by Emma Accola
“This is nice,” I said. The table had candles and real flowers, a white linen tablecloth, and heavy silverware. Two little candles flickered, their flames dancing. The room hummed with the hushed voices of the customers and staff, and the air smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. A waiter lit a dessert on fire at the next table.
“You’ve never been here before?”
“No, not here.” My spine stiffened and I sat up very straight. “Is this one of your favorite date night venues?”
“Caleb and I used to come here.” He set his menu aside with a bit of a smile, as if he liked my little flare of jealousy. “Is that important to you, how many women I’ve dated since getting divorced?”
I stared unseeing into my menu, pretending it didn’t matter. “No, of course not. How is it any business of mine? Besides, with you wearing a wedding ring all the time, I doubt that you attracted a great number of women.”
“And you wore your engagement ring. You didn’t want to put yourself out there either, did you? And yet here we are.”
“I was saving myself for something better.”
Micah laughed. “I’m glad I made the cut.”
The waiter came back and Micah ordered himself a martini. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I ordered vodka with cranberry juice. If he wasn’t going to drink wine, then neither was I. My heart began to kick up a mad beat because this was seriously starting to feel like a date. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Then why were my emotions twisted into a mad tangle? When the waiter came back with the drinks, Micah ordered our entrees, short ribs and some kind of vegetables. In the dim light I could see his eyes glitter.
“I’m ready to ask my question,” he said once we were alone again.
“Okay.” I became nervous. Telling him what he wanted to know would require trust and truth and honesty, something that had been in short supply in my life lately. “Just know that if you serve up something hard, I’ll respond in kind.”
Micah nodded. “Fair enough. Last week I watched you teaching through the window of your classroom door. You looked attentive and involved, but you don’t look like a woman in love the way you did that day when you showed me around your family’s vineyards and winery.”
Underneath the thick linen tablecloth, my toes began tapping nervously. “That was professional detachment.”
Micah shook his head slowly. “You have the heart of a farmer and the mind of a scientist. Everyone I’ve ever talked to claimed that you were the best thing that ever happened to your family’s winery.”
I fiddled with the heavy fork where it lay in front of me. “Then everyone you talked to has given me too much credit. Mom and Dad are the sommeliers in the family. Not I.”
“That winery has been in your family since the Gold Rush days and you loved it enough to walk away.”
My voice sharpened. “I didn’t walk away. I was driven away. Can we drop this?”
“No. Twenty questions. We made a deal.” Micah leaned across the table toward me. “Where did all the money come from for those massive investments you made in the winery?”
I wanted to squirm in my chair. How the hell had Micah seen so far into my soul that he could find something so private no one outside my family knew about it? He was reading me like I was the front page of The San Francisco Chronicle. Never had Leonardo shown this much insight, not once in all the years that we dated. Being this exposed horrified me, as if Micah had walked in on me in the bathroom. Unfortunately, since this was one of his twenty questions, I would answer.
I took a deep breath and began slowly. “I’m the one who found the money.”
“How?” Micah asked softly.
A lump thickened in my throat. That wound, still open, throbbed. “As it happened, my great uncle chose a convenient time to die. He’d worked at the winery when he was young, so he had a soft spot for it. He apparently also had a soft spot for me, because he left me his entire estate. Over his lifetime, he had amassed millions. No one knew he was that wealthy. I used some of that money to shore up the winery’s finances.”
Micah gave a slow nod. “But with the proviso that you got to call the shots and can wine.”
“Yeah, exactly. You can imagine how popular that made me with my family.” The memory ached like a bruise. “I lost track of the times I cried myself to sleep. Even Leonardo called me out, asking whether my great ideas were worth alienating all my loved ones.”
“Because you could.”
My breath became quivery. “Call it naivety. I thought that once my family saw the rise in profitability, all would be forgiven. When everyone complimented my parents on their foresight to start the canning operation and the beauty of the tasting and banquet rooms, they accepted the compliments without a nod to me. I could hardly stomach the resentment. I felt small and cheap for feeling that way. No amount of rational conversation with myself, even when I heard Faith give me credit, could make it go away. At the tasting room’s grand opening, I was almost choking on hard feelings, but we acted like one happy family.”
Micah made a sound that he had heard me.
I glanced at him, trying to discern his mood, and took a long pull of my drink. “Now what do you think of me?”
“That you’re human. And smart.” Micah reached across the table and took my hand. “What do you want?”
It was a loaded question framed in small words, but I had an answer. “My own winery.”
He looked surprised and pleased. “Your own winery. That can happen.”
“Sure, if the skies open and send down a miracle.” I averted my eyes so he wouldn’t see the sparkle of my tears. “Since I used most of my inheritance on Mom and Dad’s winery, it will be years before I can afford to buy my own place. Teaching doesn’t pay that well.”
The waiter brought our entrees and gently set the plates in front of us. I watched Micah through my eyelashes, expecting him to find me frail and disappointing. Leonardo had. He’d never liked hearing of any negative emotion. Whenever I experienced one, he would explain it away or tell me why it was wrong. Back then he had told me in his most loving terms that my behavior felt petty and bitter to him. Family ties, he related with confidence, trumped all else.
“Your turn,” Micah said as he picked up his silverware.
“You’re ready for my question?”
“Ask away.”
“Am I ruined on campus?”
Micah set down his fork. “Maybe.”
“No,” I said. “Start eating. The food is too good to let that spoil our meal.”
With slow hands Micah picked up his fork. “Look, you know what spells career suicide for a professor. If any one of those charges stick, well, I don’t have to say it aloud.”
Though I sampled my entrée, it might have been sawdust on my tongue. “Are there still people on campus who will talk to you?”
“They’re speaking off the record, but if even one more allegation is made, you could be put on administrative leave. Once students start saying that they don’t feel safe in your classroom, then all hell will break loose. You have been accused of killing one of your students, you know.”
“I’m a person of interest,” I said tightly. “No one has arrested me.”
“Until something else happens.” Micah pushed his food around on his plate. “And I guarantee it will because this isn’t over.”
I looked across the table at Micah. “You risk too much helping me.”
“No, I don’t. I have a dog in this fight too.”
With that Micah changed the subject, inquiring about whether I liked my entrée, and we had a long talk about our culinary experiences. Micah made such outrageous assertions about his barbecuing abilities that I had to laugh. He claimed to have the secret to the best marinades for chicken and beef, and promised that he would wow me with his prowess. By the end of the meal, I had forgotten the real reason we had come to this restaurant. It actually felt like a date. Micah paid the check. We stepped outside the restaurant and waited for the valet to
retrieve Micah’s car. The wind off the Pacific had gotten colder, making me wish I had worn a heavier coat. A couple minutes passed as we waited, and Micah took off his coat and laid it over my shoulders.
A valet wearing a troubled expression approached Micah. “Sir, please come up to the valet stand. We’re having a problem locating your car.”
“Give me a minute,” Micah said to me.
The inside of Micah’s coat was cozy and warm. I pulled it more tightly around me as I listened vaguely to the valets telling Micah that their records showed that he’d already gotten his car. With exaggerated patience, Micah insisted we had just finished dinner, and they could go ask our waiter if they didn’t believe him. Micah grew firm when he asked them to take another look. I started to wonder if Micah’s car had been stolen when someone drove it up to the curb in front of me. A valet got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the front, and stopped to lean against the passenger-side door. Insolent, he grinned at me and spun the car’s remote around his index finger.
Harry Spice. My blood chilled. I called Micah’s name, but he had his back to me and the breeze stole my words. Harry Spice kept spinning the remote and grinning. He wore the same uniform as the other valets, invisible among them until now. Under the streetlights he looked thinner in the face and much more muscular, as if he had been spending a lot of time in the gym. His eyes were bright, glowing with a triumphant spite.
“Looking for something?” he asked me, his voice low with delight. “Your car, maybe?”
“Are you moonlighting as a valet now?”
He dangled the remote. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Then do everyone a favor and throw yourself off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Ouch,” Harry Spice said in a scolding tone. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“Anytime I see you is a problem, you dirt bag.”
Harry Spice came toward me, holding my eyes with his unblinking stare. He was tall, even taller than Micah, lean and long in the valet’s uniform. He wore his dark hair much shorter now than during the trial, longer on top, cropped close to his scalp on the sides. No longer baby-faced, he still looked much younger than his years. Many described him as handsome, but my eyes perceived nothing but horrid and grotesque. He came up to me, standing so close that his jacket brushed against Micah’s coat. I held his stare. No way would I let him see my fear.
“What do you want?” I said, enunciating each word with as much contempt as I could muster.
“We have a problem to solve, sweet cheeks,” he said in a voice as soft as a caress. “You know what that is, don’t you?”
“My guess would be your sick and savage nature.”
Harry Spiced tipped his head one way and then the other as he loomed over me. “There’s nothing wrong with my nature, sugar bear. The problem is that the scales of justice are out of alignment, and I’m trying to restore balance to the universe.”
“Destroying me will restore balance to the universe?”
“It’s a start.” He glanced at Micah, who was still being occupied by the head valet. Harry Spice put his hand on my cheek, but I slapped it away. “You could stop all this if you wanted to. You know that, don’t you?”
“No, I really couldn’t.”
Harry Spice gave a low chuckle. “You’re so much smarter than anyone in your family. They’re all so narrow-minded and provincial. All of them put together don’t have the business acumen that you have in your little finger. You’re so beautiful. So innovative. And selfless. You backed away from all your work to let your parents take the credit for what you had done.”
I wondered if there hadn’t been a microphone on my and Micah’s table. “Shut up.”
“It hurts you, doesn’t it, to be so formidable and yet so weakened by emotions.”
“Better to have feelings than be a cold, empty android like you. My love and loyalty to my family is what makes me strong.”
Harry Spice chuckled. “Where has all that devotion gotten you? Look at you, reduced to begging at the feet of Micah Ekstrand.”
“I would rather spend an eternity at Micah’s feet than one moment in your arms.”
Harry Spice’s arrogant smile faded away. His eyes flashed in fury. “You’re the dumbest smart woman I’ve ever met. He’s using you. The only person that Micah Ekstrand ever cared about was his brother.”
“What do you know about caring for others?” My fingers curled into claws. “Get out of my life, you sick bastard.”
“No, I won’t do that. I need what’s missing.”
“What is that? You have everything. Your software company. Money. College degrees. Prestige.”
“No, not everything, not until the last scale is balanced.” His face lowered to mine, as if he were about to kiss me. I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering. Harry Spice noticed, but I couldn’t tell whether that pleased him. “It’s you who will pay for all.”
“Or else what?”
Harry Spice blinked in surprise. “There’s no or else, dear heart. There’s only the ending.”
“What ending?”
“When it’s all made even.”
I hesitated, feeling as if I were standing on the blade of a knife. “And why should I have to pay for you to get to your version of even?”
He didn’t get to answer.
“What the—” Micah shouted as he launched himself at Harry Spice.
With a roar of foul words, Micah slammed Harry Spice against the car, putting his forearm into the other man’s throat. Harry Spice gave a strangled cry, and a moment later, two valets pulled Micah away from him, one on each arm. All the men were shouting.
“Stay away from her,” Micah cried at Harry Spice, fighting so hard that he was lifting the valets who clung to his arms.
Harry Spice drew himself up, looking both pained and insulted. He glared at Micah, then threw Micah’s remote into his face with as much venom as he could manage. I cried out when the remote struck Micah’s cheekbone, leaving a red mark and a cut. The valets started shouting again. Harry Spice took off the valet jacket and dropped it on the sidewalk, his eyes clamped on Micah’s face. Then he spun on his heel and walked down the street, his steps fast and jaunty. When he was far enough away, he emitted a jarring laugh that echoed off the tall buildings. The valets released Micah’s arms. Other customers from the restaurant milled around in the doorway, their hands over their mouths as they watched.
“We should call the police on you,” the head valet snapped at Micah.
“Do that. And I’ll make sure I tell them and your manager how you’ve been careless with the security of your customers’ vehicles. How could someone who doesn’t even work here end up with the remote to my car?”
“He owns the restaurant,” the head valet said with an air of worried concern. He picked up the remote to Micah’s car and handed it to him. “Clearly he doesn’t know our protocols. That’s why we couldn’t find your car. I apologize for the mix-up.”
“What about throwing the remote at me?”
The head valet tried to apologize again, but Micah cut him off and opened the passenger door. I got in, wishing that I had some disinfecting wipes because Harry Spice had touched some of the surfaces inside. Micah was still seething as we drove away. The city seemed dim and heavy with shadows as we made our way toward home. Little of it registered with me. Being in Harry Spice’s presence had rattled me more than I cared to admit. I put my sweating palms on my knees and was surprised at how cold they were.
“Are you all right?” Micah asked softly.
“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
“What did Harry Spice say to you?”
My voice came hoarsely. “Apparently there is a score he wants to even up.”
Micah gave no indication that he had heard me. I glanced at him as he drove, wondering whether he believed me. His face was inscrutable, as if he were playing a hand of high stakes poker. The closer we got to his townhouse, the more Harry Spice’s words rang
in my ears, the ones where I had to be at Micah’s feet because everything else was gone in my life. That notion troubled me. I didn’t want a man to save me, nor did I want to be his ruination. When we got back to Micah’s townhouse, and he opened my car door, I stepped out and laid my hand on his arm.
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to be here. It might be best for me to go somewhere else.”
Micah’s eyes widened. “Why would that be best?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” I said, thinking they were brave words, bravely spoken. “I don’t want to be some sniveling puppy. I will stand up to Harry Spice on my own.”
Micah took my hands. “We’re in this together. Harry Spice is trying to divide and conquer. Don’t let him do that to us.”
My voice quivered. “I should fight my own battles.”
“Is this about your pride, the little Miss Independence who won’t let another help her?”
My ire rose up. “Pride? What are you talking about?”
“You.” Micah put his hands on my cheeks. “How long did Harry Spice piss in your ear to make you doubt yourself? What did he say that made you think leaving here was a good idea?”
“Nothing,” I shot back, but that little shadow of doubt hung in my mind. His oily voice had become like an earworm.
“Gracie, you can’t fib to me. I know when you’re telling me the truth and when you aren’t. What did he say?”
“That I was at your feet.”
Micah leaned toward me, so close that his lips tickled mine. “You’re in my heart, not at my feet. Harry Spice is sowing doubt and creating discord. That’s his pattern. Don’t let him. Together we are strong and that’s the last thing he wants.”
Then Micah kissed me, sweetly and gently, his hands still on my cheeks. “I have waited so long for this, way too long to have you here with me. I couldn’t begin to count the many nights I lay in my bed wondering where you were, who you were with, what you were doing. I fell asleep wanting you at my side and woke up with you in my dreams. Every time I saw you, I ached with longing. On Christmas and spring breaks, I would leave San Francisco because staying here was too hard. I went to Australia and Italy and Vietnam as if I could outrun the thoughts.”