Tangled Vines
Copyright © 2014 by Melissa Collins
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Melissa Collins, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Social Media
Other Titles
“Hey, Mom,” I mumble a greeting around the carton of orange juice.
This, of course, prompts her to smack me upside the head. “I raised you better than that,” she chides playfully, as she reaches behind me into the cabinet for a glass. The funny part is that she can’t quite reach it, even on her tippy toes. Laughing at her general goofiness, I easily stretch above her and get out my own glass, like I should have in the first place.
Her broad smile is all the reward I need. She reaches up on her toes again to pop a quick kiss on my cheek. I consider not bending down, just to play around with her, but even I know that would be mean. “How was work?” she asks, pulling food out of the refrigerator.
“Hot,” is all I can manage between gulps of juice. Walking over to the trash can, I shrug as I toss the empty carton away. “Same as usual, I guess.” She offers me up a sad smile, but doesn’t say anything.
Leaning back against the counter, I cross my legs at the ankles and watch her cook. She’s a tiny thing, no more than five feet, and maybe one hundred and ten pounds on a good day. The knife she’s using to chop some veggies for a salad looks like it’s as big as her forearm. Walking over to her, I shake my head and put my hand over hers to steady it. “Sit, Mom. I’ll cook you dinner tonight, okay?”
She smiles brightly up at me, her baby blue eyes twinkling despite the exhaustion that’s always there. With the tenderness that only Mom is capable of, she pats my stubble-covered cheek and says, “That’s my boy.” In that instant, I wonder if she struggled with the largest knife in the entire kitchen, possibly in the entire world, just to get me to make the salad.
God, I love this woman. That’s why when she got a sick last year, it was an easy enough decision to move back home and give up everything I’d worked to build for myself. Before moving back to the east end of Long Island, back to where I’d grown up and promised never to return, I was finishing up my first year at a finance company in Boston where I went to college. It sounds melodramatic, but when Mom called to tell me she was sick, I ran straight home. Suddenly, everything I’d worked for, everything I’d thought I’d become, didn’t matter anymore.
Chuckling to myself about how she’s just conned me into cooking for her, I toss the tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce. As I look out the small kitchen window, my past comes back to me full-force. My father left before I was even born, so it’s always just been Mom and me. Having never known him, I can’t exactly say I hate him, but in the same breath, he left. So it’s impossible not to harbor some kind of anger for him. Mom held a decent job, but she was a single parent; that’s never easy, no matter the job. We weren’t poor, but we definitely couldn’t keep up with the Joneses of southern Long Island. That’s why when I was old enough, well, big enough really, to get a job, I started working on a local farm. It was hard physical work and it got me out of the house for the majority of the day – the perfect combination for a growing boy who hated where he lived.
But now, here I am, twenty-seven years old, living at home with my mom, working on the farm I worked on as a boy, while my framed MBA sits in a box upstairs in my childhood bedroom.
The gentle pat on my shoulder startles me out of my own thoughts. “You okay, Owen?” Mom asks, her voice soft and far away. She’s never said it, but a large part of me knows that she feels tremendous guilt for getting sick as if it was in her control. The pain in her eyes lets me know all I need to know; she feels as if she’s ruined my life.
Leaning down, I kiss the top of her head, and pull her to my side. “Better than ever,” I reassure her. “I’m just gonna grab a shower before dinner. I’ll take care of the rest when I’m done. Okay?” My eyes scan her face, making sure she understands not to lift a finger while I’m showering.
She pulls away from me, contorting her face as she does. “You better. You stink something awful, honey.” For added insult, she even pinches her nose closed, moving her hand in front of her face as if I’m actually stinking up the place.
Catching a whiff of myself on the way upstairs, even I can admit that I reek.
When I come back down to the kitchen twenty minutes later, the table is all set, the food is spread out, and Mom is propped up in her chair, utter exhaustion apparent in her face. “Mom,” exasperation colors my voice. “I told you I would take care of everything.”
Swiping a napkin over her forehead, she looks up at me. “I know, I know,” she huffs, shooing me away with her frail hand. “I just wanted to try and help out for once.” Her lips quiver as she struggles to hold back her emotions.
Dropping to my knees in front of her, I pull her hands into mine. “It’s okay, Mom. Everything will be okay.” My reassurances sound empty even to my own ears. At the doctor’s appointment the other day, they told us they still weren’t sure if the cancer was gone. When they said they still needed a few more tests, Mom broke down. “Come on. Let’s eat and forget about everything for a bit, huh?” Gently, I tip her chin up with my finger and swipe away the tears tracking down her cheeks. She nods subtly and we eat in comfortable silence.
When the phone rings an hour later, I’m elbow deep in dishes. “Ma!” I call into the living room. “Can you get that?” She doesn’t answer and the phone keeps ringing. Swiping a towel from the counter, I dry off my hands and pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
A cough sounds through the line, followed by a very formal greeting. “May I speak with Mr. Owen Carmichael?”
“This is he.” I match his formality, though the worry that it’s one of Mom’s doctors is bubbling at the surface. Realizing that he asked for me and not her calms me enough to finish the conversation.
He introduces himself as a Simon O’Neill, a lawyer. “I’m terribly sorry to inform you, but your father passed away.” Simply by mentioning him, my world tilts slightly off its axis and I sink into a chair. When the lawyer says a few hellos, I realize I haven’t said anything. In all honesty, my father has been dead to me for quite some time.
“Are you still there?”
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. I’m here.” All formality is gone, replaced by shock. “What do you want?” my question a snap of anger.
“We are reading his will tomorrow. There are a few items for which we need your attention.” He rambles on telling me the address of the place I need to be tomorrow.
“And if I don’t show?” Not a single part of me is curious to see what he’s left to me. The man hasn’t been a part of my life ever, and now that he’s gone, he wants to give me something to remember him by. Isn’t that the definition of irony?
The man’s voice stammers, trying desperately to fill the awkward silence. “We’ll still need you to sign over what he’s left you,” he says, his voice laced with trepidation. I’m sure that not showing up
will make things more difficult for him. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little interested to see what I had inherited. Because up to this point, all I can thank him for is a lifetime of struggling.
After scribbling down the address and his number, I hang up and try to let everything I’ve just learned in the last five minutes stop swirling through my brain. Mom hobbles past me. “I’m off to bed, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.” She bends down and kisses my cheek, and for the briefest second, I consider telling her what I’ve just learned, but the haggard and tired look on her face makes me think better of it. “Night, Mom.” Standing next to her, I help her down the hall into her room. She used to sleep upstairs, but since she’s been sick, it’s easier for her to stay on the first floor.
After trekking up to my own room, I flop down on the bed, fold my arms under my pillow, and contemplate the implications that tomorrow’s meeting holds. The last thought running through my head before I fall asleep is of how foolish I thought I was trying to run away from my past.
Damn crease. Cursing my skirt, I try for the millionth time to situate it, but it’s pissing me off. Sitting in the large conference room at O’Neill and Pratt Law Offices, I impatiently wait for everyone else to get here. When Vincent died last week, I was devastated. Bella Luna’s Vineyard is the only job I’ve ever known and Vincent was the only family I’d ever known as well. Over the last six years, I’ve worked my way up to the position I currently hold, Senior VP of Marketing and Operations.
It’s a position that does not, in any way, shape, or form, allow me to show any kind of uncertainty. So when I hear muted voices approaching from just outside the door, I sit upright in my chair and immediately stop fidgeting with the damn crease that obviously just can’t be fixed.
“Ms. Blackwell,” a middle-aged man says as he extends a hand to me. “Simon O’Neill,” he says by way of introduction as he shakes my hand. “Very sorry for the delay,” he adds as he makes his way around the table. After opening his briefcase and pulling out a stack of papers, he sits. “I hope my secretary got you anything you need.”
Nodding, I reassure him the delay hasn’t been a problem and his secretary was nothing but courteous. When I look at him curiously, a look of “okay, let’s get this started” plastered to my face, he says, “We’re just waiting on one more person.”
With the words who else dangling on my lips, the door cracks open behind me. Swiveling in my seat, I turn to see who the third person is and my mouth goes dry. Faded blue jeans hug this gorgeous man’s body, like a glove. A black fitted T-shirt stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, the sleeves stopping in the middle of his well-defined arms. Craning my head up just a little bit more, I nearly lose my ability to think as I take in the sight of his face.
A strong, hard jawline dusted in day-old stubble anchors his beautiful face. His bright blue eyes are a stark contrast to his tan skin. Though it feels like I’ve been staring at him for an hour, it’s been all but a few seconds between him opening the door, turning his back to close it, and walking toward the table. By the time he says, “Good morning,” I manage to roll my tongue back into my mouth. I find myself still squirming as I had just minutes ago as I tried to fix my skirt. Though now, my squirming is for an entirely different reason. The gravelly roughness, and nervously uncertain quality of his voice vibrates through me, even from across the table.
The men shake hands as sinfully-hot-mystery-man introduces himself as Owen. I’d never heard a sexier name in all my life.
Tapping his stack of papers on the table, Simon clears his throat. “All right, now that we’re all here, let’s get this underway.” Even though I hear some of Simon’s words filtering into my brain, all I can think about is how in the hell Owen, sexy-as-fucking-sin Owen, has anything to do with Vincent.
“There’s only one item on the will that needs to be addressed today and that’s the Bella Luna’s Vineyard Estate.” As the words tumble from Simon’s mouth, I notice Owen shift uncomfortably in his seat. When Simon starts spouting out numbers of how much the vineyard is worth and what Vincent’s wishes are for its future of operations, Owen tenses in his chair.
“He had how much?” What was an uncertain voice before, turns into a loud boom of anger, startling me at the sound of it.
Simon shuffles through some papers, adjusts his glasses on his nose and looks up proudly when he scans the line he needs. “It’s worth one-point-five million dollars.” Simon looks up at Owen, obviously expecting to be greeted with a look of gratitude. But instead of that, Owen simply glares at Simon, his knuckles turning white at his side. Since he doesn’t get the reaction he’d hoped for, Simon adds, “Annually,” rather awkwardly.
Owen jumps from his seat, tension vibrating all around him.
“Mr. Carmichael, please sit down.” The shakiness of Simon’s voice suddenly holds more command. “We have a lot to get through.”
After a stilted pause, Simon returns to his papers. “Now, he’s left you half of the estate, Mr. Carmichael.”
Anger radiates off Owen in waves. He refuses to take his seat and Simon glares at him, clearly frustrated at Owen’s reaction.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. O’Neill,” Owen snaps, resting his hands on the glass table. “But I’ve just learned that my father, who abandoned me and my mother before I was born, owned a winery worth millions of dollars a year while we barely had two dimes to rub together.” Owen storms over to the door, muttering, “I need a minute.” The room shakes as he slams the door closed.
Simon and I sit there, mouths agape, probably for very different reasons. Vincent has a son. In all the years I’d known him, from the time when I was interning through the business program at my high school to when I held his hand in the hospital room as he lay there dying, he’d never once mentioned a son. And I’ve definitely never seen a picture; that much I would have remembered.
Bits and pieces of my many conversations with Vincent flash through my head, and still I can’t remember a single time he’d mentioned a family. It’s not as if he’d owed me any kind of explanation, but I’d just assumed he’d always been open and honest with me as his “right hand man”, so to speak.
As I sit here trying to figure it all out, Owen walks back into the office, clearly in a better mood than when he’d stormed out. As he sits back in his seat, a loud huff passes his lips, which are full and beautiful. “Sorry about that. Just needed to get my head on straight. Okay, so half of the estate. That’s … that’s huge.” Owen nods at me and I feel like a giddy teenager, nearly bouncing in my seat simply because he’s acknowledged my presence. In that moment, I recognize just how much I need to stay away from a man like Owen Carmichael. He makes me forget who I’m supposed to be, even if only for a few minutes. I give myself the mental pep talk I so obviously need.
You are Elle Blackwell. Vice president of marketing and operations at the biggest winery on Long Island. You cannot be weak or vulnerable. Some men might not respect women who are in a position of power, but you will not be disrespected.
Smoothing my hands over my skirt, I shoot Owen a look that I hope says, “I’m all business,” but I’m not so sure I succeed.
My head is in a tailspin. The vineyard I’ve worked so hard to help build up is now being given to someone I’ve never met. From hot and bothered two minutes ago, to angry and upset now, I work hard to rein in my emotions.
Now that I’ve gathered my wits, I can’t hold back the question I’d been dying to ask since Simon told us Owen was getting half the vineyard. “What qualifications do you have exactly for running a vineyard of this stature?”
Owen glares at me as my eyes fall to his rather casual attire. Who shows up to a legal appointment in jeans, anyway? “I’ve worked at Bogart’s Farm since I was a teenager,” he mumbles, the disdain in his voice unmistakable.
A not-so-humble scoff slips out of my mouth. “A small, co-op, vegetable farm, really?” I ask sarcastically, even though I know exactly what ki
nd of place it is. “And what exactly can a bastard farm boy offer to Bella Luna’s?” I spit venomously across the table; my sole intention is to be mean, and by the looks of it, I’ve achieved that.
Owen’s jaw looks like it could crack walnuts; his teeth are clenched together so tightly.
“That’s enough,” Simon declares. “It doesn’t matter. Vincent left him half of the estate.” There’s an “I’m not taking any more shit” quality to his voice.
After straightening his tie, and settling his voice, Simon returns to his seat. Simon nods at both Owen and me before he continues reading through the papers. I can’t help but feel like a chastised child. Even I can’t believe I just called him a bastard farm boy. The apology hangs off my lips, but I can’t get over the idea that something I’ve worked so hard for is being taken away from me, well, at least half of it.
Most of the rest of the papers contain information of which I’m already aware. The state of affairs at the vineyard, yearly earnings, and costs of operations, but what astounds me is the part about how the rest of the estate is to be divvied up.
Shocked, I scoot my chair forward. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that?” I ask when what Simon’s just said makes absolutely no sense to me.
“Sure thing, Ms. Blackwell,” Simon reassures, slipping his glasses back up into position. “Mr. Carmichael…” My eyes instinctively roam over to Owen, who is shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Simon also notices Owen’s discomfort and averts his eyes, more than likely for the sake of getting this over with sooner rather than later. “Vincent designated that half of the estate goes to you, Mr. Carmichael.” Simon asserts his statement with a confident look over at Owen to make sure that nothing can be misunderstood. “And the other half, he left to you, Ms. Blackwell.”
“You mean to the company, right? Vincent left it to me in proxy, to the name of the estate, right?” It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, the only one that makes sense. From across the table, I feel Owen’s eyes staring laser beams over at me. His glare makes me feel naked and vulnerable, but it also makes me feel the pulsating vibrations of his anger.
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