by West, CJ
The S80 was much more comfortable than the BMW he’d been driving in France. He sunk deep into the familiar seat and wove his way out of the garage behind a steering system that didn’t feel like it was lifted from an Indy racer. Out on the access road, he clicked on the cruise control and relieved his leg from the steady pressure on the accelerator that caused him so much pain. As he stretched in his seat, his bicep brushed the stack of bills in his pocket. He took it out and tapped it against the steering wheel, wondering what motivated Randy’s antics.
It wasn’t money. Back at the farmhouse, he could have taken all the money and left Deirdre and her husband behind for Charlie to deal with. By the time Charlie returned with the sawdust, Randy could have been miles away, but to him, a sidekick was more valuable than money. He smuggled sixty thousand dollars into the country for fun. He threw ten thousand to Charlie because the stunt alone wasn’t enough. Randy reveled in other people’s terror. That’s what he needed: the warnings, the horrified, knowing looks. He wanted people to think he was insane and that he’d kill himself. He needed them to keep watching.
Charlie remembered a dark night in the park. The Mercedes was cruising down the walkways at eighty miles per hour with the headlights off. The narrow strip of concrete barely fit the SLR and the only light came from an occasional post lantern that lit a bench or a fork in the path. Randy was driving more light-to-light than down-the-path and several times the car skidded and slid out onto the grass, but every time the back end wandered, Randy brought it under control without incident. He liked driving fast at night because oncoming headlights helped him avoid his greatest fear: unsure nervous drivers, who’d be better off in a taxi. Someday one of them would flinch, lose control, and hit him head-on. He often said, “When you’re going a hundred, there’s no defense against incompetence.”
There wasn’t much chance of hitting another car in the park and pedestrians weren’t nearly the problem they were during the day. Sweat broke Charlie’s skin as he remembered gripping the dashboard as Randy veered into the grass and narrowly missed a tree. He jerked the wheel back on the path and then swerved again to miss a bench. The wheels on Charlie’s side were a foot off the ground and he thought surely the car would roll over and kill them both. Randy kept the car up on two wheels for the next sixty feet, howling out his window the whole time. He executed his antics with the precision of a stuntman on a well-scripted bit, not a madman on an ad hoc rave. Maybe Hollywood was his calling.
Not everything with Randy was life or death as long as there was some risk. He loved jet skis and was particularly fond of lowering the nose and drenching Charlie with the high-powered exhaust. Paintball was the safest thing to do with Randy. At least you couldn’t get killed. As long as you checked his paint to make sure it wasn’t frozen and you kept your goggles on, you’d be ok. Charlie was patient and an excellent shot. He hid himself well and waited for Randy to wander into view, usually allowing him to get dangerously close before he opened fire. The knee made Charlie an easy target once Randy found him, so he avoided open terrain and hunkered down in the thickest part of the field every time. After a few punishing losses, Randy insisted on teaming up when they played.
Charlie turned the Volvo down Route 88 and admired the thick stands of trees on either side. This was the Westport he’d known since he was ten. He cruised past long stretches of forest occasionally interrupted by a farm or a modest home. In two months, this road would be clogged with beachgoers inching their way to Horseneck, but for now, the road belonged to the locals. Charlie turned down Hixbridge Road, past the farms on each side, over the river where he had fished on a hundred long summer afternoons, and past the long stretch of vines on the south side of the road. As he approached the winery, the vineyard spread north and south, interrupted only by a few houses the Marstons rented to vineyard workers.
Finally, he was home. Clamshells crackled under the tires as he rode along the white driveway and over the same potholes that had been there when he left for college six years earlier. A narrow strip of grass framed the left side of the drive and a tangle of bushes rose abruptly where the blades of the mower didn’t reach. On the opposite side, an expansive, if not manicured, lawn sloped down through a few scattered trees and beyond a mossy stone wall. There it met forty acres of grapevines that stretched off toward the horizon. Further down the drive, he reached the four buildings he’d spent most of his childhood in and around. Two houses, the long red barn, and the tasting room lined the hillside between the vineyard below and the crest of the hill in the forest above.
The first house he passed, a traditional New England cape decked out in weathered shingles, had housed nearly a dozen people when the Marstons rented rooms to vineyard hands. It was Charlie’s now, situated only a hundred yards from the barn, and in desperate need of renovation. His parents’ home next door had been in similar condition when the Marstons moved in, but now it had more than doubled with the expansion of the second floor, a garage at one end, and a greenhouse attached at the other. Neither home was as large as the guesthouse in Piolenc and Charlie was startled by the contrast.
As wonderful as Chateau de Piolenc was, he was glad to see the tiny cape whether his parents returned home or not. He’d been back here a few times over the last six years, but coming home to stay was an entirely different feeling. He drove alongside the red barn with its familiar roofline, still amazed at how big the building was. Every tree welcomed him. He pictured himself among the machines he knew so well. This would all be his when he proved himself equal to the responsibility.
Charlie parked close to the fence opposite the parking area to shorten the walk to the gift shop. He stretched and admired the faded shingles and bright, white trim of the tasting room. An older woman with short, dark hair peeked out the entrance and walked toward him.
“Excuse me, sir, would you mind parking over there?” She pointed behind him.
Charlie shut the door and walked toward her, minimizing his limp as best he could. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met.”
“I’m Lillian, the gift shop manager. Your car is blocking the walkway. Would you mind moving it?”
“Hi, Lillian. I’m Charlie. I have a really bad knee, so I always park there. I hope you don’t mind.”
Before Lillian could protest again, a young man ran over from the barn, his footsteps crunching over the shells. His forehead and chin were quite pronounced, making his head look several sizes too big for his five-foot-ten frame. Sebastian thrust out a hand to Charlie and shook his vigorously.
“Hey, Charlie. I see you’ve met Lily. How was France?”
“Good. How are things?”
“Not bad. Come on in. I’ll get you up to speed. You need a drink?”
Lillian looked at the car and then raised her eyebrows at Sebastian.
Charlie tried not to smile.
“Lily, this is Charlie Marston. He’s been with his father in France for about a month and, from what I hear, he’s back to stay.”
Lily realized her mistake and stepped back sheepishly.
“Nice to meet you, Lily.” Charlie waved and followed Sebastian to the barn.
Inside, the fermenters looked as shiny and neat as the day they were installed. The oak barrels on the opposite wall were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Sebastian had been working here for eight years and for the last few months, he’d been managing the vineyard and overseeing the winemaking while the Marstons were in France. The fermentation room at least appeared to be in good order.
They moved into the small office where Charles had experimented unsuccessfully with new wines in the early years. After five seasons, he discovered a knack for acquiring and turning around winery operations and decided to leave winemaking to the professionals.
Charlie dropped into his father’s chair and looked around the tiny, cluttered room. This was the life ahead of him. He’d work in this chair day after day and live in the house one hundred yards up the drive. This was the work he’d trained for and, wit
hout football, this was his future. Charlie half listened to Sebastian while he explained that the economy was picking up and they were losing vineyard hands faster than ever. The pruning was done, but most of the vines still needed to be secured and none of the catch wires had been lowered. With just four hands for over eighty acres of grapes, it was going to be a long, hard spring. Charlie wasn’t looking forward to working on his feet all day. The winery he could handle, but the vineyard would be torture. Part of him longed for the wild and free nights with Randy as he listened to Sebastian drone on about the work that lay ahead.
Chapter Thirteen
The postman in Piolenc was an unreliable sort of fellow whose arrival was less predictable than New England weather. Charles longed for the Westport carrier, who arrived promptly between twelve-thirty and quarter-to-one every day. Back in the early years, after the Marstons left their first winery in Southbridge and moved to Westport, times were harsh. Many months the bills were long overdue. Charles often sat transfixed by the silver box at the end of the drive, anxiously waiting for a payment that would appease the suppliers for another few months. Some days he walked the thousand feet to the mailbox two or three times before the mail finally arrived, usually to disappoint him with a handful of bills and solicitations. Eventually he learned to time his walk moments before Rick arrived with the mail.
The business was in a different sort of peril now and once again Charles eagerly watched the road over a field of brown vines. He sat alone on the porch occasionally nibbling his sandwich as if enjoying a leisurely lunch, but he was poised to make a dignified rush to the mailbox the second he caught sight of the postman. He’d worked too hard to let Elizabeth stumble across his secret now.
When Rosalie stepped out on the porch and inquired about his meal for the third time, he relinquished his tray and shifted his attention to a handful of reports he’d brought from his office. He passed another hour pretending to read; still no mail. The idling couldn’t continue another day. He decided to visit the postman in the morning, slip him a few euros, and end this infernal waiting.
In the distance, Elizabeth was halfway through her daily walk around the fields. The vines weren’t much to look at this time of year. The buds had just begun to swell, but the grass was deep green and there were hints of color in the hills all around. In three weeks, the views would be spectacular. Until then, the regimen would keep her fit and the time alone in the serene landscape would replenish her deep well of patience.
Finally, the red sedan approached. Charles hopped from his seat, but froze on the second step as the mail-carrier recognized Elizabeth at the roadside and slowed to a stop five hundred yards short of the mailbox.
“No! No! No!” Charles blurted. Realizing his mistake, he snapped his head around. Thankfully, no one was within earshot, but Elizabeth and the mail carrier were a half mile away and there was nothing he could do to intervene. He sat back down to watch, hoping there wasn’t another threatening letter in the mail.
Elizabeth hiked up the slope toward the car and leaned down to face the driver. Something white passed between them and they lingered for about two minutes. Charles imagined her sputtering on in near-perfect French, much faster than he could comprehend. She was captivating when she spoke. She radiated an innocence that you could almost touch and a feeling of warm interest when she focused her attention on you. Her elegant looks didn’t hurt either. Charles imagined the man in the car was as entranced by her as he was when they had first met.
Elizabeth carried herself with the pride and confidence of those who’ve personally erected the pedestal they stand upon. She had poured herself into her husband’s struggle to turn around a string of failed wineries and she had far surpassed even his expectations. Each turn-around progressed smoother than the last. Sales gushed to new highs and the Marston brand shined like a privately-held gem. Her pride was only natural, but her achievements hadn’t sprung entirely from hard work. Evidence of the scam surfaced around her, but Elizabeth couldn’t ponder such things even in her darkest moments. She pressed on, finding success at every turn. She was too smart to be blinded to the truth forever, but that didn’t matter anymore. The truth had just been delivered into her hands.
Charles watched across the field as the car drove past the mailbox without stopping and disappeared down the road. Elizabeth drifted down the bank, and followed the vines along the roadside, shuffling envelopes as she went. Charles prayed there would be no note today, but he was about to discover how grossly he’d underestimated his adversary. He told himself the blackmailer would let him suffer before writing again. And even if there was a note, Elizabeth wouldn’t open a letter addressed to him. She seemed to confirm this as she walked steadily along toward the drive with a handful of envelopes hanging down at her side. Charles thought about rushing to meet her, but if there was something in the mail, he couldn’t prevent her from seeing it. He feigned tranquility and watched as she began shuffling again and then slowed to read something. She stopped and stared at the house, directly at him, if it were possible from four hundred yards. Somehow he could see the anger in her posture. She walked slowly now, in turn looking at the paper in her hands, the ground, and staring at the house.
Charles was filled with anguish thinking she’d opened a letter addressed to him, but then his guilt reminded him that his transgressions were far more obscene.
As Elizabeth neared the porch, her back stiffened. She glared intently at the front entrance and away from Charles. Her steps were quick, her footfalls heavy as if getting inside was her sole mission. Her sneakers pounded their way up the eight granite steps to the porch.
“How was your walk?”
The door slammed closed and Elizabeth scampered up the marble staircase.
She’d been fine until she met the postman. Charles knew it had something to do with Friday’s letter. He’d seen families fall apart when their businesses collapsed. He’d caused it to happen. He was going to fight this, but win or lose, he wasn’t letting go of Elizabeth.
Charles gathered his courage and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Elizabeth lay facedown on the bed with a letter in her outstretched hand. A single envelope lay unopened beside her. The rest of the mail had spilled onto the wooden floor.
Charles sat gingerly, his back against the footboard.
“Let’s talk about this, Elizabeth, whatever it is.”
She rolled over. Her cheeks were wet with tears as she waved the rumpled letter at him. “You bastard! How could you?”
“What is it? What are you upset about?”
“Don’t play innocent. How could you hide this from me for fifteen years?”
Charles hung his head. It was hard to imagine this had been going on for so long and harder still to imagine how bitter it must be for her to learn the truth. She’d never understand the pressure that drove him to it. She’d see only the thirst for money, for the thrill, a hunger to feed greed beyond control. He had blindly taken so much. Now his own family was threatening to unravel and he felt the seeds of desperate sadness taking root within him. He’d sewn these same seeds within other father’s hearts and nurtured them as they blossomed into panic, exasperation, and loss. In a flash of self-pity and doubt, his own destruction seemed a fitting punishment.
“Who is she?”
Charles shook his head. “There is no she. What are you talking about?”
“There’s no hiding it anymore.” She waved the note again. “The address, it’s from Westport. You got some girl from the winery pregnant, didn’t you?”
“No. I swear it. There’s no girl. Never!” Charles snatched the note.
Poor Elizabeth,
Your husband is a very bad man. He’s been lying about me for 15 years. Take Charlie and get away before it’s too late. Charles is going to have an accident, but Charlie is a fine man. He’ll take care of you.
Fifteen years earlier was 1990. The Marstons bought the Westport winery that August, a few months after the propylene glycol was dis
covered. But who was he lying about? Roger Joyet and his wife died in July of that year, and Charles forced most of the eight-person staff to move on after the sale.
So, who wrote the note? he wondered.
Elizabeth was staring at him as he read the note for the third time. She picked up a second letter and slapped him with it. “What’s this about?”
The sight of the unopened note gave Charles pause. The blackmailer had already plunged Elizabeth into a tailspin. If his goal was to drive them apart, giving her this note might be catastrophic. Charles walked over to the dresser, retrieved the original note, and handed it to her. At least he knew what that one said. As he sat down on the bed, she stepped away and paced as she read.
She looked confused when she finished. “Six failed wineries. What does that mean? All the wineries we buy are distressed.”
She paced angrily mulling the note. The truth still eluded her.
Charles said nothing.
Elizabeth tore open the third letter and read.
“Oh my God,” she said, repulsed.
Her eyes moved frantically down the page, her breath tighter and tighter in her throat. When she finished, the hand holding the note dropped to her side. The blood drained from her face and her arms hung limp as if all her energy were channeled into a wide-eyed glare at the thief she’d married. She looked through him, searching their history for clues that her life was not a lie. Her eyes flicked back and forth, assembling the pieces.
Charles knew the veil was lifted. He took the letter and read.
Dearest Charles,