Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  “No! He’s wrong.” Handel cut in, his voice taking on that commanding tone that made her rebel ten years ago and still had the ability to make her feel like little sister in need of a talking to. “He’s just manipulating you. There is definitely a reason he wants to meet Davy, but I doubt it has anything to do with love or responsibility.”

  “You don’t know that. People can change. And it doesn’t really matter what you think because he’s my son and I’ll make the decision,” she snapped.

  She saw the hurt in his eyes but it was too late to take it back. He scooted his chair away from the table and stood up. “I’ll be home late,” he said, his voice soft now. “I have to interview a client and finish up a case.” He went to the door, picked up his briefcase, and looked back. “Please don’t make any decisions you’ll regret. I can’t bear to see you hurt again like before.”

  When the door closed behind him, Margaret swiped at a tear that slipped down her cheek. She went to the front window and watched him drive away. His face was set in that stony way she remembered the day he learned she was pregnant with Agosto’s child. She thought he was angry with her, disappointed and disgusted, but she soon realized that it wasn’t her he was angry with. He’d gone after Agosto later that day at Carl’s restaurant. If not for Carl stepping in, her brother would probably be in jail for beating the father of her child to death. Carl drove Agosto directly to the airport after that confrontation and made sure he flew back to Italy a day ahead of the ticket he’d already purchased.

  She didn’t want to hurt Handel. He’d taken care of her, made sure she and Davy had everything they needed. He was her family and she trusted him. But what if he was wrong? What is Davy needed to know his father? What if someday her son resented her for keeping him in the dark? Could she live with that?

  She pulled Agosto’s business card out of her jeans pocket and read the words printed in burgundy-colored font. Salvatore Imports & Exports. A fancy gold embossed logo with the Salvatore crest resided in the upper left corner. She stared at it for a moment and wondered what her life would have been like if he’d really loved her, if everything he told her wasn’t a big fat lie.

  What ifs? What a crock! She threw the card in the junk drawer with the telephone book no one ever used anymore and slammed it shut. Apparently, residual anger was still slipping through the cracks of her ice dam and slowing the flow of forgiveness, because the past was still pretty fresh in her mind.

  *****

  “Has Agosto been by here?” Handel asked, watching Carl chop Portabella mushrooms with quick and accurate precision. He scraped them into a heated skillet and let one of his assistants take over.

  Without looking up, Carl yelled something to the Sous-chef in Italian and wiped his hands on a towel. He headed toward the back door and Handel followed him out into the alley. A busboy sat smoking on the closed lid of the garbage bin. Carl jabbed his chin toward the door and the boy crushed out his cigarette and slunk back inside.

  “What do you want from me?” Carl spread his hands and lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture. He looked tired. His face was already dark with a five-o’clock shadow although he probably didn’t come in until noon. He was up late every night and lived on a different clock than most of the business world. The restaurant opened at four p.m. and didn’t close until midnight. “I don’t like what he did to your sister anymore than you, but he is Davy’s father and he says he wants to do right by him.”

  Handel raised his brows. “Right by him? You’ve got to be kidding. Nine years after the fact of his birth he wants to do right by him? Now? Why?” He threw his hands up in frustration. “You know better than I that Agosto doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. I want to know what he’s up to.”

  Carl shook his head. “I don’t know. He came here and apologized for the past. Offered his hand of friendship.” He met Handel’s steely gaze. “What was I supposed to do? He’s family.”

  “And what are we—chump change?” Handel moved past him toward the door but Carl stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Just because I accepted his apology doesn’t mean I trust him. I already made a call to my mother. If anyone can find out what he’s up to, she can.”

  Handel turned and clasped his friend’s hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry to come here like this during business hours. I’ve just been so worried about Margaret. Davy means everything to her. You know that.”

  “I know.” Carl nodded. “By the way, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “News travels way too fast. I wanted to tell you myself.” He grinned. “Since you’re the closest thing I have to a brother and I know you already own a tux, I was hoping you’d agree to be my best man.”

  Carl laughed and threw his arms around Handel. “I’d be honored.” He pulled away and straightened his white chef coat. “Now I’ve got to get back in there and make sure Andre hasn’t ruined my pesto sauce.” He yanked open the door and let Handel go in first. “Tell Billie I expect you two to be in soon to celebrate. On me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The smell of grilling meat made Adam head around the corner of the house instead of knocking at the door. Smoke signals wafted over to meet his nose and he felt his stomach rumble. It had been a while since he’d had a decent steak. He was too broke for such extravagance in college and his mother rarely cooked red meat anymore. She had decided it was unhealthy because she heard some talk show host spouting the horrors of mad cow disease or something. Well, he’d rather go mad from beef than live on tuna fish and salad for the rest of his life.

  Margaret had her back to him, standing over the grill with a long fork in hand, flipping meat and rearranging foil wrapped potatoes. She hummed an old rock melody in an off-key sort of way that made him smile. In short shorts, her legs appeared to stretch a long, tan mile. She turned around and nearly jabbed him with the fork when she saw him standing there.

  “You scared me!” she accused. She glanced at her watch. “Aren’t you a bit early? I haven’t even changed yet.”

  He gave her an appraising look. “Don’t change for my benefit. I think you look terrific already.” He took the fork out of her hand, as she was still pointing it menacingly toward him and approached the grill. “Need any help? Smells great.”

  She pulled open the sliding door and stepped through. “You want something cold to drink?”

  “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

  Her lips turned up slightly. “All right.” She slid the door closed and disappeared.

  Adam sat down in one of the green mesh patio chairs and stretched his legs out. It had been a long day following Mario around the winery, learning all he could in a blitz-sized lesson plan in a Spanish immersion class. He looked out across Margaret’s vineyard to Fredrickson’s and beyond. The valley was awash with a mellow pink and orange glow. The setting sun reflected off shiny, dark, grape leaves fluttering in the breeze, as shadows stretched long from trees and poles.

  He laid the fork on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t know how to safely bring up the subject of Agosto Salvatore, but he couldn’t get it off his mind. She would probably accuse him of sticking his nose in her private business, which was what he would be doing. But he couldn’t be neutral when it came to Margaret Parker.

  “Here you go.” She stepped through the slider, a frosted glass in each hand.

  He jumped up and took the drink she offered. “Thanks.”

  She checked on the food and closed the grill lid. “Almost done. You do like your steaks pink inside, don’t you? Cause I prefer not to ruin a perfectly good t-bone by incinerating it.”

  He grinned and raised his glass in salute. “My kind of woman.”

  “You’re not just saying that to get on my good side, are you?”

  “Which side would that be? They both look good to me.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “How long have you been practicing this routine?”

  “As a Fredrickson
it just comes natural. You noticed how quickly my sister got her hooks into Handel.”

  “With those two I think it was mutual.” She turned away to open the grill and placed the steaks and potatoes on a platter.

  With her back to him, Adam found it easier to ask a hard question. “Why are you upset about their engagement then? Shouldn’t true love be worthy of celebration?”

  She shut off the gas and closed the lid before turning slowly around with the platter in hand. “I thought we’d eat inside since it’s getting dark,” she said, her voice hard and flat.

  He pulled the slider open and watched her go inside ahead of him. She moved stiffly erect as though an angry puppet master had a hold of her heartstrings. He followed slowly, carrying their drinks, wondering how he managed to stick a size twelve foot into his mouth so easily.

  The dining room table was set with white china edged with swirls of black and red. Two candles served as a centerpiece, already lit and flickering in the low light of the room. A bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses completed the picture. She’d done all this for him and he’d just screwed it up.

  She set the platter down on the corner of the table and motioned for him to sit. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  As he took his place at the table, she flipped the lights on and leaned over to blow out the candles before taking her chair. A thin wisp of smoke wafted toward him and he waved it away. “I’m sorry. I thought you were upset about their engagement. When I talked to you on the phone you sounded angry.”

  She laid her fork down and met his eyes. “I wasn’t angry. I was surprised. You managed to turn what should have been a happy announcement into a sad why am I the last one to know moment. You seem to have the ability to change the simplest occasions into dramatic events. Why do you do that? Hmm?”

  “I didn’t know I did.” He leaned forward and picked up the bottle of wine. “May I?” He filled both goblets and sat back, lifting his slightly toward her, a tentative gesture of apology. “To new friends, future family, and the ability to reconcile them both.”

  She lifted her wine glass and clinked them gently together. The ting of Crystal reverberated softly and then they drank, eyes locked over cold candles. She watched him expectantly. Was he missing something? He licked his lips and took another sip.

  “Wow, this is really great wine. Is it from Fredrickson’s?”

  “No.” She smiled, clearly pleased that he liked it. “It’s mine.”

  “Yours? What do you mean?”

  “Did you think your sister is the only woman who knows how to make wine? I’ve been bottling my own for a few years now. I just sell it locally by word of mouth. Handel’s friend, Carl, buys most of it for his restaurant. Handel calls it my hobby, but it’s really my passion. I love to experiment, try new things. This year’s crop looks amazing. I’m pretty sure it will be the best batch ever.” She served a steak and potato on each of their plates. Offered him butter and sour cream.

  “I hope Fredrickson’s can say the same. Mario seemed pleased when we sampled the grapes today.”

  “He should be. They look good.”

  “Been checking out the competition?” he asked. He cut into his steak and took a bite, savoring the smoky, beef flavor. It was perfectly pink inside and nicely blackened on the outside. Excellent.

  “Fredrickson’s has never been competition. I grew up here. I don’t know if you heard, but my grandfather once owned the winery. Handel and I still feel part of it. Our DNA is in that soil, sprouts up in those vines each year, and is now bottled under the Fredrickson label.”

  “Very evocative picture you paint there.”

  “Perhaps. It’s the way I feel.” She took a bite of steak and chewed thoughtfully. “I always felt that someday the winery would be ours again, because it’s in our blood. But Handel really doesn’t have a desire to get into the business. He’s good at what he does. Law. I, on the other hand, have always longed for what I couldn’t have.”

  “So, if you were given the chance to oversee the winemaking over there and help turn things around, would you jump at it, or are you waiting for my sister to go bankrupt so you can pick it up for a pittance and get it back under the Parker name?”

  She took a sip of wine and watched him over the rim of her glass. “None of this land will ever go for a pittance. As small as Fredrickson’s is, it’s worth millions.” She laughed at his shocked expression. “You didn’t know your sister was considered a millionaire?”

  “I never really thought about it that way.”

  “Probably wise. Easy come, easy go. So tell me,” she said, assuming a bland expression, “how do you make a small fortune in the wine business?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You start with a large fortune and buy a winery.” She picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. “Sorry. That’s a lame joke every vintner in the valley has probably heard and repeated a thousand times. But sadly, it’s true. This business is not just about money. It has to be in your blood. You have to love everything about it, or you might as well sell out and go home.”

  “Does that mean you’ll take the job working for Billie, or are you waiting for her to go home?”

  Her eyes widened and she set her glass down with a slight thunk, sloshing wine over the rim. “You’re serious?” she said, wiping it up with a napkin.

  “As serious as a monk in a monastery.”

  “She really wants me? She thinks I can do the job?”

  “You’ll have to convince her of that. But she’s willing to give you a try. She told me to ask you to come by tomorrow about ten and set things in motion.”

  A smile spread across her face, but her eyes glistened with tears on the verge of overflowing. She got up and started clearing dishes, as though to distract herself from feeling.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, handing her the empty platter and his iced tea glass, hoping she’d realize he was still working on his steak and not ready to relinquish it into her hands. He cut another bite and jammed it in his mouth, already full of potato.

  She suddenly stopped mid-motion and started laughing. She set the dishes down on the counter and came back to the table. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t give you a chance to finish.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth like an embarrassed young girl. “You must think I’m crazy.”

  He shook his head, his mouth still full.

  She sat down across from him and lifted her glass once again. Her eyes sparkled with happiness and tears—apparently, one and the same with her. “Thank you, Adam. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  He swallowed and lifted his glass. “Actually, I think I do. Having the opportunity to live your dream is more than most of us ever realize. I wish you the very best year of winemaking and a successful partnership with Fredrickson’s.”

  They finished the bottle and Adam suggested he get his guitar from the backseat of the car and play her something. The front porch light came on as he descended the steps and he thought he saw someone move into the shadow of the trees along the drive. He stopped and stared into the dark. “Hello?” he called out. The breeze played lightly over vegetation, rustling leaves and rippling grass. He supposed it could have been a dog or maybe just his imagination.

  He grabbed his guitar and ran back up the steps and into the house. Margaret was whistling somewhere past the kitchen. He followed the sound and found her in a back room that looked like a family hangout. A comfy couch, chairs, and a piano filled the small space, along with a bookcase stuffed to capacity. Books lay in piles on the floor and on a small coffee table as well. A fireplace jutted out from one wall in black and grey brick, the hearth a good three feet deep.

  Margaret sat curled in the corner of the old couch, her feet drawn up under her and a magazine in her hands. She turned the pages as though looking for a specific article. She glanced up. “Have a seat. I was trying to find something I read a while back. A company makes oak spirals that can be p
ushed right into the tanks. You get the oak flavor and aging without the expense of oak barrels. I think that would cut our budget by quite a lot.”

  “Wow, you really meant it when you said winemaking was your passion,” he said, leaning his guitar against the wall.

  “Here it is!” she said, as though he hadn’t even spoken. “I’ll show this to Billie in the morning.” She bent the page over and set the magazine on the overloaded coffee table. Then she met his amused gaze. “I didn’t want to forget.”

  “Of course not.”

  She glanced toward his guitar. “Aren’t you going to play me one of your songs?”

  “Maybe later. I thought we could talk and get to know one another better.” He sat down at the other end of the sofa and hooked a leg up on the cushion to face her.

  She turned slightly toward him, her arm slung across the back of the couch. “Sounds like you have an agenda.”

  “Not an agenda. Interested in you, that’s all.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It has something to do with everything. If you were an older man, people might say you were taking advantage of me. But since I’m older, they’d probably call me a cougar or some other cat name.”

  She said it with a smile and yet he could tell she was closer to serious than not. She rested her head on her hand and watched him for a reaction. He wouldn’t give her what she wanted. “I don’t think anyone would consider a two year age difference to be cougaristic. It’s not as if I’m a teenager in your Sunday school class.”

  “I don’t think that’s a word.”

  “Cougaristic? It’s most certainly a word. I just coined it.”

  “Well, cougaristic or not, you’re too young for me. So get it out of your head that we are dating. We’re not.” She held his gaze unwaveringly as though to look away would lose the argument.