Entangled (8 page)

At the look in his eye I suddenly forgot Kent
was on the line and lowered the phone to my side. “What are you
doing in my house?” I demanded. I pointed the phone at him as
though it were a weapon. “Take your accusations, your intrusive
behavior, and your nasty California temperament and get out!”

“Billie? Billie! What’s going on? Who are you
talking to?” Kent asked, his voice tinny and small, coming through
the airwaves from Minnesota.

A smile stretched over my face, a mask of
perfect timing and revenge. It all depended on which one I wanted
to hurt more. Kent drew the short straw. Handel paused in the
doorway as I raised the phone to my ear. “Kent? Sorry I didn’t get
back to you. Just been having too much fun around here.”

He was silent for a moment. “I see. Well, why
didn’t you tell me you were going to California? I could have
rearranged some things and flown out with you. Maybe caught a game
in San Francisco while we were there.”

I didn’t ask the question in my mind; what
sort of things would you rearrange, Kent, the women you meet at the
Bull Pen; but just laughed lightly. “That’s quite all right. I have
plenty of male companionship right here. In fact, I’m with a man
right now. So I’ve really got to go. Bye.” I flipped the phone
closed and met Handel’s gaze, his lips curved in amusement. He
tried to hide it but failed miserably.

“Is Kent your significant other?” he asked,
taking a seat at the table without being invited. It seemed to be
his way.

“No.” I turned back to the sink and took my
time filling the carafe. My hands shook slightly and I took a deep
steadying breath. “He’s not significant or mine. Just another man I
have no time for.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the table
and cleared his throat. “Look — I’m sorry about the conversation
in the car, busting into your house, everything. Can we start
over?” he asked.

I finished my coffee preparations before
turning to face him, crossed my arms and leaned against the
counter. “Start over? Start over the morning or start over from the
moment I laid eyes on you?”

“Whatever works best.”

I shook my head, trying to keep a straight
face, but a smile broke through. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t
you? I think I’d have to go back to the moment I first laid eyes on
you. Nothing less will do.”

“Okay, but its going to be hard to squeeze
myself back into that tire swing.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stood up, and turned slowly in a full
circle until he faced me again, as though modeling his khakis and
red polo shirt on a runway in Paris. “Don’t you recognize me? We
met the first time you visited Fredrickson Vineyard, twenty years
ago. You called me Handy.” He held his arm out at chest level. “I
was about this tall, skinny as a grape vine, and in love the moment
I laid eyes on you.”

I bit my lip, ignoring that last bit because
I didn’t know how to process it. He’d told Mother and I that he
worked here back then, but for some reason I hadn’t put two and two
together until now. I stared at him hard enough to see through the
man he’d become to the boy I knew so long ago. I caught a glimpse
of shaggy blonde hair, a pair of cutoff overalls and bare feet, and
gasped. I nodded. “I do remember you. I called you Handy because
you were always fetching things.”

“That’s right.” Handel moved toward me,
stopping within arms length, and smiled. “I’m also handy in other
areas. All you have to do is ask.”

I straightened up from the counter. “Such
as?”

His mouth curved up on the left side.
“Finding locks for keys to open.”

“That’s what I thought.” I moved around him
to the coffee pot and poured myself a cup, automatically filling
one for him too. “Here,” I said, thrusting it toward him, and took
mine to the table.

“Gee, thanks.” He followed and sat across
from me, cradling his cup between his palms.

I dug through my purse until I found the
little tin of aspirin at the bottom. Took three and swallowed them
with a sip of coffee. I didn’t know if aspirin worked well with
caffeine, but I figured if one thing didn’t do the trick maybe the
other would. He didn’t comment, just watched me patiently, one
finger following the rim of his cup around and around.

“Are you saying you know what my key unlocks
or are you just grasping at straws, hoping to be included in the
treasure hunt?” I finally asked.

He sipped his coffee, watching me closely
over the rim of his cup. His hands were tan and lean, like the rest
of him, showing two sides of his personality. The thin white scar
across the top of his thumb pointed to the dare devil boy he once
was, but the professional manicure spoke of how far he’d come since
those days. A criminal lawyer has to think a bit like a criminal to
get his clients off the hook. Handy knew where the dead bodies were
buried and Handel would have them dug up.

He shrugged and tilted so far back on the
rickety chair legs I half expected him to go down. “I always liked
a mystery. Besides, now that you’ve decided to stay, I thought
maybe we could renew our friendship.”

I laughed, finally able to see past the
veneer of uptight lawyer to the holy terror I vaguely remembered.
“You know, my memory of those weeks is truly obscure. In fact,
you’re only a shadow on the screen of my life. I would hardly call
what we had, friendship. Acquaintance, perhaps.”

“Really? I’m amazed I didn’t make a bigger
impression. After all, I saved your life,” he said, crossing his
arms and weaving on the back legs of the chair.

I heard the groan of weakened metal and
picked up my cup to keep it from spilling. “I wouldn’t do that if I
were you,” I warned.

He frowned. “Do whaa…?” The chair collapsed
beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. His foot jerked up
and kicked the edge of the table as he hit, sloshing coffee out of
his cup and all over the legs of his perfectly creased, tan
slacks.

I started laughing, stood up and backed away,
my day pretty much made by the look on his face. I didn’t like to
think someone else’s misery could make me happy, but there are
exceptions.

He glared daggers at me. “You knew that was
going to happen, didn’t you?”

“No.” I set my cup in the sink and turned
back to face him, still grinning. “I can’t see the future — I can
only hope.”

“Nice. Very nice.” He rubbed the back of his
head as he struggled to his feet. “I have a good case to bring a
suit against you,” he said, lifting the broken chair and eyeing it
thoughtfully.

“Really? Bring it on.”

He looked up and gave a short laugh, part
amusement, and part amazement. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A
nice courtroom drama to fuel your resentment.”

I counted to five, not able to make it all
the way to ten before I answered him. “Resentment against whom?
You?” I raised my brows, curious to know what twisted perception he
held of me. I watched as he calmly set the broken chair on its
side, slid it out of the way, and starting mopping up the spilled
coffee with a towel left sitting on the counter. On his hands and
knees he looked rather appealing, like a servant boy, docile and
willing to obey. “While you’re down there perhaps you should pray
for enlightenment.” I walked out of the kitchen, leaving him to his
work.

I settled into the chair by the fireplace,
ignoring his presence in my house, and glanced around the room from
my new perspective as a homeowner. Brighten up the walls with a
fresh coat of paint, maybe a more vibrant color, and add a set of
sofas and chairs, comfortable enough to fall asleep on, and it
would be livable. The paintings would definitely have to go. I
couldn’t stand seeing my uncle’s tortured soul twisting and
writhing on canvas in the daylight, much less at night in an empty
house.

I stood up and started pulling the smaller
works of art from the walls, setting them in a stack against the
couch. I couldn’t reach the large gold-framed canvas over the
fireplace without a ladder and some help. It looked as though it
weighed quite a lot.

“What are you doing?” Handel asked from the
doorway.

I turned to face him, brushing the dust from
my hands. “A little housecleaning. You want to help?”

He looked up at the painting I’d been
contemplating and stated the obvious. “You want that one down
too.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s horrible. Perhaps I
could sell them all to a rich, California snob who thinks art is
anything that resembles half-digested food.”

He laughed lightly and placed his hands on
his hips. “Don’t look at me. I’m not that rich. I’ll get a ladder
though. I think there’s one in the garage.”

“Thanks,” I said, as he turned to go.

The sun filtered through the sheers covering
the front window and spotlighted the scratched and dulled finish of
the oak flooring. Another job to be done. Obviously, Uncle Jack had
not spent time in home upkeep. I sighed just thinking about the
work it would entail. Whether I sold the place or kept it, I would
have to make it livable again.

New drapes needed to be ordered, the woodwork
stripped and re-stained, and carpeting replaced in the bedrooms.
The kitchen was a construction nightmare all its own. I didn’t even
want to think about that right now.

“Here we go.” Handel arrived, lugging a
ten-foot ladder, which he set up under the picture. He climbed
three rungs, took hold of the frame on each side, and paused to
gaze down at me. “Are you sure about this? Up close and personal
its much more artistic,” he informed me, crossing his eyes and
making a face.

I laughed and stood closer to take a hold of
the frame as he lowered it. “It looks heavy.”

“Yeah, probably worth its weight in gold.” He
stepped carefully down, supporting his end of the painting and then
some, surprise showing on his face. “Actually, its pretty light for
solid gold. Guess it’s not worth as much as I thought.”

I ran a hand over the intricate design carved
into the wood of the frame. “I bet this frame is worth more than
Uncle Jack’s entire collection of paintings. It’s a work of art all
by itself. I wonder why he would use such an expensive frame on
this. Did he think he was Picasso?”

Handel shrugged and set it carefully against
the stack of pictures already accumulated. “Don’t know. The other
frames don’t look so special.”

I narrowed my gaze on the stack of art. “No,
they don’t.”

“So where do you want them?”

“Well, I’d say put them in the basement, but
nobody has basements near the coast, do they? I think it’s a state
law in Minnesota to put a basement under every house. Not so much
for fear of tornadoes, as most people think, but because we
accumulate so much junk. Well above the national average. We need
lots of storage space. Believe me, its murder living in a
condo.”

“We have attics,” he offered with a shrug.
“But I think you should store them in one of the extra bedroom
closets until you find someone rich enough to recognize true art.
That way you don’t have to lug them up and back down again.”

“Good idea. I already removed the pictures
from the walls in my room. We can add these to the collection in
the closet. That doesn’t leave much space for my clothes
though.”

“Since you’ve decided to stay a while, you
should move into the master bedroom. Much more closet space.”

We carried Jack’s masterpieces down the hall
and stacked them in the closet with the three I’d already hidden
away. Handel offered to help carry my clothes to the other room,
but I declined.

“I’ll do it later. Why don’t you give me that
tour of the winery you promised. We never got past the tasting room
the other day.”

“Are you sure you want me to take you
through? Charlie Simpson would be a better guide. He’d know the
answers to all your questions, or be able to find out. I’m just
counsel.” Handel folded the ladder and prepared to return it to the
garage.

I felt disappointed at his words but nodded
in agreement. “You’re probably right. Besides, I wouldn’t want to
keep you from the office any longer than I already have.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, stopping
in the doorway, one hand steadying the ladder, the other pushing
the hair back from his forehead. I liked the way his hair tumbled
forward, fighting free from the restraints of his grooming, messy
and boyish and familiar.

“Its all right. You’ve done enough today.
Driving to the airport, cleaning up spilled coffee, fetching and
carrying,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers. “Go. I’ll be
fine.”

He sighed, his face a mixture of relief and
frustration. “Okay. But if you need me, call.” He lifted the ladder
once more and turned.

“You never did tell me how you saved my
life,” I called after him.

He stopped and looked back, his eyes narrowed
in thought. “You don’t remember?”

“Don’t feel bad. I have very little memory of
those weeks. Just flashes really. Images of a time I couldn’t place
until now. You, the tire swing, a couple of other things. But a
near-death experience was not among them.”

He grinned, reminding me once more of the boy
from my past. “That’s too bad,” he said and started off again.

“You’re not going to tell me?” I asked,
following and opening the front door for him.

He kept walking, cutting across the yard
toward the garage. “It’s a long story, requiring dinner and
conversation. I can be back out here by seven if that works for
you,” he said over one shoulder.

I watched him, my mouth hanging slightly
open, wondering how this man could appear so confident when he so
recently fell on his backside. Not sure how to respond, I closed
the door and leaned against it. Was he asking me out on a date, or
did he expect me to cook for him? And why was I wondering about it
at all? He probably made the whole thing up about saving my life. I
wasn’t afraid of water, small spaces, or crossing bridges. I might
have a slight phobia about the dark, but who liked being in the
dark? Nobody, that’s for sure! They didn’t make dark beds to lie in
and soak up creepy feelings and nightmares, charging you by the
minute. They made tanning beds because people craved the sun,
light, warmth, and security.