Entangled (2 page)

“Billie, why do you always turn everything
around that I say?”

I patted her arm and grinned. “Because it’s
fun.”

She lined her lips with a darker shade of
mauve. “I just meant that he was different. Exciting in a romantic
way. He traveled to places most folks would be afraid to set foot
in. He tried new things, wasn’t afraid of taking a chance.” Her
voice dwindled and she sat back against the seat, releasing a quiet
sigh. “James once asked me if I was in love with Jack,” she
confessed.

Now it was my turn to be aghast.
“Mother!”

She shrugged her shoulders and laughed
lightly. “I guess maybe I was once.” She met my horrified gaze and
patted my cheek. “A long time ago. But only for a minute. I fell
too much in love with your father for it to last.”

As she stuffed her cosmetics back into her
carry on bag, I watched her, and realized how little I really knew
about my own parents. She could be loving, sometimes to the point
of suffocating, but other than as my mother I didn’t really know
much about her. Did she kiss on the first date when she was a girl,
smoke cigarettes in the woods, or run on the track team at school?
Was she popular? Would she rather run in the rain or build a
snowman? And did she and my father have the kind of love that would
last, or was his death a blessing in disguise?

A man in a chauffeur cap met us at the gate.
He held a sign with
Fredrickson
in big black letters. “I’m
Wilhelmina Fredrickson,” I said.

After collecting our luggage, he led us to a
limousine and opened the door. “Here we are, ladies.”

I let my mother climb in first and then
followed. A man waited inside, his dark suit blending into the
shadows. He smiled, his teeth white against tanned skin. “Hello.
I’m Handel Parker,” he said.

I don’t know if it was the surprise of the
man being the exact opposite of what I’d expected, (old, stout,
balding, and short), or the instant attraction I felt when he took
my hand, but I nearly fell into his lap as the limo edged into
traffic.

“Sorry,” I breathed as I caught my balance
and sat firmly next to my mother, opposite Handel Parker.

“It’s quite all right,” he murmured, turning
to answer the phone that blinked beside him. “Excuse me.”

His quiet conversation went on for five
minutes or more while we watched San Francisco roll past our
window. We were headed toward the Napa Valley, wine country.

“Sorry about that.” He replaced the phone and
sat back, his attention complete on his guests now. I thought I
detected a thread of mistrust laced with curiosity in his gaze.
“When’s the last time you visited this part of the country?” he
asked.

I hadn’t been out of Minneapolis except to
attend law school in Chicago, never taking the time for a real
vacation. “I’ve never been to California.”

A slight look of surprise crossed his face
before he resumed the bland lawyer persona. “Really?”

“Sure you have, honey. You just don’t
remember,” my mother interjected. She patted my knee as though I
were still a small child. “We came here to visit Jack when you were
six or seven. No — actually, you were closer to eight. I was
full-blown pregnant with Adam on that trip. I’m surprised they
allowed me on the plane.”

Handel Parker didn’t ask any questions, but
apparently he showed a glimmer of interest that only my mother
picked up on. She continued with her story, reminiscing about the
past with so much vibrancy I began to suspect she really did have
feelings for my father’s older brother.

“My children are nine years apart,” she
explained. “Just when you get used to the idea that your child is
in school and growing up, along come diapers and late-night
feedings. Jack never met my son Adam, but he bonded with Billie
instantaneously on that trip. Obviously, more than anyone knew,”
she said with a slight shake of her head. Her salon perfect hair
never moved. “Jack and Billie were both early risers and each
morning they went out to the winery where he let her explore, and
explained the wine making process to her.”

I felt uncomfortable under the spotlight so I
chewed at my bottom lip, and stared out the window, distancing
myself from the conversation with inattention. I had no memory of
that time or Uncle Jack, and yet I had been eight years old. How
was that possible?

The countryside rushed past without me really
seeing it, my thoughts turned inward, struggling to dredge up
something from that time to call my own. Mother’s memories were
foreign to me, a life apart from who I now was.

Handel Parker unbuttoned his suit coat and
clasped his hands loosely in his lap. My gaze strayed from the
window to his face. He had a firm chin, full lips, and deep set
eyes. His blonde hair grew thick and curled up along the collar of
his dress shirt, a good month past due for a trim. Definitely not
as conservative as most lawyers I knew.

“So how long were you here for that specific
visit?” he asked my mother. His voice was modulated, trained to
sooth clients and convince juries of his version of the truth, no
doubt.

I glanced her way, curious myself since I had
no memory of the events.

She smoothed one eyebrow as she had a habit
of doing when thinking. “Just under three weeks. As I recollect,
James planned for a month, but he suddenly got a call from the
office and we had to leave that very day. There was an emergency of
some kind.” She reached out and patted my arm. “Funny thing though.
Billie didn’t even throw a fit like I thought she would. After all
the fun she’d been having, working with her Uncle Jack, and
learning new things, she was thoroughly ready to go home.”

“I suppose Jack was disappointed,” Handel
said, ever the perfect host, keeping the conversation from lagging.
He held my gaze as my mother opened her purse to search for a mint.
“He must have felt lonely after having a family around.”

Mother looked up, her brow wrinkled in
thought. “I don’t really know. Jack was off somewhere when James
got the call and we had to leave before he returned.”

“How strange.” If I hadn’t been looking
directly at him I wouldn’t have caught the flash of cynicism that
crossed Handel’s face, immediately replaced with a polite smile as
he shook his head. “But it sounds like Jack. Always the perfect
host. He might have forty people scheduled for a wine tasting and
he’d just disappear. If it weren’t for the terrific staff, the
place would be bankrupt by now.”

I watched his eyes light up when he spoke of
Jack and the winery, and wondered what their relationship entailed
other than attorney/client. Were they friends, or just
acquaintances? “How long did you know Jack?” I asked.

He pushed the hair back from his forehead.
“As long as I can remember. He and my father were friends since
high school. My folks worked for the previous owner of the winery
and then my father continued to work for Jack when he purchased it.
I must have been about ten when I started doing odd jobs around the
place. As a teenager I helped harvest the grapes. After I graduated
from law school Jack insisted that I be his personal attorney,
although I specialize in criminal law.”

“You worked only for Jack?”

He raised one brow, a look that would be
considered condescending without the smile that accompanied it. “Of
course not. Jack wasn’t that well off. He couldn’t afford to hire
me full-time. I agreed to take care of any legal matters for him
when and if they came up. After all, he helped pay my way through
college.”

“Well, wasn’t that nice,” Mother said. “I
knew Jack was a philanthropist at heart.”

Handel Parker nodded slowly, his expression
indecipherable. “Yes, he was.”

*****

Rows of vines in neat symmetrical lines
stretched as far as the eye could see, rolling with the hills and
dells, parting smoothly to encircle a cluster of olive trees left
standing guard like gnarled, elderly, gentlemen keeping watch over
the tender grapes. A neighbor’s vineyards butted up to Jack’s, the
lines running in the opposite direction, and according to Handel,
Fredrickson’s biggest competitor.

“New winery’s are spreading all over the
country,” Handel informed us as we slowed to turn into the long
gravel driveway.

“I read something about that,” I said.
“Didn’t the number of registered winery’s double in the past couple
of years? Last year over 600 permits were issued. Wine is becoming
the fastest growing agriculture in America. I have a friend from
college who lives in Washington State. She said wineries are
popping up all over there too.”

Handel’s look of surprise at my knowledge
warmed my heart. For some reason he didn’t seem to like me very
much and I enjoyed the thought of besting him at something. We were
both attorneys, and maybe that accounted for the competitive streak
in me. But the man was obviously jealous I’d inherited Uncle Jack’s
holdings. Had he expected them for himself?

“Yes,” he said, buttoning his jacket in
anticipation of our arrival. “They’ve spread along the entire West
coast, as well as Virginia, the Carolinas, and any other state
conducive to growing grapes. In fact, I believe Minnesota has a few
vineyards as well.”

I opened my mouth to expound once more from
my well of winemaking knowledge, but my mother laid a hand lightly
on my arm and squeezed, a warning to
save it
. She knew from
experience between my brother and myself that I wouldn’t quit until
I had the last word, something I’d failed to grow out of. I
expelled a frustrated breath and watched as the buildings came into
view.

According to Handel, the house had been
rebuilt in the fifties after the original was destroyed by fire.
The owners at that time decided to go with brick to save themselves
another heartache. Spreading out like a child’s Lego creation with
one addition after another, it appeared a living, growing, entity.
The brick was the palest pink, shimmering in the sun like a
watercolor painting. The outlying buildings, storage sheds, barn,
and winery were painted white with black trim, in sharp contrast to
the deep cerulean California sky, and rather modern when compared
to the neighboring wineries with their monastic style
buildings.

The limo pulled up to the house and stopped
behind a red Porsche. The chauffeur opened the back door for us
before emptying the trunk of our luggage. I climbed out first and
stood looking around, my gaze resting briefly on each building as
though memories would suddenly start flooding back and I would
remember that summer with the clarity Mother seemed to have. But
nothing looked remotely familiar.

Handel took Mother’s arm and walked with her
up to the house, not even waiting to see if I would follow. I
glanced back at the limo, but the driver had already climbed in and
was pulling away. There were two pickups parked across the yard in
the shade of a huge, oak tree and I caught a glimpse of someone
watching from the shadowed doorway of the winery. I shivered in
spite of the warm rays of the afternoon sun, and turned toward the
house.

Handel held the door for me and I stepped
into the coolness of the darkened entryway. Bells of recognition
still had not started ringing inside my head and I wondered if they
ever would. Obviously, those weeks of my childhood had not been as
remarkable as Mother made them out to be.

Handel led us down a hallway to a large room,
cavernous in its simplicity. A single chair sat close to the brick
fireplace, a piece of stray furniture lost and alone. An old,
brown, leather couch and end table were pushed close against a far
wall, as though someone had cleared the floor for a dance. However,
the walls were not empty; paintings filled with bright splashes of
color adorned them like jewelry on a naked woman.

Mother stopped in the middle of the room and
gazed around, her eyes wide with something akin to shock. “What in
the world happened to Jack’s beautiful furniture?” she asked. “I
remember he had wonderful pieces that he picked up all over the
world.”

Handel paused in his guided tour, his eyes
narrowing as he looked around, as though just noticing the bareness
of the room. “Oh — well, Jack gave it away,” he said with a slight
shrug. He met my look of incredulity and I swear there was
resentment in his gaze. My initial attraction to the man was
quickly fading. “I was surprised when he willed everything to you.
I thought he’d have the place sold and give the money to those in
need or designate shares to all of the employees. He had a heart as
big as anyone I’ve ever known.”

Something about that statement made my
stomach turn, but I didn’t know if it was Handel’s attitude toward
me or my own sense of justice. I knew that inheritance didn’t
necessarily have anything to do with deserving. Lazy, worthless,
children inherited their hard-working parents’ fortunes everyday
just because they had matching DNA. I certainly didn’t feel that I
deserved my uncle’s money, but he had made the decision to leave it
to me of his own free will.

I tore my gaze from Handel’s accusing one and
fixed my eyes on the huge painting above the fireplace mantel.
Streaks and wild dabs of paint adorned the canvas like a food fight
gone creatively abstract. I imagined anger rather than fun emanated
from the framed art. For some reason it frightened me, and I no
longer wanted to be in the same room.

“I would like to take a tour of the winery if
you have time to show us around before we settle in a hotel for the
night,” I said. My voice seemed over loud in the hollow space and I
felt another headache coming on.

“I’m sure that can be arranged, but aren’t
you planning on staying in the house while you’re here? I had rooms
prepared for you.” He spread his hands as though in supplication.
“It is your property now.”