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Rotating, I sit on the window seat of the grand library that was once my father’s, bookshelves filled with decades of books lining the walls left and right, all with answers to questions that we might not even ever ask. Which is why I read incessantly and why I wish I knew which one to open for the right answers to why Nick Rogers felt so right and wrong at the same time, and why so many other things are wrong in ways I’m not sure I can make right. But that would be too simple, and I am suddenly reminded of a poem I wrote long ago in school that started out with:The apples fall from the trees. The wind blows in the trees.I’d proudly handed it into the teacher and quickly found myself scolded for my display of simplistic writing. I didn’t understand. What was wrong with being simplistic? The words and the concepts fit together. That is what mattered. That was what was important to me. The way the pieces fit. The way it made sense. It seemed so simple to me, when in truth, little in life is simple at all. And that’s exactly why I keep that poem pinned on my bedroom wall. To remind me that nothing is simple.
Except death, I think, my throat thickening. One minute you’re alive, and the next you’re dead. Death is as simple as it gets. At least for the person it claims. For those of us left behind, it’s complicated, haunting. Mysterious and maybe even dangerous. And death, I have learned, is never done with you until you are gone, too. My mind returns to Nick Rogers and the way he’d known that I was in the window. The way he’d stared up at me and then given me that wave, and every instinct I own tells me that Nick Rogers is a lot like death. He’s not done with me, either.
Chapter Three
Faith
Gasping for air, I sit up in bed, my hand on my throat, my breath heaving from my chest, seconds passing eternally as I will my heart to calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe. Just breathe. Finally, I begin to calm, and I scan the room, the heavy drapes that run throughout the family mansion that I grew up in casting it in shadows, while my mind casts the horror that woke me in its own form of darkness. Every image I think I can identify dodges and weaves, then fades just out of reach, like too many other things in my life right now.
Suddenly aware of the perpetual chill of the centuries-old property, a chill impossible to escape seeming to seep deep into my bones, I yank the blanket to my chin, the floral scent of the gardens that my mother loved clinging inescapably to it and to me. I glance toward the heavy antique white nightstand to my right to find the clock: eight a.m., a new dawn long ago rising over the rolling mountaintops hugging this region to illuminate the miles and miles of vineyards surrounding us. It’s also the dawn of my thirtieth birthday, and really, why wouldn’t it start with a nightmare? I’m sleeping in my dead mother’s bed.
It’s an uncomfortable thought, but not an emotional one, a reality that makes me evenmoreuncomfortable. When my father died just two years ago now, I’d cried until I could cry no more, and then did it again. And again. And again. But I’m not crying now. What is wrong with me? I didn’t even cry at the funeral, but I’d been certain that when alone, I would. Now, eight weeks later, there are still no tears. I had my problems with my mother, but it’s not like I don’t grieve for her. I do, but I grieved for her in life as well, and maybe I grieved too much then to grieve now. I just don’t know.
Rolling over, I flip on the light, then hit a remote that turns on the fireplace directly in front of my bed. Sitting up, I stare at the flames as it spurts and sputters to life, but I don’t find the answers I seek there, or anywhere in this room, as I’d hoped when I’d moved from the identical room down the hall to this one. I’d been certain that being here, in the middle of my mother’s personal space, the scent of the gardens she loved clinging to virtually everything, including me, would finally make the tears fall. But no. Days later, and I’m still not crying; I’m having nightmares. And whatever those nightmares are, they always make me wake up angry. So there it is. Idohave a feeling I can name. Anger is one of them. I’m not quite sure what that anger is all about, but right now, all I can hear is my mother shouting at me:You’re just like your father. An insult in her book, but there was no truth in it. I was never like my father. I always saw who and what she was, where he only saw the woman he’d loved for thirty years—the same amount of time I’ve been alive.
Throwing off the covers, I rotate, my feet settling on the stepstool that is a necessity to climb down from the bedframe. My gaze lands on Nick Rogers’s business card where I’d left it on the nightstand last night, after spending the minutes before sleep replaying every word, look, and touch with that man. This morning I’m admitting to myself what I had not last night. He woke me up, and because of him, there is at least one other emotion I can feel:lust. If lust is really even considered an emotion, but whatever the case, there is no other word for what charged the air between myself and that man, for what I felt and saw in his eyes when he touched me, butlust. And the more I think about that meeting, the more I know that there wasn’t anything romantic or sweet about our connection. It was dark and jagged. The kind of attraction that’s unforgiving in its demands. The kind of attraction that’s all consuming, proven by the fact that, even now, hours after our encounter, I can still feel his hand on my arm and the sizzle that had burned a path through my body. I can still feel the hum of my body that he, and he alone, created.
And while I cannot say if that man is my friend or my enemy, I know where this kind of collision course of dark, edgy lust leads. I’ve lived it, and it is not a place you want to go with anyone that you don’t trust. I’m not sure it’s a place you can even find with someone you really do trust. I think it’s dark because it’s born out of something dark in one or both people, maybe that they bring out in each other. Which means it’s not a place anyone should travel, and yet, when you feel it, I know that you resist it. But you cannot deny it, or the person who creates it in you. It’s exactly why I am certain that, despite my rejection of Nick Rogers last night, I’ll be seeing him again, which brings my mind back to one particular exchange we’d shared that keeps playing and replaying in my head.
“You’re still touching me,”I’d said, and he’d replied with, “I’m holding on to that good luck.”
Logically, he was inferring that meeting me was good luck. He’d already stated that coming here to the winery was good luck. It was simple flirtatious banter. So why did it bother me then, and why does it bother me now? Chance meeting or not? The timing…the men…the dark lust. It never comes from a good place. Maybe I’m wrong about him. I have plenty of darkness of my own right now. Maybe my energy fed our energy together. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dangerous. He’s taboo.
He’s not going to touch me again.
My cellphone rings, and praying it’s not some crisis in the winery, I grab it and glance at the caller ID. At the sight of my attorney’s number, and with the knowledge that his office just opened, my heart races, and I answer the line. “Frank? Do you have news?”
“It’s Betty,” I hear. Betty being Frank’s secretary. “Frank wants to know if you can be here at eleven.”
“Is there a problem?”
“He’s in court. He wants to see you, and he said it had to be today. That’s all I know. Can you be here at eleven?”
“Can he see me sooner?” I ask, my nerves racketing up a notch at the “had to be today” comment.
“He’s in court.”
“Right. Eleven it is, then.”
My phone rings again, and I glance at the unknown number, hitting decline. At least the bill collectors waited until sunrise today. Three seconds later, the ringing begins all over again, and this time it’s a San Francisco number. Repeating my prior action, I hit decline, and this time I have the luxury of blocking the number. I don’t need to talk to the caller to know they want a piece of me that they can’t have, and yet another of my exchanges with Tiger comes back to me. I’d asked,“Does good luck bleed?”And his reply had been,“Many people will do anything for good luck, even bleed.”
Bleed.
Isn’t that what my father did? Bleed? And bleed some more?
And why do I feel like I’m bleeding right now?
And why does that thought remind me of Tiger?
I glance down at my balled fist and open it to discover I’ve crumpled his card into a ball in my hand.
…
My phone registers five more unknown callers by the time I complete the fifteen-minute drive to my attorney’s office, which is in one of my favorite places in the city: the quaint downtown area, where there are stone walkways leading to stores, restaurants, and a few random businesses; some areas are even framed with ivy overhangs. I park by a curb, in front of a row of side-by-side mom-and-pop shops, right in front of the path leading to Frank’s office, but I don’t get out, nervous and with reason. The winery was everything to my father, and to save it, I did things I didn’t want to do—things I regret. And the guilt I feel is overwhelming. Maybe I can’t cry because it’s eating away at me, like acid that just won’t stop burning away my emotions.
I straighten my funeral-black pencil skirt, which I’ve paired with a funeral-black sweater and black, knee-high boots, the thick tights beneath it all meant to fight the chill of an October mountain day. But nothing can take the chill off death, which is my reason for choosing funeral-black attire yet again today. I don’t remember the day, week, moment, that I stopped dressing this way after my father died. I guess it just happens when it feels right, and it doesn’t yet. My cellphone rings again, and I grab it from my well-worn (also black) briefcase that doubles as my version of a purse. Eyeing the caller ID, I see that the new San Francisco number has apparently called me twice now. I block it and one other, certain from the past two weeks of hell that yet another caller will start showing up on my ID any second.
I turn my ringer off and slip my cell back in its pocket, my gaze landing on the gold Chanel logo pressed to the outside of the bag, my fingers stroking the letters. It was a gift from my father when I’d graduated from UCLA with eyes set on selling my art and buying lots of Chanel. My father declared this bag a “taste of luxury” to inspire me. And it had been, but then things had happened and—
