Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  With his mouth full he couldn’t very well respond, and perhaps that’s what she counted on. Billie caught his eye and intuited a warning to tread lightly. As if he was the instigator.

  “Davy is really an apt pupil. He’s learning winemaking faster than I thought possible. Sometimes I feel like he’s teaching me rather than the other way round,” Billie said.

  Margaret nervously played with the napkin in her lap again. “That’s probably because he’s been around the winery his whole life. I worked there too when I was growing up. You learn a lot just from observing, you know.”

  Why did talk of the winery make her nervous? Adam watched her between bites, trying not to look as though he was staring. Was she still traumatized by her father’s return and the revelations that led to his subsequent arrest? He couldn’t imagine learning that his father was a child molester. He decided to cut her a little slack. She was human after all, even if she did look like a goddess.

  Adam took another bite of burger. He’d scraped off most of the strange ingredients and it was actually pretty good now. He dipped a fry in ketchup and poked it in his mouth too. He glanced out the window at clear blue skies. “Doesn’t it ever rain around here? It was pouring when I left Minneapolis yesterday. Not that I miss it, but it looks kind of dry here.”

  Margaret sent him a scathing glare that may have meant she thought his question was totally stupid or she just didn’t like the sound of his voice. “Rain we can do without. It would damage the wine berry crop during Crush. One bad season and a winegrower…” She stopped.

  “Could be out of business,” Billie finished, her voice soft with worry.

  “I thought rain was good for crops.”

  “Not when they’re ripe. It can cause them to rot.”

  They finished eating while making small talk, bordering on tiny talk. When the waiter cleared the dishes and brought the check, everyone was eager to go. There wasn’t a mad rush to the door, but it was a definite beeline. Adam refrained from speaking, afraid he’d just say the wrong thing again and set Ms. Ice Queen off on a rant. He didn’t know why she seemed to dislike him so much. He thought he was a pretty likable guy, all things considered.

  Handel put his arm around Billie as they walked across the parking lot. He whispered something in her ear and she laughed. Margaret and Adam walked a few steps behind. He felt like he used to when his mom made him go along as chaperone on his sister’s dates.

  Handel stopped beside a red Porsche and opened the passenger door. “Could you drive Margaret back? I need to speak with your sister and Margaret needs to be home when Davy gets off the bus.”

  Billie tossed her keys and Adam caught them. She smiled. “I really appreciate it. “

  Without waiting for confirmation she slid into the glove leather seat and Handel closed the door. He moved quickly around the car to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. When the engine purred to life, he gave them a thumbs-up before pulling out onto the street.

  Adam heard Margaret let out a frustrated breath and turned around. He was nearly blinded by the look in her eyes. “Whoa!” He made the sign of the cross, warding off evil. “I hope that isn’t meant for me cause I had nothing to do with this. Your brother left you high and dry. I’m the kind stranger seeing you home.”

  “I don’t need anyone to see me home. I’m not a child.”

  “I never thought you were. In fact, you look pretty grown up to me.”

  She glanced away and shook her head in disgust, but he noticed a slight shade of pink stain her cheeks.

  “What have I done to tick you off? You don’t even know me, but you’ve been sending me a definite signal that if I got hit by a bus you wouldn’t mourn my passing.”

  Her lips turned up slightly at that. “Sorry. You’re right. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  He shrugged. “All right. Do you want a ride? I happen to be heading that direction anyway.”

  “Thanks. That would be fine.”

  She followed him to the car, but when he moved to open her door she waved him off. He got in and turned the key in the ignition. She slid in beside him, not saying a word. They moved out into traffic and she directed him back to the highway toward Fredrickson’s. The radio was set to an oldies station and he sang along, ignoring her, as she seemed to desire.

  They flew past vineyards that all looked much the same to him. He hoped she’d let him know when it was time to turn. Finally he chanced a glance in her direction. She stared straight ahead.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “If you must.”

  “What were you going to ask my sister back there?”

  She looked at him with a spark of surprise before she dropped her gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. She said she needed a manager and you started to say something. Why’d you stop?”

  “That’s two questions. Did you want to know what I was going to say, or why I stopped?”

  He shook his head. “Wow. You are a piece of work.”

  She angled her body toward him, her arm across the back of the seat. “Now you’re just being obtuse.”

  “I’m insensitive?”

  She shrugged.

  He turned up the radio. The heavy rock beat of Barracuda thumped through the speakers.

  She flipped it back off, not ready to drop the subject. “I’ve lived by the winery my whole life. I worked there. I learned the winemaking process from your uncle when I was a child, just like Davy is doing now. I hung out and watched Jack managing the place, overseeing the vineyards. He let me be involved, explained what was going on.” She paused. “Up until I had Davy. But I’ve read and kept up on things, talked with other vintners that stopped by. I have my own vines and make my own wine. I know how to run a winery. I have money saving ideas your sister could employ. I have experience that isn’t from books, but from life, and just because I’m a woman without a college degree doesn’t mean I’m not qualified.”

  Her sudden tirade felt personal but he knew it wasn’t. She’d been too insecure to put it all out there in front of Billie, but for some reason had no problem blasting him with her “I am woman” speech. He kept his eyes on the road. “Sounds like you’re the one with the skewed perception. If you think you can do the job then why didn’t you say so? You really believe Billie would take you less seriously because you’re a woman?” he gave a derisive snort. “That’s a cop out.”

  “I don’t want her to hire me just because I’m Handel’s sister,” she admitted, her voice suddenly subdued.

  He glanced across at her and back to the road, slightly offended. “You mean the way she hired me just because I’m her brother?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sure you’re a perfectly adequate accountant. But that’s part-time work. Fredrickson’s needs a full-time manager and chief winemaker. Someone who knows wine. Someone who knows Fredrickson’s.”

  He pulled off the highway and followed the gravel drive leading up to her house. A long black limousine stretched in the shade of a huge oak beside the Parker home, windows reflecting the glint of afternoon sun. A chauffeur immediately climbed out from behind the wheel and reached to open the back door for whoever waited inside.

  Adam sensed Margaret’s mood change at sight of the strange vehicle. He pulled the car in behind the limo and shut off the ignition. A man slowly stepped out of the open door, straightened his suit coat and glanced their way. Margaret’s sharp intake of breath was more than surprise—it sounded like fear to Adam. He looked her way. She’d gone pale beneath her tan, and the fiery spark had left her eyes.

  “Damn him,” she muttered, her lips barely moving.

  “Who is he?” Adam asked.

  She didn’t answer or move to get out, but appeared frozen in place.

  Adam opened his door and stepped out. “Can I help you with something?” he asked,
taking an immediate dislike to the stranger. He was a greased, primped, coiffed, pedicured kind of man—the kind Hollywood used in place of real men. The kind women were lured in by, like a moth to a bug-zapper.

  The man stared at him for a moment as though assessing his importance, then his lips turned up derisively. “I think not. I’m here to see Margaret,” he said, with a foreign accent. He tried to go around him but Adam blocked his way.

  “I don’t think Margaret wants to see you.”

  The man stopped midstride and glared up at him. “I don’t think this is any of your business. Get out of my way.”

  Adam smiled. He would enjoy tossing the pompous little greased monkey back in his limo and sending him on his way. But before he made a move, the car door opened behind him.

  “It’s all right, Adam. I’ll take care of this. Go home.”

  “Yes, go home, Adam,” the man repeated, a smirk lifting his lips and lighting his dark eyes.

  Adam ignored the jibe and turned around. Margaret’s face was set, but there was something he couldn’t ignore. No matter what she said, she was afraid to be alone with this guy. She might use it as an excuse to continue hating on him, but he wouldn’t leave her with this jerk even if she begged him.

  “You said you were going to show me the tower, remember?” he said, throwing the lie out there like a buoy.

  Her eyes clung to his, seizing the lifeline.

  He smiled, leaned against the front of the car and folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait.”

  The man looked as though he wanted to clamp his teeth down on Adam’s ankle like an inbred poodle, but instead he slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it with the flick of a lighter. He took a drag before smiling at Margaret again, the smarmy charm back in place after sucking on his nicotine crutch. “Margaret. You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he said, as she slowly approached him.

  “What do you want? I told you when you left, I didn’t ever want to see you again.”

  He laughed softly and spread his hands. “That was a long time ago. We were both children. We didn’t know what we were saying.”

  “I’m pretty sure you knew exactly what you were saying, Agosto—in English and Italian. But if I wasn’t clear back then, let me clarify now. I want you to leave my property and never set foot on it again.”

  “You always called me August. I love the way my Americanized name sounds on your lips.” He reached out and she drew sharply back.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “I only wanted…”

  “I don’t care what you want. You gave up your rights a long time ago and there’s no going back.” She brushed past him and ran up the steps to the front door.

  He made as though to follow, but Adam pulled away from the car and grabbed his arm. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

  The man jerked away, his face red and angry. “If you put a hand on me again…” he spit out, pointing his finger in Adam’s face.

  Adam raised his brows. “What?”

  The man swore under his breath, strode to the limo and yanked the door open. He turned to look up at the house, but Margaret had already gone inside. He climbed in and slammed the door. The big car slowly pulled away.

  Adam waited until it disappeared down the highway before walking up to the house and knocking. She didn’t answer. He waited a couple more minutes and then turned to leave.

  Halfway to the car, he heard the door open behind him. He turned and looked up at the house. She pushed open the screen door, a squeak of rusty hinges inviting him in. “I thought you wanted to see the tower,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Agosto slouched in the seat, puffing on his cigarette. Anger spread through him, burning his stomach with acid. He stared out the window, replaying the scene. He was sure that if that young man hadn’t been there Margaret would have listened. He knew she still cared, that he was never out of her thoughts. How could he be? She was raising his son, after all.

  They passed a school bus dropping off children along the highway. He sat up straighter and turned to watch as two young kids ran down the driveway to their home before the bus pulled back onto the highway.

  “Go back,” he ordered the driver.

  It was another half mile down the road before the driver found a spot large enough to turn around in. He caught up to the school bus a few minutes later, as it stopped at the Parker’s drive.

  “Pull over,” Agosto ordered.

  The limo slowed and pulled onto the gravel shoulder of the road, a safe distance behind the bus. Agosto watched the bus doors flip open. It seemed like eons before a young, tow-headed boy jumped to the ground and turned to look up at the driver. He waved before the doors of the bus closed. The boy dropped a soccer ball and kicked it toward the house, then ran after it to kick it again. He soon disappeared around the curve of the driveway, blocked from view by gnarly old olive trees growing thick along the road.

  Agosto leaned back against the seat and smiled. He had a son. It had never been so real to him before, but now that he’d seen the boy…he felt a sense of pride, of accomplishment. He had sired a son and the boy was the spitting image of him. Granted, he had his mother’s blonde hair, but everything else was straight from the Salvatore bloodline. He chuckled and ran his fingers through his hair. Margaret couldn’t have gotten over him. She’d seen him in their son’s face for the past nine years.

  “Take me back to the hotel,” he told the driver. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like when he bedded Margaret once again. She was more beautiful and curvaceous than he remembered. She’d matured into a spirited woman. There was fire in her eyes now—a wild, free spirit. He would enjoy breaking and molding her to his will. And she would enjoy the ride. He would allow her to come to Italy with them if she cooperated. She would probably expect marriage and perhaps he would concede. After all, his father would wish his grandson to be legitimate before he wrote him into the will. But it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

  *****

  “This is some view you’ve got up here.” Adam moved through the doorway and across the empty room to stand at the curve of glass and gaze out over the countryside. Vineyards, lush and green, stretched for miles, punctuated by clumps of olive trees here and there. Men were at work in the fields, the Fredrickson’s red pickup truck parked between vineyards on a stretch of gravel road that followed the property line. Winding off in the distance was the snakelike curve of a manmade canal.

  He turned slowly to look back toward the highway and saw the school bus pulling up at the end of the drive. He watched Margaret’s son, Davy, hop down the steps, blonde hair flopping over his forehead.

  “Looks like Ernesto has the men checking the grapes. They have to get the crop in at the exact right time,” Margaret explained, still gazing out at Fredrickson’s fields.

  The bus pulled away and Davy kicked his ball toward the house. Adam’s gaze shifted a few degrees to the right. A hundred yards or so down the road, partially obscured by a tangle of olive trees, a long black limo was parked on the gravel shoulder. Davy was already up to the house before the limo slid into the end of the driveway, turned around and sped back toward town.

  “So who was that obnoxious foreigner anyway?” Adam asked, suddenly very curious and a bit concerned. Why would the man sneak back and then leave again? Was he waiting to catch Margaret alone, or…

  “No one important.”

  She still stared out the window in the direction of the men, her lips pressed into a thin line of resolve. He pushed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and watched her. She was definitely a hardheaded woman. “Not important, huh? Well he obviously thinks he is. He came back.”

  “What?” She crossed to stand at his side, staring toward the road.

  He pointed. “His limo was out there on the shoulder of the highway. After Davy got off the bus and walked up to the house, they drove off.”

  Her eyes widened and then narrowed in anger. �
��Why didn’t you tell me?” She pushed past him and hurried through the door and down the stairs, her feet clattering against the wooden treads all the way to the ground floor. Apparently the man in the limo was more important to Margaret than she let on.

  “Davy!” she called out, her voice muffled but clearly worried. The bang of the back door reverberated.

  He turned and stared across the vineyards, not really seeing the beauty of the land but feeling frustrated beyond words. He thought he was making a little headway, but it seemed he flunked her man test once again. He wondered how the fancy-suited Italian came out on her scale of 1-10. That man had her full attention even when he’d already disappeared.

  “Are you planning on camping out up there,” Margaret called from the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later, “or would you like some coffee?”

  A slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Maybe he’d gotten a passing grade after all. He moved through the door. “On my way,” he called down the stairs.

  He followed the fresh-brewed coffee smell through the house to the kitchen. Country white cupboards with glass panes encircled granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Davy sat on a stool at the counter eating apple slices with peanut butter. The boy turned around and grinned, his mouth oozing juice. “Hey! You’re Billie’s brother.”

  “That I am. It would probably be easier if you just called me Adam though. Billie’s brother is kind of long and doesn’t really have the same flare.”

  Margaret motioned for him to sit down at the table. “Do you take cream or sugar?” she asked, filling two red 49er mugs from a thermal carafe.

  “Black is fine,” he said, still not a big coffee lover but unwilling to admit it when she was offering this tentative hand of friendship.

  She handed him a mug of steaming coffee and sat across from him, wrapping her fingers around her mug. “So, why did you really come here?”

  He blew out the breath of a laugh. “You don’t make small talk, do you?