Entangled (35 page)

It reminded me of the day our family visited
California twenty years before. Uncle Jack had waved to us from the
steps as we pulled up in our rental car. After introductions he
bent down to my level and pointed at the setting sun. “You like
orange sherbet?” he asked with a grin. I nodded eagerly. He reached
out his hand and pretended to take a big scoop out of the sky with
an imaginary spoon. “Better eat up. It’s already melting,” he said.
I liked him from that moment.

“What are you thinking about?” Mother asked,
reaching out to push a strand of straggling hair behind my ear. She
hadn’t let me out of her sight the entire week and I was beginning
to feel that old familiar suffocation setting in.

“Family. I miss Dad and Uncle Jack.”

She took my hand and squeezed. “I do too,
honey. But we’ll see them again.”

I nodded and turned back toward the setting
sun, now just faint streaks of pink fading away. “I know we
will.”

She stood up and opened the screen door. “You
coming?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I need to do
something first.”

She hesitated before going in. “You want me
to come with you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “You don’t have to worry,
Mother. The police apprehended Sean Parker two days ago and he’s on
his way back to the Arizona state prison. As far as I know, I don’t
have anymore enemies, but …”

“Very funny.” She let the door bang shut
behind her.

But I could feel her eyes watching me as I
walked across the drive, and entered the winery. This time I
flipped all the lights on. I avoided my office, not ready to see it
quite yet. I knew professional cleaners had come and torn out the
carpet, cleaned the walls and furniture and left things somewhat
restored, but there would still be the memory of Charlie lying
there in death, soaked in wine and blood.

I made my way to Jack’s cellar. The cold,
stone stairwell no longer felt frightening to me, but rather
inviting, our passageway to adventure as Jack called it. The
creaking door sent a shiver along my spine, the kind you get when
chugging slowly up the steepest hill of a rollercoaster, knowing
you’ll soon be shooting straight down the other side.

Charlie and Alex had destroyed much of Jack’s
special stock, but I discovered a dozen dusty bottles at the far
corner of the wine rack, back underneath where cobwebs obscured
them from view. I took one and wiped it clean on the tail of my
denim shirt. The label of the clock was simply drawn, a child’s
rendition of keeping time in a bottle. Uncle Jack told me to draw
our time together and I drew the clock I saw on the wall of the
cellar, the hands set at six for that early morning hour we met to
laugh, and live, and learn together.

I held the bottle to the light and watched
the burgundy sparkle, remembering all the precious moments spent
with those I loved that summer when I was eight.

“You were right, Uncle Jack,” I said, my
voice a mere whisper. “You
can
save time in a bottle.”

*****

Mother finally flew back to Minneapolis,
after I bribed Adam to call and say he wanted to live at home for
the summer. She couldn’t resist washing and cooking for a helpless
male. Apparently, it was even more fun than taking care of me.

I pulled into the garage and shut off the
engine. The drive back from the airport had been stressful. Traffic
was hectic and I was no longer accustomed to dealing with rush hour
on a regular basis. I stepped out of the car thinking of the night
ahead and a certain sense of freedom I felt without Mother looking
over my shoulder.

Handel had promised a memorable evening in
celebration of my decision to stay and run Fredrickson Winery.
Perhaps we would also celebrate the subtle change in our
relationship, moving us closer to what my mother and father once
had. Handel was a man I could trust, a man I could love if I let
myself. Some of the old walls had already come down and I looked
forward to the day he smashed through the last of my reserves.

The garage door shut behind me as I pushed
the button and walked toward the house. I heard the crunching of
gravel from behind and turned to find Davy following close on my
tail. “Hey, kid. Haven’t seen you around here lately. Your mother
chain you to the house?” I teased.

He shook his head and wiped his nose with the
back of a hand. “Nope. But Uncle Handel said if I scare her like
that again I’ll have to go to Juvie.” His blonde brows drew
together in a frown. “What’s Juvie anyway?”

“Not a good place.” I held open the front
door. “You want to come in and have ice cream?”

“Sure. But I better call Mom and tell her
where I am.”

I smiled. “Good idea.”

Davy dug into his bowl of chocolate ice cream
as though he’d been stranded in the desert for a week. I watched
him from across the table. “How old did you say you were?” I asked,
sitting back and crossing my arms.

He stuck his tongue out and licked all the
way around his face as far as he could reach. “Eight and a half.”
He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand again.

I regarded him thoughtfully. “Ever think of
learning a trade?” I asked. “I bet you’d make a great wine maker. I
could teach you.”

Davy took another bite before answering. “Do
I get paid?”

###

Barbara Ellen Brink lives in the great state
of Minnesota where the mosquitoes are so large they fear nothing
but tornadoes. She enjoys motorcycle trips with her husband, hiking
with their dogs, Rugby and Willow, and of course writing novels.
Look for another book in the Fredrickson Winery saga to be out
soon.

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