Suspicions: A Twist of FateTears of Pride

by Lisa Jackson

  “So look who’s handing out free advice—Father of the year!” The minute her words were out, she wanted to call them back. She hadn’t meant to be cruel.

  Noah’s hands clenched and then relaxed against his rib cage. “Once again, the sharp tongue cuts like a whip, Miss Lindstrom. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m only attempting to suggest that genetics has nothing to do with being a parent. Oh, sure, Coleridge sired your child, but where was he when the chips were down? Or have you conveniently forgotten that he walked out on you and took up with another woman? A man like that doesn’t deserve to know that his child was hurt. Face it, Sheila, he just doesn’t give a damn.”

  Sheila’s nerves were strung as tightly as a piano string, her voice emotionless. “Each summer Emily spends a few weeks with Jeff. He’s expecting her by the end of next week.”

  “Does she want to see him?”

  Sheila wavered. “She’s confused about it.”

  Noah’s lips twisted wryly. “What you’re saying is that she knows he doesn’t want her, and you’re hoping that when he learned of the accident, he’ll rush to her side and reestablish himself as a paragon of virtue in her eyes. Don’t delude yourself, Sheila, and for Emily’s sake, don’t try to make your ex-husband something he’s not. Let her make up her own mind.”

  “She will,” Sheila said softly, “whether I call him or not. But I am going to call, you know. It’s his right as a father.”

  “He has no rights—he gave them up about four years ago, wouldn’t you say?”

  For a moment they stared across the room at each other, trying to repair the damage their argument had caused, but it was impossible. “Excuse me,” Sheila said shakily, “but this is my decision.” She turned to the telephone and dialed the long-distance number to Spokane.

  Noah turned on his heel, uttered a low oath, and headed down the hall toward Emily’s room. Women! Would he ever live to understand them?

  Chapter 11

  Though never mentioned again, the argument hung over Noah and Sheila like a dark, foreboding cloud. Noah had decided to spend another week at the winery to double-check Anthony Simmons’s conclusions concerning the fire. Sean was entrusted with Noah’s car and sent back to Seattle to pick up a couple of changes of clothes and some documents from the office of Wilder Investments. The boy was back at Cascade Valley as he had promised, the car intact.

  For his part, Noah was a whirlwind. He decided it was in the best interests of Wilder Investments to reopen the winery, and he began a full-scale cleanup of the estate. It took some fast talking, but even the local sheriff’s department had reluctantly complied with his demands that the west wing be completely reconstructed. By late Friday afternoon D & M Construction, a subsidiary of Wilder Investments, had moved in, and the foreman was working with an architect to redesign the building.

  Days at the winery were spent preparing for the autumn harvest; the nights making love. Noah didn’t mention Jeff again, and Sheila hoped that the harsh words shouted in the heat of anger would soon be forgotten.

  Noah began a furious study of viticulture, with Sheila and Dave Jansen as his tutors. Dave was a young man whose serious, plain face was offset by laughing brown eyes. He took Noah on a tour of the vineyards and explained, endlessly, the reasons that wine production was suited for the valley.

  “Thirty years ago, few people thought that western Washington could hold a candle to California for wine production,” he declared, proudly showing off a hillside covered with vinifera wine grapes.

  “But you’re changing their minds, right?” Noah asked.

  “You got it. Everybody thinks it rains all the time in Washington, or that it’s overcast, but that’s because they haven’t seen the eastern part of the state. Over here our summers are warm and dry with extremely low precipitation and cloud cover. This allows for a unique combination of moderate heat, high light intensity and long days that produce vinifera fruit with an excellent sugar-acid balance. All of our wines have a distinctive varietal character.”

  “But what about the winters? A couple of years ago the late snow just about wiped out the crop.”

  Dave nodded gravely. “That can happen,” he admitted. “We try to select our vineyard sights as close as possible to the Columbia River. We use southern slopes above the valley floor to further decrease the risk of low temperatures. Recently we’ve been planting a hardier grape, a vinifera that can stand colder temperatures.”

  Noah’s gaze ran skeptically over the vineyards.

  “Really, this is a great place to produce wine,” Dave stated firmly. “Look, Mr. Wilder—”

  “Noah.”

  Dave smiled and inclined his head. “I know that Sheila’s had a run of bad luck here, but for my money, Cascade Valley will produce the best wine in the country.”

  “That’s a pretty broad statement.”

  Dave pursed his lips and shook his balding head. “I don’t think so.” He held up his fingers to add emphasis to his point. “Eastern Washington has a good climate, the right amount of light, loamy soils and is relatively free of pests and disease. I don’t think you can do better than that.”

  Noah squatted and ran his fingers through the soil. “So what’s to prevent a competitor from building next to Cascade Valley?”

  “Name familiarity and reputation,” Dave replied quickly.

  “A reputation that has been tarnished over the last few years.”

  “Yeah. I can’t deny that, much as I’d like to,” Dave conceded, opening the door to his pickup. “Want a lift back to the house? I’d like you to take a look at our latest investment, French oak barrels for aging instead of American white oak. They were Oliver’s idea. He used a few of them several years ago and the end result is our reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, which we hope to market late this year.”

  “I think I’ll walk back to the house,” Noah decided. “I’ll catch you tomorrow because I would like to see the reserve bottles.”

  “All right. See you then.” The battered old pickup took off, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. Noah placed his hands, palms outward, in the back pockets of his jeans as he walked back to the house. He was lost in thought, considering all of the disasters that had struck Cascade Valley in the past few years. No one could be blamed for the volcanic eruption of Mount Saint Helens. The tonnage of ash and soot that had fallen on Cascade Valley and destroyed the harvest would have to be attributed to an act of God, or natural disaster. But the tampered bottles found in Montana were a different story. The contamination had been planned rather than accidental. Needle marks found in the corks of some of the damaged bottles proved that someone had to have been behind the sabotage.

  Originally Noah had assumed that Oliver Lindstrom had executed the poisoning of the bottles; now he wasn’t so sure. The image painted by people he had spoken with told him that Oliver Lindstrom wasn’t the kind of man who would destroy all that he had worked so hard to build. If, as Sheila and the staff maintained, Cascade Valley Wines and the winery itself were Oliver Lindstrom’s lifeblood, why would he want to tarnish a reputation it had taken years to establish?

  Noah squinted against the setting sun and kicked a stone out of the rutted dirt road. It just didn’t make sense. If a man needed money, he wouldn’t consciously taint his product, thereby causing an expensive recall and losing consumer trust. Could Lindstrom really have been as desperate as Anthony Simmons wanted Noah to believe: desperate enough to take his own life in an arson attempt? The damned fire—always that damned fire—continued to plague Noah with doubts. As he walked up the final crest of the hill supporting the château, he stopped to look at the wreckage.

  A disappearing sun cast red-gold rays over the charred timbers of the west wing. A yellow bulldozer was parked near the blackened building, waiting to raze the sagging skeleton. Noah ran his fingers through his hair as he studied the destruction. If only he didn’t care about Sheila, it would be much easier.

  * * *

  Sheila was tearing the old
wallpaper off the walls in the dining room when the doorbell rang.

  “Emily,” she called, pulling at an obstinate strip, “could you get that? Emily?” There was no immediate response, and Sheila remembered Emily mentioning something about going outside with Sean. Her ankle was much better and she was feeling more than a little cooped up in the house.

  The doorbell rang again impatiently. “Coming,” Sheila called as she wiped her hands on a nearby towel. Who could be calling today? she wondered. It was nearly the dinner hour, and she was a mess. Her jeans and blouse smelled like the sooty walls she had been cleaning, and her hair was piled in a bedraggled twist on the top of her head. She pulled out the pins and ran her fingers through it as she made her way to the door.

  Before she could open it, the door swung open and Jeff Coleridge poked his head into the foyer. “So there is someone home after all,” he remarked dryly, his eyes giving Sheila a quick head to heels appraisal.

  Sheila managed a thin smile. “Sorry—I thought Emily would get the door.”

  “And I thought she was laid up,” he replied with a smirk. “Or was this just one of your rather obvious attempts to see me?”

  Sheila’s gray eyes didn’t waver. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long.”

  Sheila stood in the entryway, not letting him pass. “I assume you came here to see Emily.”

  “Who else?” His smile was as devilish as ever, his dark eyes just as flirtatious. He was still handsome; living the good life seemed to suit him well. His lean torso reflected hours on the tennis courts, and his devil-may-care attitude added to his cunning charm. After all of these years, Sheila was immune to it.

  “I hope no one. Emily’s outside. I’ll go and get her.”

  “Sheila, baby.” He reached out a hand and touched her wrist. “What is our darling daughter doing out of bed—I thought she had some horrible ankle sprain. At least that’s the story you gave me.”

  Trying desperately not to be baited, Sheila withdrew her wrist and pasted a plastic copy of his saccharine smile on her face. “That was no story, and if you would have shown up a few days ago, you would have found her in bed. Fortunately she’s young and heals quickly.”

  “Now, now,” he cajoled, noting the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Your claws are showing, sweetheart. You know I couldn’t come any sooner.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “What I wanted was for you to show some interest in your child. She’s not a baby anymore, Jeff, and she’s beginning to understand how you feel about her.”

  “I’ll just bet she does,” he snapped, losing his calm veneer of self-assurance. “With you poisoning her mind against me.”

  “You know I don’t do anything of the kind.” Sheila’s face was sincere, her gray eyes honest and pained. “You handle that part of it well enough on your own.”

  Jeff’s frown turned to a pout. “I thought we were supposed to have a ‘friendly divorce,’ isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “When I was naive enough to believe it.”

  “I suppose you think that’s my fault, too.”

  “Not really. We couldn’t get along while we were married; I should never have expected that the divorce would change anything.”

  “You act as if it’s carved in stone.”

  “I wish I thought it wasn’t,” Sheila sighed, leaning against the door.

  “So what do you want now, Sheila?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked down upon her.

  “I want you to be an interested father, Jeff. And I don’t want it to be an act. Is that too much to ask?”

  Jeff took in a deep breath, attempting to stem the rage that took hold of him every time he saw Sheila and was reminded of her quiet beauty. It unnerved him. Perhaps it was her fiery spirit coupled with her wide, understanding eyes. There had been a time in his life when he had been proud to show her off as his wife. But she wanted more—she wanted a child, for God’s sake. Not that Emily wasn’t a great kid…he just didn’t like the idea of fatherhood. It made him feel so old. If only Sheila would have given a little more, seen things his way, maybe the two of them would have made it.

  Even in dusty jeans and a sooty blouse, with a black smudge where her hands had touched her cheek, she looked undeniably beautiful. Her hair fell in a tangled mass around her face, the way he liked it, and she still carried herself with an elegance and grace he had never seen in another woman—even Judith. Whereas Judith’s beauty was beginning to fade, Sheila’s was just beginning to blossom.

  Jeff cleared his throat and tried to ignore Sheila’s intent stare. He coughed before answering her question. “You know I care about Emily,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s just that I’ve never been comfortable with kids.”

  “You’ve never tried. Not even with your own.”

  Jeff shook his head, and he looked at the boards of the porch. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sheila. I did try, honestly…”

  “But you couldn’t find it in your heart to love her.”

  “I didn’t say that.” His eyes lifted to meet the disgust and rage simmering in hers.

  “You have never loved anyone in your life, Jeff Coleridge, except yourself.”

  “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Sheila: your sweet, even-tempered disposition.”

  Sheila was shaking, but she attempted to regain her poise. If only she could look at Jeff indifferently. If only she didn’t see a man who rejected his infant when she looked into his eyes. “This argument is getting us nowhere,” she said through tight lips. The strain of trying to communicate with Jeff was getting to her. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and wait while I get Emily. She’s just on the patio.”

  Jeff hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but decided against it. Sheila stepped backward, allowing him to pass, and tried to calm her anxious nerves. When she found Emily, she didn’t want to infect the child with her worries about the disintegrating relationship between father and daughter.

  She stepped onto the patio and drew in a steadying breath. Emily was watching Noah and Sean trying to outdo one another in a Frisbee throwing contest. Emily was giggling in excitement, Noah was concentrating on the returning Frisbee and Sean was smiling with satisfaction, sure that the plastic disc would elude his father. It was a tender scene, a family scene, and it pulled at Sheila’s heartstrings knowing she had to destroy it.

  “Emily,” she called softly. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Who?” Emily demanded, riveted to her spot and eyeing Noah’s ungraceful catch. He flipped the Frisbee back at his son.

  “Daddy’s come to see you.”

  Emily’s smile faded. “My daddy?”

  Sheila’s grin felt as phony as it was. “Isn’t that great?”

  “He’s not going to take me with him to Spokane, is he?”

  “Of course not, honey,” Sheila said with unfelt enthusiasm. “He just came to see how you’re doing with that ankle of yours.” Pushing aside an errant curl around her daughter’s face, Sheila continued. “Come on. He’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “No, I’m not,” Jeff’s cheery voice called as he walked out the door. He smiled down at his daughter. “It’s been a long trip, and I couldn’t wait any longer.” It was then, when his eyes lifted from his daughter’s serious gaze, that he noticed Noah and Sean. The game had ended and Noah was staring intently at the man who had once been Sheila’s husband. “Pardon me,” Jeff announced with a wary, well-practiced smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Noah strode slowly up to the patio, his blue eyes challenging Jeff’s dark ones. Sheila could see that every muscle in Noah’s body had become rigid, the skin drawn taut. “The name’s Wilder,” he stated. “Noah Wilder. This—” he cocked his head in the direction of the blond boy in cut-off jeans

  “—is my son, Sean.” He extended his hand, took Jeff’s and gave it a short, but firm,
shake.

  “Jeff Coleridge.”

  Noah’s smile twisted as if smiling at a private irony. “I assumed as much.”

  “Wilder?” Jeff’s eyes followed Noah’s movements as he placed his body between those of ex-husband and wife. The move was subtle, but not lost on either Sheila or Jeff. “You’re connected with Wilder Investments?”

  “My father’s company.”

  “Ben Wilder is your father?” A note of genuine respect and surprise entered Jeff’s voice.

  “That’s right.” Noah didn’t return Jeff’s growing smile.

  “Oh…so you’re here because of the winery…as a business partner to Sheila?” Jeff assumed. He seemed relieved.

  “Partly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Noah is Mommy’s friend,” Emily interjected.

  “Is that right?” Jeff’s thin eyebrows raised, and his accusing dark eyes impaled Sheila.

  There was an awkward silence while Sheila struggled with the proper words. Both men regarded her intently. From the corner of her eye, Sheila noticed that Sean was walking toward the orchard, away from the uncomfortable scene. An embarrassed flush crept up her neck, but her eyes never wavered, and her voice was surprisingly steady. “Yes, that’s right. Noah is a friend of mine, a very good friend.”

  The nasty retort forming on Jeff’s lips died under the power of Noah’s stare and the innocent, wondering eyes of his child. He didn’t want to appear the fool. “I see,” he returned vaguely, as if he really didn’t understand at all. Then, as if dismissing the entire conversation as something that should have been swept under the rug, he pulled at the crease in his pants and bent on one knee to talk to his daughter. He took one of Emily’s little hands and pressed it between his own. He considered it a very fatherly gesture. “So tell me, Emmy, how’re you feeling?”