“Can I help you?” she asked, keeping the screen door closed between them.
He was a stranger but something about his jaw line seemed familiar. His shaggy auburn hair glistened in the sun as though full of burning embers. When he turned to face her, surprise was evident in his expression. “This isn’t Fredrickson’s, is it,” he said. He frowned and glanced down at a map folded in his hand.
“Nope.” Margaret opened the screen to step out on the porch beside him. Harvest time was close and the almost overpowering sweetness of vine-ripened grapes mingled with the man’s musky scent. His t-shirt was damp with perspiration along the neck and sleeves, and he smelled like Davy did when he came home from playing soccer after school. She glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see a car in the driveway. She pointed across the field where he’d been staring moments before. “Fredrickson’s is on the other side of that vineyard. You’re almost there. Just another half mile down the road.”
He groaned, reluctantly lifted his bags, and slipped the straps over his shoulders. “Half a mile, huh? Great.” He blew out a breath of frustration. “It’s my own fault. I should have called Billie for a ride, but I thought—hey, this is California, everyone hitches. Darned if I didn’t have to walk the last ten miles. Apparently, folks around here are either leery of hitchhikers or they want to kill them. That was the most dangerous road I’ve ever walked on.”
“You know Billie Fredrickson?” Margaret asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Sure. I’ve known her since I was a baby. She’s my sister.” His gaze abruptly left her face and traveled downward with blatant male appreciation, as though suddenly seeing her for the first time. He grinned and whistled through his front teeth. “I am definitely in California. Has anyone ever told you you’re the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe?”
Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard a man express appreciation of her resemblance to the Hollywood icon. In fact, in the past year it had been almost commonplace. So much so, that she contemplated dying her hair a dark shade of brown. But this time it didn’t irk her—it angered her. Maybe because he was Billie’s brother, or maybe because he was an immature, scruffy, smelly man, and she’d taken an instant dislike to him. Whatever the case, there wouldn’t be any happy family get-togethers during the holidays if Handel married this jerk’s sister.
“Gee, aren’t you original. Your sister must be so proud.” She snapped the screen open, stepped inside, and let it bang shut behind her before she closed and locked the front door.
*****
“Terrific.” Adam stared at the ancient two-story house. Billie would not be happy. He’d just offended one of her neighbors. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? A curtain fluttered at a side window and that was slammed shut too.
He let his gaze follow the curves and lines of the shuttered house looming before him. It was a pretentious farmer’s shelter to say the least, the windows inset with ornamental framing, three chimneys rising collectively toward the sky, and a center tower that may once have held a bell, but was now enclosed. He shouldn’t be surprised by the inhospitable reaction of the owner. Only a snob would live in a house with a bell tower.
He squinted up at the tower room. It did add an air of mystery to the structure. It probably had great acoustics too. Not to mention, the view from the windows would be amazing with a panorama of the valley and vineyards. He could imagine plugging in his guitar and jamming up there. He shook his head and turned away, retreating down the oak-lined driveway. That was something he’d never experience.
Adam picked up his pace when he heard the sound of an engine roaring to a stop at the end of the driveway. Maybe he could catch a ride. A school bus had pulled onto the shoulder of the road. The door opened. A young boy slowly hopped down the steps, one at a time, as though he had all afternoon.
“Hurry along, Davy. I haven’t got all day.” The driver scratched at his forehead where gray hair poked free of a baseball cap.
The boy took a leap and landed on the ground about five feet from the bus, a backpack clutched in one hand and a soccer ball in the other. He dropped the ball and waved. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hadley.”
The driver grunted, pulled the door closed, and shifted into gear.
Adam picked up the dropped ball and bounced it from one thigh to another, tapped it with the side of his foot and sent it back to the boy. The kid dropped his book bag to catch the ball and stared in awe. “Cool! Are you a professional soccer player?” he asked, blonde hair hanging limply over his forehead and in his eyes. He combed it back with one hand and kicked the ball to Adam.
“Nope, but I played in college.” He deftly kicked the ball up and bounced it from his head and back again. “It takes a lot of practice.”
The boy bounced the ball off his head, but it flew too high and rolled along the driveway toward the house. “Sorry.” He picked up his book bag and started running after the ball, then stopped and looked back. The tip of his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth. “Hey, what were you doing at my house?” he asked. “Are you a friend of Uncle Handel’s?”
The depth of Adam’s stupidity hit him like a roller derby queen. Not only was Marilyn Monroe his sister’s neighbor, she was also his sister’s boyfriend’s sister. That was a lot of sister problems. He shook his head. “I’m Billie’s brother, Adam. And you are?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The son of the woman who hated him.
“I’m Davy.”
“Davy!” his mother called from the front porch, her voice sharp and forceful, not at all like the breathy movie star she resembled.
“I better go,” Davy said, his grin contagious.
Adam grinned too. He watched Davy run toward the house and his waiting mom.
CHAPTER THREE
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Billie released Adam from a rib-crushing embrace. She motioned him into the house and watched as he hefted his bag. “You brought your guitar? You must be planning a long visit.” Her brows drew together in a little frown.
Adam grinned to hide his uneasiness. “Sure, why not? I’m out of school, looking for my path in life. I might as well search in California as well as Minnesota.”
“I thought you already had a job offer.” The reprimand in her voice was obvious but instead of waiting for a reply she closed the door and led him through the house, down a hallway into a guest room.
A tall four-poster dwarfed the space, but the painting at the head of the bed immediately grabbed his attention. The surreal vision of vibrant colors fighting one another to dominate the canvas was almost more than he could take in. Billie was right when she told him her uncle was exorcising personal demons with his art.
“Uncle Jack’s work?” He dropped the bags and stepped around his sister to get a better look. “I thought you auctioned them off or something.”
She shrugged and lifted her chin. “I kept a couple. It seemed wrong to sell all of them. He was our uncle, after all. Besides, I see them in a different light now.”
“Really? In a dark room with a dim flashlight?”
She smacked his shoulder. “Same little smart aleck you always were,” she said, her voice light with laughter. “Are you hungry?”
He nodded and followed her to the kitchen.
“What did Mother say about you flying out here?” She pulled leftovers from the refrigerator; chicken breast, wild rice, and broccoli materialized from containers. She lifted a carton of milk. “Seems funny she didn’t call me.”
Adam scratched at the stubble along his cheek. “That’s cause I didn’t mention it to her.”
She looked up from her preparations, amusement flickering in the depths of her eyes.
“She’d just try to talk me out of it. You know how she is.”
Billie bit at her bottom lip, a longtime habit since she was a kid, and slipped the plate of food into the microwave. “Haven’t learned how to deal with Mother yet without running away?” she
asked. She turned to face him as they waited for the food to heat.
“Hey! I’m not the one who moved to California,” he reminded her.
“I didn’t move here to get away from Mother. That was a bonus.” She smiled smugly.
“I’m going to tell her you said that,” he threatened, and pulled his cell phone from his back pocket.
She laughed and shook her head, unafraid as ever. “No you won’t. Cause then she’ll know where you are.”
“You’re right. I’d rather be sucked into quicksand than have that conversation now. I’m too tired and hungry to deal with thirty questions.” He sat at the butcher-block table, and propped his head on his hand. “You aren’t going to quiz me, are you?”
“Not tonight,” she said as she set the plate before him. “Maybe tomorrow.” She watched him eat with obvious sibling affection.
He finished off the food in record time, leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Thanks, that was great. You know, they don’t feed people on planes anymore. And the shops in the airport are pure robbery.”
“Did you take the taxi all the way out? It must have cost a fortune. Why didn’t you call me?” she asked, her back to him as she rinsed his plate in the sink.
“Nope. I hitched—and walked a lot.” He chuckled at the look of astonishment on her face. It reminded him of their mom. “Don’t worry. I only met two serial killers and neither wanted me.”
“It’s no wonder.”
“There’s something else I should probably tell you though,” he said. He stood to stretch the kinks from his back and deliberately avoided his sister’s gaze by peering through the window of the back door. The yard was shadowed by the overhanging boughs of huge trees, edged by vineyards to the south. He tried to see through the foliage, toward the house he knew stood in the distance, but it was as remote as the woman who lived there.
Billie’s groan was reminiscent of the Frankenstein monster in the movies they watched together as children. “Don’t tell me. You’ve run away from home and Mom will be beating down the door shortly.”
“Not exactly.” Adam turned to face her. “I met your neighbor.”
“Handel?”
He shook his head. “His sister. I knocked on her door by mistake. Thought it was the winery.” He combed fingers through his hair, pushed it back from his forehead in a weary gesture. “You could have told me you lived by Marilyn Monroe reincarnated.”
She groaned again, covered her mouth and released the breath of a laugh into her palm. “You didn’t mention the resemblance to Margaret, did you?”
“Most women would be flattered,” he muttered, annoyed by the teasing light in his sister’s eyes. “She acted as if I likened her to a Guernsey cow rather than a sexy movie star. What’s with women anyway?”
Billie cupped his scruffy chin in her hand as if he was still the little brother and not half a head taller than she. “Some women like to be admired for attributes other than big breasts and blonde hair. You might try looking below the surface.”
He shrugged and pulled away. “That takes time,” he said, moving toward the living room. “I didn’t get the impression she gave guys like myself the opportunity to dig deeper. Is it just me or does she seem a bit stuck up to you too?”
Billie followed and plopped down on a leather sofa across from the recliner he stretched out in. “She has her reasons. I wouldn’t call it stuck up; more like reserved. You would be too if everywhere you went men gaped and made lewd comments or catcalls.”
“Beauty is such a curse.” He wasn’t usually so snide but he was tired and failed to keep it in. “And I didn’t do any of those things,” he argued, crossing his arms.
“I didn’t say you did. But I’m sure that’s what Margaret heard. She’s been trying to live down her past for so long, she thinks everyone else is just as obsessed with it.”
“At least Davy doesn’t seem traumatized by her attitude.” Adam yawned widely and rubbed a hand over his face.
“You met Davy?” His sister smiled, her whole face emanating warmth at mention of the kid. She apparently had fallen for more than one Parker male. “I don’t think anything could traumatize that boy. He’s the most secure child I’ve ever known. Margaret is a good mother. Davy is proof of that. She’s not as confident as she wants people to believe and she comes off as brusque, often inhospitable, but underneath I think she just needs a friend.”
“A friend, huh?”
“Yeah, a friend.”
Her steady gaze was disconcerting and Adam couldn’t help but look away. Friendship with a woman was seldom long-lived. If he liked them well enough to be friends, something physical was usually brewing on one side or the other. Platonic was not a word he could envision using in regard to the woman next door. He just wished there was some way to start over with Margaret Parker.
“So?” His sister’s question brought him back to the conversation at hand.
“So, what?”
“So what are you really doing here? Besides ticking off my neighbor.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He pulled his jean pockets inside out, revealing a ball of lent and twenty-six cents. “I need a job.”
“You studied business and accounting,” she said, frowning. “We need field workers right now. It’s harvest time.”
“I could try that—but someone told me your accountant is spending time in Sing Sing.”
A smile lit up her eyes and she chuckled. “I was kind of hoping she got put out on Alcatraz.”
“Good accountants are hard to find these days.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“It’s okay.” She slid her fingers over the smooth leather sofa, a shadow of pain in her eyes. “At least the bad memories are out in the open now. Believe me, they’re much easier to deal with than nightmares.”
“Are you doing the books yourself?”
“Right now I’m doing a bit of everything, but not mastering anything. Maybe new blood is a good idea. I could use the help.”
“Terrific. When do I start?”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
He grinned. “That gives me just enough time to press my three-piece suit.”
“Lucky for you, we’re a little more laid back around here. Suits are optional.”
“Whew! That’s a relief. Cause I didn’t actually bring a suit.”
She snorted. “I didn’t actually believe you did.”
*****
Margaret set a plate of cheese and crackers on the floor beside her son where he hunched over a complicated Lego structure. He’d been working on it for the past four afternoons.
He looked up and smiled. “Thanks, Mom.” His attention immediately returned to the task at hand. He was a natural at complicated directions and intricate details. Even at nine years old he seemed to have an innate sense of how things fitted together. She relied on him to direct her on any project that included boards, screws, or wrenches of any kind.
“What are you building there?” she asked, glancing about the room. The pile of socks and shorts she’d folded and left on the top of his dresser earlier was still there. She slid open the top drawer and placed them inside.
“It’s a replica of the space station. I saw a picture on the Internet at school.” He pushed a tiny block in place, his eyes narrowed into a squint. “But I’m not sure if this is right. I think I might have to print out a copy.”
Margaret ruffled his hair. “You’re something else.” She headed for the door.
“Billie’s brother is pretty cool, isn’t he?” he said.
She stopped, one hand on the doorframe. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s really good at soccer and he has a guitar. I bet he can play that rock and roll you like.”
She tried not to laugh. “I think your cool meter is broken, babe. That guy was a jerk.”
Davy narrowed hi
s eyes as he considered her view. “Maybe he’s like new wine. He just needs time to soak up the flavors around here and you’ll like him better. I didn’t know if I liked Billie when she first came and started living in Jack’s house,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “ but now we’re like best friends.”
“Yeah? Well I didn’t know about Billie right away either, but I’m pretty sure I won’t change my mind about her brother.”
He stared up at her a moment. “Don’t you like men, Mom?” he said finally, his blue eyes intent.
The question struck her heart like an arrow. She didn’t want Davy to think she was a man-hater, one of those women that put all of the male species into one box. He was, after all, becoming one of them. But lately she’d felt a growing tendency to blame everything wrong with her world upon the macho sex.
The rattle of the garage door brought her son to his feet. “Uncle Handel!” He ran past her, leaving the question still hanging unanswered in the room.
She followed him down the hall and into the kitchen where Handel stood before the open refrigerator, staring inside with a practiced eye. “What’s for dinner?” he asked without turning around. He lifted the carton of orange juice and drank straight from the spout.
Beloved brother or not, Margaret wanted to throw herself at him and pummel him with her fists. Not because he was drinking from the carton like a pig, although that annoyed her too, but because he was acting as though this were any other day of the week. She‘d waited patiently for his call all morning and afternoon, and he hadn’t had the sense to pick up a phone. How could he walk in here and ask what’s for dinner as though her whole world wasn’t ready to fall apart? She knew him too well to think he’d actually forgotten to call. Something must have happened that he could only relate in person. So she continued to wait, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched in anticipation.
“Uncle Handel, guess what?” Davy interjected into the dark void of Margaret’s thoughts.
Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels) Page 2