Entangled (32 page)

“Did she ever spend time at the winery?” I
waited expectantly, my hands gripping the edge of the desk behind
me as I fought the urge to purge my soul and tell him what I knew.
Sarah had endured the same nightmare as I; only she didn’t live to
overcome it. But a father shouldn’t have to hear such a thing,
especially since there was nothing he could do.

Charlie glanced up sharply. “Yeah, she did. I
brought her with me a couple times when she didn’t have school. She
wanted to see where I worked.” He breathed heavily through his
nose, as though emotion weighted his chest. “The next time I asked
if she wanted to come, she started crying and begged me not to make
her.” He cleared his throat and sniffed. “My wife started acting as
if I’d done something wrong. She accused me of horrible things and
eventually filed for divorce. Alexandria sided with her mother and
refused to speak with me after Sarah’s death.”

“That’s terrible.” I shook my head, my heart
going out to the man. He’d lost everything. “And Jack? Where does
he fit in?” I asked, trying to hide my impatience.

Charlie stared down at the ripped canvas, his
mouth set into a grim line. “I don’t have any proof about the man
in the mask, but Jack treated Sarah real special that day she came
to the winery, taking her on a personal tour while I worked.” He
drew a shaky breath and blew it out through his mouth as though
expelling years of bitterness. “After Sarah died, he came around
befriending my family and asking if he could help out. Said he
wanted to set up a college fund for Alex in her sister’s name. I
suspected something wasn’t right about his request, like he was
paying off a debt. But my wife and Alex let him into their lives
with open arms, and pushed me out. Shortly after that, he moved me
to the position of manager,” he said, a wry twist to his lips. He
bent and lifted the garbage, then headed out the door. “I’ll burn
this in the barrel out back,” he said, sounding quite pleased at
the prospect.

“Thank you, Charlie,” I called after him.

I shut the door and turned toward the empty
wall behind my desk. Jack’s face was gone, but in my mind’s eye I
could still see the faces of every one of those girls staring back
at me, looking for justice, release from the past, and hope for the
future. Sarah’s hope was gone but perhaps the others were still out
there searching.

*****

When I slipped in the back door of the house,
I immediately knew something was wrong. The teakettle was whistling
fiercely on the stovetop, steam pouring from the spout. I heard
something clatter to the floor in the other room, followed by
Mother’s loud groan of disapproval. I smiled and turned off the
burner; glad it wasn’t me going on a blind date.

When I peeked around the corner, she was
brushing at the back of her hair with short, jerky movements,
holding up a small mirror to reflect the larger mirror behind her.
Angry mutterings burst from her lips every few seconds until
finally she tossed the brush into the sink and let out another
miserable groan. “Why can’t my hair turn out decent the one time I
have a date?” she ranted into the mirror.

“You look great to me, Mom,” I said, trying
to ease her stress.

She jumped about six inches and pressed her
hand to her chest. “Billie! Do you have to sneak up like that?”

I laughed. “I didn’t know I was. Sorry.”

She shook her head, then leaned forward over
the sink to touch up her lipstick, her face about three inches from
the mirror. I refrained from reminding her that she needed glasses.
“That man will be here in just a few minutes and my hair is a mess.
I don’t know what to wear and I’m scared out of my mind,” she
confessed, meeting my reflected gaze.

“You look beautiful, Mother. And what you
have on is perfect.” I reached out and turned her to face me,
nodding with approval at her black slacks and silk top. “You have
no reason to be scared. Besides, that man has already seen you and
he obviously liked what he saw or he wouldn’t have called.”

She drew in a cleansing breath and slowly
released it. “You’re right. I’ve got to relax. It’s just a
date.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Mother,” I
said, patting her on the shoulder.

The doorbell rang and Mother’s eyes widened
in panic. “I’m not ready yet,” she said, thrusting me out the door
and slamming it behind me.

I laughed and went to let our guest in.

When I opened the front door, I was surprised
to see Sean Parker standing at the bottom of the steps, chatting
with Mother’s date as though they were old friends. It was after
six and I wondered why he would still be hanging around. He should
have already gone home for the night. At sight of me, he turned
abruptly and stalked away. Antonio stared after him, a shocked
expression on his face. But when he turned to meet my gaze, his
lips curved up into a brilliant smile.

“Hello. I’m Antonio Franzia. You must be
Billie. Handel has told me so much about you,” he said smoothly,
replacing Sean’s rudeness with pure grace. In a black suit with a
bold pink, black, and white striped tie, he looked every inch the
successful businessman. I stepped back to let him in.

“What sort of things did Handel tell you?” I
asked. I sat on the couch and he took the recliner across from
me.

He smiled and gave a small shrug. “Oh, you
know. The usual.”

I raised my brows. “And that would be?”

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and
straightened his tie unnecessarily. “Just that you’re old friends
and he’s glad you’re back.”

The sound of heels clicking on the wood floor
brought us to attention, and we both stared in amazement as Mother
made her grand entrance. “Quit torturing my date, Billie,” she said
with a dazzling smile. She had changed into a knee length
wrap-around black dress, with a scooped neck and cap sleeves. With
pearls dangling from her ears, she was stunning.

“Sabrina. You look beautiful.” Antonio was on
his feet and moving toward Mother in an instant. He took her hand
and kissed the tips of her fingers. “It’s wonderful to finally meet
you in person,” he said, his deep voice as smooth as a grand
piano.

My mother soaked up the attention like a
hothouse flower feeling the rays of the sun for the first time. She
let him take her arm and they hurried off. At the door, I watched,
feeling as if I’d just sent my daughter out on her first date.

Handel tore up the driveway in his Porsche
just as Antonio drove Mother away in his Mercedes. I saw them both
wave as they passed. I stood on the steps waiting as he strode up
the walk toward me, a bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers in his
hand.

“For you,” he said, presenting me with the
flowers, “the lady that lights up my life.” He bent and kissed me
lightly on the lips before I could find my voice.

“Wow. And I thought Antonio was smooth.”

He laughed. “Antonio? He’s just a novice,” he
said, and followed me into the house.

In the kitchen, I cut the stems down and
arranged the flowers in a large canning jar, unable to find a vase.
I then set the arrangement in the middle of the table. The bright
yellow heads, heavy and tilting, lit up the room.

“How’s that? It’s the best I can do. We
aren’t prepared for formal occasions around here. I think Jack must
have given away everything worth keeping.” I fell silent, an odd
feeling coming over me as though somehow betraying those other five
girls by speaking my uncle’s name aloud.

“What’s wrong?” Handel sensed my discomfort
and reached out to pull me close. He smiled down at me and kissed
my forehead. Oddly, it reminded me of my father and I buried my
face in his chest, soaking up the strength of him. He stroked my
hair for a minute and then pulled back to look into my eyes.

I brushed my hand down his blue polo shirt,
smoothing away the wrinkles I’d caused. “I have more information
that points to my uncle,” I said without preamble.

He pulled out a chair at the table for me and
took the seat opposite, his mouth grim. “You recovered another
memory?” he asked, leaning with both arms on the table.

Knowing that he thought recovered memories
were as reliable as a stoolie testifying in court, I shook my head.
“No. Solid evidence.”

He rubbed one finger back and forth over the
stubble on his upper lip making a scratchy sound with the motion. I
could almost see the wheels turning in his brain, trying to come up
with something to discredit whatever I had. Resentment filled me as
I imagined he thought more of upholding my uncle’s reputation than
helping me discover the truth. I pushed back from the table and
went to the stove. The water in the teakettle was still hot.
Needing to keep my hands busy, I poured two cups and hung a teabag
over the side of each.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” he
asked finally. His attorney patience was obviously wearing
thin.

I turned around. He’d crossed his arms and
leaned back on the legs of the chair, waiting. I nodded. “A letter
and some pictures. Alex brought me an envelope when she came to the
office the other day. She said Jack left it with her a couple days
before he died. I’ll get it.”

I hurried out of the kitchen and to my
bedroom, relieved to get away from Handel’s piercing gaze. Why did
his scrutiny make me feel as if I were intentionally hurting
him?

The envelope was right where I’d left it that
morning, under my pillow. I tipped it over and poured the contents
on the bed. The one picture I couldn’t put into evidence was my
own. I slipped it out of the pile and safely back under the pillow.
Then took the rest and returned to the kitchen.

Handel stood at the stove stirring sugar into
his tea. He carried the cups to the table and we sat down. He
smiled as though to give me confidence. I reached out and pushed
the envelope across the space between us.

He tipped it over and let the contents fall
out. I could see shock wash over his face, and a flush of anger
mount his cheeks at the sight, just as once had mine. His hands
shuffled the Polaroid images, arranging them in a straight row, and
then his mouth opened but nothing came out, as he stared at
ten-year-old Sarah Simpson.

“I’m sorry, Handy,” I whispered. “I didn’t
know how to tell you.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. I
reached out and gathered the pictures into a pile and quickly
turned them over. When he opened his eyes, his lashes were damp and
I looked away, afraid of reading too much there.

He cleared his throat. Then smoothed open the
letter and read through it. His gaze narrowed. “Why would he say
that if he was guilty?” he asked, pointing at a line of print.

“What?” I tried to read it upside down but my
uncle’s handwriting was hard enough to read right side up.

“He said he didn’t blame your father for
beating him, he would have done the same, not knowing the facts.
That sounds like he’s saying your father falsely accused him.” He
looked up, a childlike eagerness in his face. “Maybe someone else
was to blame and Jack was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time. Your father assumed the worst and wailed into him.”

I shook my head. “No. My father was not
easily provoked. He would never…” I stopped, and tried to control
my growing anger. Handel was looking for a way to vindicate Jack.
There was no use arguing with him; he was a criminal lawyer.

“What about this? He says he didn’t set
things right because other children would have been hurt.” He
tapped the pictures. “Obviously, these are the other children.”

“What does that mean? He’s innocent because
there were other children? That makes no sense. Most child
molesters are not one-time offenders. They repeat their crime over
and over again, until someone stops them.”

He was silent, staring blankly somewhere over
my shoulder. “You’re right,” He finally admitted. “So, why aren’t
there more pictures?”

“More pictures? How many more do there have
to be for you to believe he did this?” I flipped over the picture
of Sarah and pointed at it. “Charlie told me that Sarah came with
him to the winery when she was ten. Jack took her on a special
tour, alone. What other proof do you need?”

He stared at the image of the little girl for
long moments and then he straightened and looked up, his eyes
alight with more wishful thinking. “She isn’t in the cellar,” he
announced, his voice sure. “You said you were attacked in Jack’s
cellar. She’s sitting on a cot of some kind.” He flipped the
picture around for me to see. “Does any of the background look
familiar, like a room in the winery or the house? It doesn’t to
me.”

“Handel, it was twenty years ago. Things may
have changed.”

“I’ve lived here all my life. Been in and out
of this house and the winery more times than I can count. This room
is not here.”

I threw up my hands. “Fine! The room doesn’t
exist, therefore my uncle is innocent.” I stood up and jerked the
chair back. It toppled and fell over, landing with a loud crash
against the floor. My eyes filled with tears and I turned away, not
wanting Handel to comfort me. Right now he felt like the enemy and
I knew what court would be like with me on the witness stand.

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help. I
really am. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but …”

I spun on my heel and faced him. “No, it
doesn’t. It actually seems like you have already made up your mind
that Jack is innocent and I’m crazy and now you just have to talk
me into it.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. You say you were
attacked in the cellar and I believe you. But where is the picture?
If Jack collected these, then he would have taken one of you.”

His reasonable assumption hit me like a cold
wind at two a.m., chilling me to the bone. Of course he would
realize that my picture was missing from the pile. I shriveled into
a ball of nerves at the thought of Handel seeing me that way,
vulnerable and wounded, a child of abuse. I swallowed down my
pride.