She burst out laughing. “Right. And we know how well that turned out.”
He shrugged. “Well, I’m not exactly like Joe Demaggio. I’m better looking. More like Joe Mauer.”
“And how is your ego going to stay under control?” she teased, holding her glass out for a refill.
He took the bottle from the table and leaned toward her to fill her glass. “I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” he said. “My ego’s already been knocked down a few pegs since I met you. What about that first day I knocked on your door?”
She groaned and covered her face with one hand. “Don’t remind me. Sometimes I can be a real…”
“Hey!” he interrupted, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I deserved it. I was insensitive, immature, and probably smelled like a gymnasium after walking for an hour in the sun. I don’t blame you for not seeing the real me under all that raw masculinity.”
She made a sound of disbelief. “That’s amazing. You managed to turn an apology of sorts into a bragathon.”
He gulped the rest of the wine in his glass and set it on the table. “Believe me, it’s a special skill I don’t take lightly.” He took her glass and set it beside him, then pulled her to her feet. “My other skills could use practice though,” he said and bent his head to kiss her.
“Get away from my daughter!” a smoke-filled voice crackled like sparks from a bonfire as a tall, dark figure separated from the shadow of the trees and advanced toward them. “You’re another damn Fredrickson, come to take what don’t belong to you,” he accused. Ten paces away, he stopped and took a drag on the cigarette he held. Smoke exited his nose and wreathed his head momentarily, appearing like an unstable halo in the glow of the moon. He dropped the nub and crushed it with the heel of his boot, never taking his eyes from Adam.
Adam stepped between Margaret and her father, his hands clenched at his sides. Just the thought of what this man did to his sister was enough to churn his gut with blind rage. “I think you better leave before I finish what those cigarettes only started.”
Sean Parker laughed, a harsh sound of lung damage and age. “Believe me, boy, many have tried before you, but none have succeeded. Why don’t you run on home now so I can talk to my baby girl.”
Margaret pressed her hand against Adam’s back and slowly moved past him. “It’s all right,” she whispered close to his ear. She took two steps toward her father and stopped. “What do you want?” Her voice was brittle as toffee at shattering stage. “Haven’t you done enough damage to our family?”
Sean Parker coughed and spat on the ground. He casually pushed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and looked at her like a wayward child. “Maggie, you know I’d never hurt you or Davy. I’ve done my time and I’m going straight. I just need a helping hand. We are family.”
Adam could see her tense, her back straightening like a soldier with orders. “We are not family. And for the record, the rest of your life wouldn’t have been enough time to pay back what you took from those children, from my mother and from Handel.” With each word her voice strengthened. She stepped forward and pointed her finger in her father’s face. “As far as this family is concerned, you died a long time ago. Now get off my property or I will file charges against you myself!”
His eyes narrowed and his lips hardened into the angry man he’d become. “Handel’s turned you against me. He’s always been soft. If he were the Parker I raised him to be he would have found a way by now to use that fancy law degree to take back what’s ours.”
“Thank God he isn’t like you. You are a hateful, destructive man,” her words were but a breath on the wind.
Adam could tell she was about ready to have an emotional meltdown. He stepped up and drew her into his arms, turning her face away from Sean Parker. “Go inside and call the police. I’ll stay and make sure he leaves.”
She hesitated, then pulled away and without looking back made her way across the patio.
Sean laughed. The dry cackle reminded Adam of a crow’s harsh cry in a Minnesota winter. “Maggie, I know what you and Handel are trying to do, sleeping with the opposition, but marrying the bastards is a tough way to get your inheritance back,” he called after her.
She paused with her hand on the sliding door.
“I’m not asking for my share—just a few thousand to tide me over till I find a good job. Handel owes me that much after testifying against his own father.”
Margaret turned back, her features etched like marble. “Go to hell,” she said in a voice with enough heat to send him on his way. She slid the door open and disappeared inside.
Sean Parker turned his eyes on Adam and spit on the ground. “You tell her I’ll be back. This isn’t over,” he said.
“You come back and I’ll end it myself.” Adam promised.
The old man smirked and walked off around the house toward the road.
Adam followed, keeping his distance. A sickening anger built stone upon stone inside of him until it became an altar of fury. If Sean Parker had made one wrong move or said one more thing, he would have been on him like a rabid animal, beating, kicking, clawing him to pieces in retribution for all he’d done. Thankfully, he didn’t get his chance. The man climbed into an old pickup hiding in the trees at the end of the road and drove off. Adam watched the taillights disappear into the curve of the dark highway before running back up the drive and into the house.
Margaret was bent over the kitchen table, a metal lockbox open before her. She looked up at the sound of his step. Her face was wet with tears and there was a gun in her hands. She was trying to load it, unaccustomed fingers fumbling with bullets. She sniffed and wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “Is he gone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll never be free of him until he’s dead,” she whispered.
The anger that burned so intensely in his chest now dissipated at sight of her desperation. “You don’t mean that.”
He stepped close and put his hand over hers, pointing the barrel downward. Her fingers were tense and cold as the black handgun. He gently pulled it from her grip and set it on the table. She released the bullets from her other hand, letting them drop back into the box, the sound like hail on a tin roof. He slowly drew her into his arms and she pressed her face against his chest, her tears dampening his t-shirt. She sobbed and shook and he held her there, never wanting to let go. In that moment he knew he would do anything to keep her safe.
CHAPTER TEN
“What do you mean, you can’t? I have paid you an exorbitant amount of money to accelerate the process. I want to take my son home to Italy by the end of this month. Don’t tell me it’s not possible. Just do it!” He flipped the cell phone closed and laid it on the table beside him.
Carl’s restaurant was already busy and bustling at five p.m. He still hadn’t become accustomed to the seven and a half hour time difference from Rome, but he’d skipped lunch and he was starving. A waiter moved smoothly between tables offering free samples of a local Merlot. He waved him away when he neared his table. The man moved off to a rowdy group of middle-aged patrons, already half drunk from touring wineries.
Agosto picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. Letting it linger on his tongue, he breathed deeply. He detected a hint of nutmeg and lush, dark blackberries. There was a nose of cocoa and something else he couldn’t quite...
“Agosto. I didn’t know you were here.” Carl stood beside him still in his chef coat, a puzzled look on his face. He eyed the bottle of wine on the table. “I see you’ve discovered Margaret’s Wine.”
“Please have a seat and share a glass with me.” Agosto motioned for his cousin to sit. “If you can spare a few moments from your precious kitchen. We’ve hardly spoken since I’ve been back.”
Carl turned toward the kitchen and nodded at a busboy standing there. The young man disappeared through the swinging doors. “I can sit for a minute.” He took a wineglass from the unoccupied table next to them, pulled out a chair and sat, his face a
mask of politeness.
“I suppose you know that Margaret has refused to allow me contact with my own son.” He swallowed the rest of the wine in his glass and reached for the bottle. He refilled his and Carl’s as well. “I thought perhaps we could start over. But she won’t give me a chance.”
“Did you really think that taking Davy was a good way to start over?” Carl asked, is tone sharp. “I find that hard to believe. You were always a conniving…”
Agosto put out his hand. “Stop right there! You have no right. It’s been ten years since I was the boy you so despised. I’m a different man now. Am I to be punished for the rest of my life for an immature choice I made a decade ago?” He rubbed his hands over his face and sat back with a weary sigh. “I know I shouldn’t have taken him. It was stupid. I waited for Margaret to call and she didn’t. I wanted to see my son. To talk with him. To spend time with him as a father. So I took him—to play soccer. What is so horrible about that?” He shook his head. “She actually called the police.”
Carl watched him as though he were a criminal on the witness stand. “What did you think she was going to do? Welcome you back with open arms? Handel and Margaret are my friends—my family. If you have any intention of hurting them again, you will answer to me this time.”
“After all my father did for you,” Agosto said. “He helped set you up in this restaurant, paid the loans you were unable to meet, and now you treat your family like this.”
“I’ve paid my debt to your father. I do not owe one to you.” Carl stood and pushed the chair carefully in, smoothing the white tablecloth in place. He lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp. “Thanks for the wine,” he said, and walked away.
Agosto drew a deep breath and slowly released it. He smiled and sipped his wine, unconcerned by his cousin’s warning. Carl had always been easy to lie to. He liked to take people at their word. He truly believed there was good in everyone, and given a chance they would do the right thing. That’s really what his little warning was all about. Carl was giving him another chance to prove his worth. He laughed softly and reached out for the breadbasket.
*****
The restaurant parking lot was well lit, but he didn’t notice the man hunched inside the old pickup next to his car until he squeezed between the vehicles to open the door. The man climbed out and leaned with his forearms on the side panel of the pickup bed, staring boldly across at Agosto while he tried to open his door without banging it against the rust bucket beside him. He’d bought another bottle of Margaret’s Wine to take back to the hotel and he carefully placed it on the seat before turning to face the man watching him.
“Could you perhaps move your truck so I can get into my car? It’s much too close,” he said, his words only slightly slurred. He knew he could get back to the hotel without mishap but backing up with an inch to spare might be a problem. The rental was extremely expensive and although it was well worth it, he didn’t want to pay for damages that could have been avoided.
The man wore a faded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a couple days growth of grey whiskers covered his face like heavy sandpaper. He had a lit cigarette between his lips. He didn’t bother to take it out, but spoke around it. “So you’re Davy’s daddy,” he drawled, his voice as rough as his appearance. “I pictured someone a little different. More manly.”
Agosto shut the door and turned to face the man. “Should I know you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.
The man laughed. “No reason you should.”
There was something about him that seemed familiar but Agosto knew he’d never laid eyes on him before. Even so, he felt the urge to escape back inside the restaurant. Instead, he opened his jacket, took out a cigarette, put it between his lips and lit it.
“I hear you had a little run-in with my Maggie.” The man continued, as though they were in the middle of a normal conversation. “Lately, she seems to be channeling her momma—a harridan if there ever was one.” He paused, took the cigarette from his lips and crushed it out in the bed of the pickup. “I can help you with that.”
Agosto blew out a puff of smoke. Now he knew who the man was. The perfect patsy.
*****
The winery was alive with activity at two a.m. Margaret surveyed the pickup trucks filled with empty crates, tools, and water tanks for the workers. Everything seemed to be ready. Harvesting the grapes in the cool of the night and early morning was easier on the workers and guaranteed crisp, juicy fruit. Cheerful voices, in Spanish and English, ping-ponged back and forth across the parking area, greeting latecomers, sharing stories, and making small talk. The camaraderie and excitement were testament to the way people felt about harvest in Napa. Hard work went hand-in-hand with joyful thanksgiving for a bountiful crop. Even the tasting room crew was out in force, wearing work clothes rather than white shirts and slacks. Everyone wanted to be involved in the crush.
Margaret went in search of Davy. He had run off in the direction of the sheds earlier with his soccer ball in hand, his headlight blazing on his baseball cap, excited about getting up in the middle of the night. He’d begged to skip school for the day and help out, and she couldn’t resist his eager anticipation at the idea of working alongside her at her new job. She caught a glimpse of his blonde head through the trees, where he was bouncing his soccer ball against one of the sheds with a Mexican boy a few years older than him.
“Davy, are you coming to work with me in the south field? We’re getting ready to take off.”
He caught the ball and turned around, then glanced back at his friend. “Want to come with us, Pablo?” he asked.
The boy shook his head. “I’m s’pose to stay by Uncle.”
“Is Mario your uncle? I thought maybe he was your grandfather.” Margaret put her arm around Davy and smiled at the boy. He looked about thirteen, with black hair and a scarred lip that pulled up slightly. He’d obviously been born with a cleft pallet and had gone through some reconstructive surgery.
He shifted nervously. “Uncle Mario’s family is in Mexico—except for us,” he mumbled, and then looked as though he wished he hadn’t volunteered so much information. He stared down at the ground, scuffing the toe of his shoe in the dirt.
“If Mario wants you with him, that’s fine,” she said, changing the subject. She’d rather not know if Mario’s relatives were in the country illegally. The boy looked scared to death. She looked down at Davy. “Would you rather go with Mario and Pablo? I’ll miss you, but as long as you promise to work hard…”
“Thanks, Mom!” Davy said, before she even finished her sentence, his voice pitched high with excitement. “We’ll work hard, won’t we Pablo?”
The other boy nodded solemnly.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
The boys ran off to climb aboard Mario’s truck, leaving her staring at Davy’s deserted soccer ball and feeling much the same.
Ten minutes later Ernesto parked the truck at the far corner of the south field and let everyone off. Margaret and Billie climbed out of the cab and stood back while Ernesto directed the workers on different sides of the rows to begin picking. They each carried a small plastic bin that would hold about thirty pounds of ripe grapes, and their picking shears.
Billie worked on one side of a row, while Margaret took the other. The flashlights attached to their caps lit up the vines and revealed the plentiful clusters of purple grapes. The south field was planted in the seventies with Cabernet Franc and had always yielded the best crop of Fredrickson’s varietals.
“Who is driving the tractor?” Margaret asked, hearing the put-put of the slow engine in the distance. The tractor pulled a long flatbed with huge bins attached. Each time the pickers filled the tractor bins, the driver would return to the winery to empty the load and the wine process would begin. The first step would be for the grapes to go through the de-stemmer/sorter machine.
Billie’s light stayed pointing downward as she pinched off the grape clusters with her cut
ter and dropped them into the bin at her feet. She slid it along with one foot as she moved down the row. “Loren and Sammie are driving the tractors. I figured since they are two of the slowest pickers we have, but very careful in the tasting room with the crystal, that they would use extreme caution driving through the vineyard with our precious cargo.”
“I hope they have more driving experience than just pushing a cart with glassware on it.” She slid the bin along the row and clipped more bunches, dropping them into the quickly growing pile.
Billie laughed, her flashlight beam bobbing up and down. “Don’t worry, they drove last year and managed to back the trailers in and out of the yard with awesome precision. I think Sammie actually pretends he’s driving a big old semi. He told me his dream was to be a truck driver.”
“He’s still got time. He’s another couple years away from retirement.” Margaret heard the tractor getting close and lifted the bin. “Mine’s already full. How bout yours?”
“Right behind you.”
Half a dozen workers were already waiting to dump their bins by the time the tractor came to a stop behind the pickup. One of the men climbed up on the trailer and poured the grapes in the larger bins as each person lifted their container to him.
“How’s it going Sammie?” Margaret called, when he shut off the tractor and climbed down to help.
“Pretty damn good,” he said with a grin, as he always did when asked. He added, “Looks like these grapes were made for wine.” An inside joke that had been around for so long no one knew who started it—or why it was considered a joke. But Sammie repeated it each harvest like clockwork.
“They sure do, Sammie.” Billie’s headlight flashed over his face and blinded him before she remembered to shut it off. “Sorry about that. It’s actually pretty bright out here in the light of the moon. Forgot I was wearing it.”
“We better get back out there.” Margaret picked up her bin and headed for the place in the row that she’d marked with a white cloth on the ground.
Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels) Page 11