-American Revolution. If I added some shag carpet, a
pool table, and a disco ball, I’m sure you’d be right at home.”

I picked up one of the bottles and started
for the door, eager to be out of here as much, if not more, than
Handel was. He grabbed the other two bottles and followed, managing
to pull the string for the light and swing the door closed before
trudging up the stairs behind me.

The bright fluorescent lights of the winery
seemed welcoming as I reached the open door at the head of the
stairs. After the intense quiet of the cellar I was happy to hear
water dripping, the electric hum of generators, and the faraway
sound of a train whistle. Life was meant to be spent above ground,
and I wondered why Uncle Jack had spent so much of his below.

Handel breathed a sigh of relief behind me as
he emerged from the stairwell. “Ahh! Fresh air.”

I pulled the key from my pocket and locked
the door again, feeling a silly satisfaction in knowing I
controlled the comings and goings to my wine cellar.

“Don’t want anyone to know about your secret
treasure, huh?”

“Something like that.”

After securing the building once again for
the night, we walked back to the house. I held the screen door
open, but he hung back. “I better take off. I’ve got to be in court
in the morning. Still have a bit of preparation to do.” He held the
bottles toward me. “Give me a rain check?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to hide my
disappointment. I tucked the bottles under my arms and went inside,
kicking the door shut with my foot. A minute later I heard the
sound of Handel’s car retreating down the driveway.

Drinking alone was not something I wanted to
get in the habit of doing but I’d already waited well past the
legal drinking age to taste the wine I’d made, albeit
subconsciously, and I didn’t think I could wait any longer. I lined
the bottles up on the kitchen table and rummaged through the
drawers for a corkscrew.

My interest lay entirely with the bottle of
wine my uncle and I made together. I popped the cork and let it
breathe as I selected a water glass from the cupboard. Any crystal
goblets Uncle Jack once owned had obviously gone the way of the
furniture. With the opened bottle and glass in hand, I wandered
back to the bedroom. Perhaps this wine would serve two purposes
tonight, to tell me whether or not I had any business in the
winemaking world and to help me sleep without dreaming.

I climbed up on the tall bed and stretched
out, leaning back against a stack of pillows as I poured the wine
into my glass. Perhaps once a deep burgundy, the color had faded
over the years to a tawny brown. I swirled the liquid lightly
around the sides of the glass to let the alcohol evaporate and
breathed in the heady bouquet. A nutty, toasty sensation was
followed with the underlying hint of something floral. Roses
perhaps. I closed my eyes and took a sip, letting it linger on my
tongue. The wine had mellowed to a very enjoyable full-bodied
weightiness. I smiled as I drained the glass. Perhaps my uncle had
made a wine to revolutionize the world. At least my small corner of
the world. Feeling more relaxed and tired enough to sleep through
the night, I poured myself another glass and got up to change into
pajamas.

“Wait a minute.” I stared at my reflection in
the bathroom mirror, my brows knit in question. I had all kinds of
information bubbling around in my head that wasn’t there ten
minutes ago. How tannins can cause a young wine to taste bitter.
Why a fruity wine is not necessarily sweet, and how the things
around the vineyard and in the soil give the wine so many extra
qualities, tastes, and smells. Sure, I could have read these things
somewhere, but I didn’t think so.

A voice from the past played in my head.
“Wine is the nectar of God, Princess. And we are God’s
winemakers. Creators of something that will stand the test of
time.”
Who else but Uncle Jack would have said such a thing to
an eight-year-old child? A little over-zealous perhaps, but
certainly excited to pass on the family business secrets.

In a pink tank top and cotton shorts, I
climbed back up onto the bed and poured a third glass. I relaxed my
head against the pillows and closed my eyes, trying to remember
something else from that week. Images of my recent visit to the
cellar swirled together with images from a past I thought was long
gone.

The cellar was lit with a naked bulb, a
glowing eye that cast enough light around the room to accentuate
the shadows still lurking in the corners and under things. A round
clock hung on the wall above my head, its steady ticking a
testament to life going on above ground. Dark, sun-ripened grapes
filled a crate on the countertop. I lifted a cluster and brought it
to my nose, breathing in the pungently sweet aroma. The feel of the
plump orbs in my hands was tantalizing, heady, like embarking on a
new adventure. I squeezed one between my fingers and let the juice
run down my hand and wind its way around my skinny arm until it
dripped on the stone floor.

“Wine is the nectar of God, Princess,” I
heard my uncle say, and I turned to meet his smiling gaze across
the room where he stood with an empty bottle held out in each hand.
“And we are God’s winemakers. Creators of something that will stand
the test of time.” He laughed, his voice floating to me on the
edges of my consciousness. “You and I will fill these bottles with
a wine that will make the world beg for more!”

The sound of breaking glass pulled me from my
stupor. I jerked upright and looked wildly about the room. I was
alone, and the lamp was still shining brightly. I looked down and
expelled a sharp breath. The glass I’d been holding had fallen and
hit the bedside table, shattering with the impact. The rest of the
wine had sloshed down the side of the table, and spattered the
bedspread and carpet.

“Damn,” I muttered as I climbed from the bed
and made my way slowly to the bathroom for a damp towel. After
wiping up the mess the best I could, I covered the spot with a dry
towel and climbed back in bed. My eyes were heavy and I felt a
comfortable weariness descend upon me, seeping into my brain and
draining down to my toes. I found the movement of my arm to turn
off the lamp a nearly impossible task, but as I snuggled deeper
into the blankets my last waking thought was that I had remembered
something. Something important. But I couldn’t bring myself to
ponder it long enough to recall what it was.

~~~

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he doorbell rang. I
lay with my eyes closed, not yet ready to face the world or whoever
was outside on the front steps. The chime sounded again and then
someone decided to try the old-fashioned version of asking for
admittance, pounding on the door with a fist.

I groaned and pushed the blankets back, my
tolerance for banging sounds at an all time low. Daylight streamed
between the blinds and the room seemed stuffy when I slipped out of
bed and hit the floor with a soft thud, twisting my ankle.

“Ouch!”

I limped through the house, favoring my right
leg, as the doorbell sounded once again. “All right already!”

The steps were unoccupied when I yanked open
the door and squinted into the bright sun. I looked around,
expelled an exasperated breath, and finally pushed the door closed
hard enough to make the pane of glass rattle. I stood there for a
minute, wondering if I was going crazy, when the sound of knocking
started on the back door.

By the time I limped to the kitchen and
unlocked the door my uninvited guest was already running across the
flagstones toward the tire swing. The sight of Handel’s nephew
brightened my mood and I watched him stuff his upper body through
the tire and begin to swing.

“Hey, Davy!” I called when he glanced my way.
“Were you looking for me?”

He grinned and swung higher. “You sure sleep
a long time.”

I grimaced. “Not as long as I would have if
you hadn’t woke me up.”

He showed no remorse but continued to climb
higher, his legs pumping and his blonde hair lifting with the
breeze each time he swung forward. I watched him for a minute, then
went back in and shut the door. Unaccustomed to children and their
individual quirks, I had no idea what he wanted from me. Perhaps
just to see if I was awake.

After starting the coffee maker I went to
take a quick shower and change. Fifteen minutes later, wearing
jeans and a tank top, my hair pulled back into a damp ponytail, I
strolled into the kitchen and found Davy sitting at the table with
a cup of my coffee, eating a piece of toast slathered with a half
inch of peanut butter.

“What are you doing drinking coffee, kid?
Don’t you know it’ll turn your feet black?” I asked as I poured
myself a cup.

He smirked and shook his head. “Your feet
aren’t black,” he said with a mouthful of toast.

“Nope.” I looked down at my bare feet and
wiggled my toes. “But I’m an adult. Only kid’s feet turn black. You
have to be over twenty-one to drink java safely. Didn’t your mother
tell you?”

He bit at his lower lip before pushing the
coffee cup to the middle of the table. “Do ya got any milk?” he
asked, his face a mask of seriousness.

I nodded and went to the refrigerator. I’d
purchased a few items the day before at the little gas &
grocery a mile down the road, half a gallon of fat-free milk, corn
flakes, coffee, bread, and peanut butter; the staples of life.

After rinsing out his cup and refilling it
with milk, I sat across from him at the table and watched him eat
his toast. He licked a trail through the peanut butter with his
tongue before taking another bite, then set it down to take a
drink.

“So,” I said, raising one eyebrow, “do you
make a habit of coming in and having breakfast in other peoples
homes?”

He drained his cup before shaking his head.
“Just at Jack’s house. He said I could come in anytime.”

“Really? Well, did you know this house is
mine now? That makes Uncle Jack’s invitation obsolete. If you know
a good criminal lawyer, you might want to call him. I could have
you arrested for breaking and entering.”

His eyebrows shot up and his eyes went wide,
sudden panic filling his face. “You’re not going to tell my mom,
are ya? You can call Uncle Handel. He’s a lawyer.”

Guilt washed over me. I was not adept at
handling children, but I certainly hadn’t intended to scare him to
death. I reached out and patted his hand. “It’s all right. I was
just kidding. I wouldn’t really have you arrested. Besides, I’m
glad you dropped by for breakfast. Now we have the opportunity to
get to know one another better.”

He didn’t respond other than to bite at his
bottom lip, and I had the feeling he wasn’t so sure he wanted to
get to know me.

I picked up my cup and took a sip. “What did
you and Jack talk about when you came for breakfast?” I asked,
trying to break the newly formed ice.

The boy could certainly win a stare down with
those wide blue eyes, nearly pupiless in the dim light of the
kitchen. He never blinked, his hands still on the edge of the
table, his upper teeth pressed into the soft skin of his bottom
lip, as though in a trance.

“Don’t want to tell me?” I shrugged. “Fine. I
can live with that. Just thought maybe he shared his winemaking
secrets with you. When I was a little girl he shared a few with me.
We made a special wine together one summer when I was here for a
visit.”

The glacial blue of his eyes seemed to melt
and he blinked. “He told me,” he said, crossing his arms and
leaning back on the legs of his chair, a small version of his uncle
Handel. I hoped he didn’t fall as well. He’d probably hold that
against me too.

“Is that right? He mentioned me?”

He nodded and nearly lost his balance, but
quickly set the chair down and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“He said you were a fast learner for a girl.”

“Oh really. For a girl, huh?”

“Uh huh. He talked about you a lot.”

I frowned down at the scarred tabletop.
Sometimes loneliness was a cruel master. Had Uncle Jack obsessed
over me because he never had a family of his own? I drained the
coffee in my cup and stood up. “Okay, so what’s the plan for the
day?”