Where Dreams Are Born (Angelo's Hearth)

by Buchman, M. L.

  “A long way, Daddy.” This year had been both slow and fast. It had been such a mix that she barely knew what to make of it. The loss of her father, enough money to live off for a decade without any other income, her increasing fame as a columnist, and Russell.

  Dear Russell. He sat a dozen yards away facing Puget Sound, carefully not looking her direction. The water stretched from Admiralty Head here to the Port Townsend light ten miles away on the Olympic Peninsula. His unease showed in the way he plucked strands of grass from the high bluff edge, worried them into thin strips with his fingernail before pitching them off the edge. Did he even notice that the sea breeze up the cliff face was lifting his offerings and dumping them behind him?

  “Hey there.”

  He jerked around at her call. Hustling over he almost sat, then stood again. She patted the grass and he thudded down beside her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, no gut wrencher this time. Just about my growing up and how much he enjoyed those years.”

  He pulled her over and kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad. You didn’t need another like the last one. I’m still angry about that. Hell of a bomb to leave in a letter, coward’s way out.”

  That was her Russell. He was all straight-ahead and forthright, as strong and straight as the lighthouse that rose three-stories high behind them. It had made perfect sense to her, but she’d never been able to explain it to Russell’s satisfaction.

  Her father was gentle and considerate. He wouldn’t risk their last weeks together with a fight. If he’d been accusatory or angry, he’d have put it in the first letter, not waited until August. She was glad she’d opened the letters one a month. If she’d read some of this right after his death, she’d have been hurt much more. And really pissed.

  “I hear that you’ve got more business.” Some things it was simply better not to talk about.

  He pulled another grass blade and started his inattentive dissection.

  “The head of a small consortium of stores were eating at Angelo’s, attracted by my ads. He told them about Perrin’s. Turns out she shops there, because of the ads.” He shrugged, those big shoulders rising unevenly then settling only part way back.

  “Then why did you say yes?”

  Again the shrug. “Well, I’m still a month or so from getting the boat ready. And I want to take another navigation class or two. Gives me something to do.”

  She nodded, not wanting to push. She had enough worries of her own. But she was worried about the hunch as he sat. And she was worried about him sailing off into the sunset and what that might mean to them, though they’d agreed to not discuss such things.

  “I got an interesting phone call this morning.”

  He half turned his head to show he was listening, but he didn’t stop his botanical experiments. The scent of new-mown grass escaped from his little cuttings.

  “From Italy.”

  Another blade went flying only to be grabbed by the breeze up the face of the eighty-foot cliff and tossed behind him. Another tiny offering at the base of the lighthouse.

  “Sienna.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Montalcino wines.”

  “And this means?” He still wasn’t looking at her.

  “The Italians heard I was talking to Mondavi and they want a shot at me.” It was kind of nice to be wanted. Even though her mind was made up, at least if she were going to make the change. She’d thought Mondavi’s treatment of her in June was wooing a wine reviewer.

  Last week they called with a much more serious offer. They offered to create a new position specifically for her, wine director. She’d bring her palate to the vintner’s aid, her writing to marketing’s aid, and her insights to the winery’s aid. A hand in shaping one of the finest wineries in America. They’d invited her down for the harvest as a “get to know each other.”

  The wine-column world was great, but it was limited. She saw that now. Russell had been onto it way back at the beginning and her dad agreed with him. Wine reviewers lived on the outside looking in and, now that she was aware of it, she hated that feeling. She wanted to be in the game, effecting decisions, shaping flavors, accentuating the superb, casting out the ordinary.

  “Sienna?” His attention shifted at last to her face.

  “I’m not really interested, but they were very persuasive. I’m going to California during the harvest in a couple of weeks, so I’ll just fly to Italy from there, maybe catch their harvest time as well.”

  “Sounds good.”

  # # #

  But it wasn’t. Russell couldn’t think of a thing to say all the way home. Neither of them was grumpy. Cassidy had tried to start the conversation a couple of times, but it always fizzled out. As much her doing as his. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but it was a companionable one, each lost in their own thoughts.

  He’d dropped her at the condo to write her next column, she might come by the boat later. They spent most nights together, as often as not on the boat. They both claimed it was to keep Nutcase company, but he didn’t sleep well in high-rise condos and they both knew it.

  California. Italy. Even if she stayed in Seattle or went back to New York, her life was on land, attached to root and vine.

  His future was on the ocean.

  The more he thought about that though, the less comfortable it was. He enjoyed the photography. He’d really liked working with Angelo and Perrin. They’d been fun and made him feel good about himself and about what he could do. The boat would be done soon, as done as wooden sailboats ever were. And he liked knowing the local waters. They were familiar and comfortable.

  The consortium of little stores might be fun. But he hadn’t told her about the Seattle City Trade Association that had approached him about a national campaign. He’d turned them down cold despite the vast sums in their advertising budget. He didn’t do the ads for Angelo or Perrin for the money. The SCTA was maybe a little more personal than a BMW and a Rolex, but maybe not. Maybe it was the same thing, just wrapped up in the softer, kinder style of the Pacific Northwest.

  Was the sailing just another escape? Another way to not have to truly make a decision about his life? But that didn’t feel right either. He was far happier on the boat than he’d ever been on dry land.

  He fed Nutcase out in the cockpit, grabbed at a beer, and cracked open a fresh tube of Ritz crackers.

  Perry moseyed by and Russell called him over. “Got something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

  He ducked below and grabbed the small album and another beer.

  Perry came aboard and was trying to feed a cracker to Nutcase.

  “Don’t get her started on my private stash.”

  “Not interested anyway.” He ate the cracker himself and opened the beer with a nod of thanks.

  “Finally figured out what you were talking about. Made this for you to say thanks.” He handed the album to him. It was a small one, one picture on each facing page, forty photos in all.

  Perry opened to the first page. A photo of Nutcase, curled up in her cardboard box, not much bigger than the lens cap he’d tucked beside her for scale.

  The next pages were her discovering the boat. And him discovering his companion. He knew the rest by heart as Perry paged through the book.

  Nutcase sleeping on the boom, another looking out at the lighthouses. A look of fascination, then of terror at a breaching orca. Arguing with a seagull twice her size at close enough range Russell hadn’t been sure whether or not to run to her aid. But she’d won handily, protecting their boat like a hissing hellcat, the seagull flapping off his bowsprit perch in disgust.

  The final picture hadn’t been his, but it was arguably the best of the lot. Cassidy had been behind the camera. He’d been asleep on the deck. Nutcase asleep on his chest. The high cliffs and towering Destruction Island lighthouse visible as a soft background. A blow-up of that one hung in his cabin, right next to the final one of Cassidy and Nutcase from Perrin’s photo shoot. />
  Perry stood and went below without asking permission. It was just the way the old man was. He was harmless, so it was easy to ignore his eccentricities. Maybe he needed to use the head.

  He came back on deck and held the closed book with both hands for a moment. Then he returned it to Russell.

  “No, it’s yours. I made it for you.”

  The old man shook his head. Took a couple of the Ritz crackers, raised his beer in a salute, and stepped off the boat. When he was even with Russell, standing on the finger pier, he took a long swallow of his beer. The old blue eyes wrinkled in what Russell had learned was a smile.

  “The Sailing Cat. First in a series. Big hit.” Then he was gone.

  # # #

  Russell played with Nutcase a little, finished his beer, and idly flipped through the album in the failing light of the day. Perry was right. New York would eat it up. He’d send it to Arnie and she’d have it sitting next to every bookstore cash register in the country by Christmas.

  At the second to last page, there was the photo of Nutcase sleeping on his chest. He could have sworn he’d put that one at the end. He turned to the final page.

  There she was. Cassidy, in that incredible evening gown, the boat and the city a soft backdrop, Nutcase curled up in her arms. The look on her face still blew him away. He thought he’d photographed love before, but this was as if he’d only photographed the word itself and here was the true emotion. There was love, humor, passion, and, something indescribable. Whatever it was, it made him feel incredible that for even that instant of time it had been aimed at him.

  Perry had nailed it. Her entry into his life made the book complete, made it personal, told the story. It would go ballistic.

  Stowing the crackers, he locked the cabin and headed for Cassidy’s. He couldn’t lose her to some status-seeking California winery. Couldn’t lose her to a bunch of high-rolling Italians. Screw their tacit agreement to not discuss the future. There had to be a way to keep her and he was going to do something about it now.

  He punched in her keycode at the lobby entry and made it all the way to her door, had even raised his hand to knock, before the absurdity of the situation sunk in.

  Since when had he ever said the right thing? He should go consult with Angelo. Or should he? His friend had talked about Jo enough, but hadn’t done anything. Granted, his restaurant was taking off. Really taking off. Cassidy had done another write-up and this one had caught the attention of the magazines. Suddenly Sunset, Conde Nast, and Cigar were coming out to write up “Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth” above and beyond Cassidy’s column. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to get advice on how to handle his girlfriend.

  Girlfriend. He’d had lovers, but not a girlfriend. At least not since high school. Natasha Beckworth, senior prom. Though she’d been a lover, too. Maybe more lover and less girlfriend. Great sex, but he couldn’t remember a thing about what she did or didn’t like.

  He knocked.

  No answer.

  Harder.

  Still nothing. But he heard a clink of glass, or something.

  Harder still.

  Now there was an echoing silence.

  Then he heard it. A long, low moan. A moan of someone in pain.

  He threw his shoulder into the door, there was a loud crackling of wood.

  He hit it again, with all the force of his college linebacker days and the door blew inward.

  She wasn’t in the kitchen or the bedroom-office. He raced into the living room and stumbled to a halt.

  The table was littered with wine bottles and half empty wine glasses, but no Cassidy. A bottle of red had fallen to the floor and a long red stain spread across the white rug.

  No one in the bathroom, nor the master bedroom.

  The moan again and he dashed into the bedroom she’d converted into a wine cellar.

  There she sat, still in the jeans and shirt she’d worn to the lighthouse this morning, but they no longer looked so pristine. Red stains dribbled all down her front. Her legs were splayed before her like a little girl and another twenty or more wine bottles were open around her. Most had a matching glass, some part full. Most empty.

  She moaned again, struggling to uncork yet another bottle. In no condition to do so, the corkscrew kept slipping from her fingers. The moan was part growl of frustration and part wounded animal.

  He squatted down in front of her. Russell considered removing the bottle from her hands, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor as she was wielding the corkscrew as much like a sword as a kitchen tool.

  “What are you doing, Cass?”

  “I’ve lost it, Daddy. I’ve lost it somewhere.” She looked about the room for a moment, ceasing her efforts to uncork the bottle. She didn’t turn his direction.

  “Lost what?”

  She bowed her head down over the bottle and stopped struggling with it.

  “I can’t taste it. I can’t. I tried. Just like you taught me. But I can’t taste it.”

  He slid the corkscrew and bottle with the mangled cork from her fingers and set them carefully aside.

  “That must have been a hell of a letter.” Her Dad was really starting to piss him off. Next one, he wouldn’t leave until he was sure she really was fine.

  He did his best to lift her clear of the nest of glasses. A couple fell onto the hardwood floor and rolled away as he got her in his arms, he’d have to deal with those later. Hopefully none of it would leak down into the ceiling of the nineteenth floor below before he could mop it up.

  She kept complaining as he moved her.

  “My life is over. Can’t taste anyting. All those years. So mussh work. Gone. Wasshted. Down the drain. Corked. Thas it. I’m corked. Just like a bad shwine.”

  Their first stop was the bathroom floor. She wasn’t steady enough to stand while he stripped her. He looked at the stains all down her front and decided to settle for expediency. He set her in the tub clothes and all, then cranked up the shower.

  “Cassidy Knowles. Corked. Spoiled-ed in the bottle. So sad.”

  Too drunk to even protest, she sputtered at the water a bit as it ran down her face, but that was all. He did his best to clean her up with a washcloth as the water ran over her. He aimed the spray off her face and trotted back to the other room. Four of the bottles she’d knocked over had corks partly rammed into them. The three glasses looked as if they been pretty empty. Either she’d been pouring less as she went, or drinking more. He threw a towel on the worst patch and decided he’d come back later.

  The glasses in the living room were much fuller. She’d still been just tasting in here. The red in the living room was going to be a different cleanup problem. He righted the bottle. A 1969 Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. That stain on her carpet was worth hundreds of dollars. He let his eye range over the dozens of others open on the table. Thousands of dollars of wine. Damn! And he thought his studio parties had been extravagant.

  A curse sounded from the bathroom and the sound of splashing. He hustled back to the more immediate problem.

  # # #

  Russell sat on the balcony off Cassidy’s bedroom and watched the stars slowly turn over Puget Sound. Once she’d finished emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet, he’d showered her as well as he could and managed to get her to spit after he brushed her teeth for her. He’d tucked her into bed after forcing her to drink some water and take a B12 vitamin he found in her medicine cabinet. The best hangover cure, though she was still going to have a doozy.

  The cleanup had taken a while. Handwashing thirty-seven glasses. Hard to believe she even had that many or the room to store them in the small kitchen. Dinner for eight, four wines for a meal, maybe not that hard to imagine, but it was still a lot of washing. The red wine stain answered fairly well to the old trick of club soda and salt, but she’d still need a professional carpet cleaner.

  Now he sat with a glass of the Bordeaux and some crackers and cheese. It was somewhere before dawn. The city lit itself, t
hough the stars could still be seen, and some vague twinkling on the distant shores, Bainbridge Island and off to the right, Kingston. What perversity had led her to get a condo facing what her father had lost?

  Well, nothing to do by wait.

  Wait for what? He must be more tired than he thought. He rubbed a hand over his face. There’d been something so urgent that he’d rushed over.

  The future. Their future. Right.

  Well, it was hard to go a whole lot farther without knowing what Cassidy was thinking. That in itself was kind of funny. He’d done a lot of growing this last year. Julia had pointed it out when he went back to New York for a visit last week.

  He’d walked out on Melanie with no thought for her and no awareness of her feelings. When their intensity surprised him, he’d gone to the West Coast anyway. Now… Now he was in limbo while Cassidy considered her destiny in California and Italy for Christ’s sake.

  For the hundredth time he looked at the water-logged letter on the little wrought iron table. He had found it crammed into her jean’s pocket.

  If I could wish anything, it was that you had stayed in the vineyards with me. Then I wouldn’t have had to sell my life’s work to strangers.

  “Good thing you’re dead, old man. Or we’d be having some words right about now.” Hell of a burden for a dead man to place on his living daughter. As if we don’t have enough problems making our own decisions.

  “Russell?” her voice trembled out into the darkness. He hadn’t heard her get up, even though he’d left the sliding glass door open for the purpose. The late night lull was past and the first sounds of the waking city had begun. Street cleaners, service trucks, the crazy, hyper-driven corporates, restaurant owners. Probably not all that long until Angelo would be awake and down at the market visiting the fish, produce, and meat vendors.

  “Right here, Cassie.”

  She came to him in the faint glow of the city lights. She lowered herself into the chair beside him with a hesitancy of movement that he knew well from past experience. Once she was settled, she took his hand. He held it lightly, knowing that everything must be hurting.

  “I feel…”