Riverbend (14 page)

“Thank you.”

He glanced towards the window. “The stars shine so brightly here. It's the first thing we noticed when we came here.”

We?

“You want a glass of wine?” he asked, indicating the bottle on the table. “I've already had one. Put me to sleep, as you can see.” Just one glass. Of course, it was just one glass. This man was not like
Marco.

Did she want a glass? It sounded good. She hadn't had one with Billy and Cindi after the kitchen closed. She hadn't felt like it, just wanting to get home. Well, not home, but here, back to Alder. “I guess. If you'll have one with me,” she added.

“Sure. Wait here, I'll get you a glass.”

“I can get it.”

But he was already up, heading for the kitchen.

“I'll just change if you don't mind.” She noticed he was in his standard sleepwear: sweats and a T-shirt. Even the simplest of clothes looked great on him. This was unfortunate. Because there it was again: desire. Her nemesis. The antithesis to rational thought.
Get yourself together
, she told herself.

“No problem,” he said, as he disappeared into the kitchen.

In her room, she took off her chef pants and T-shirt, tossing them into the dirty laundry bin. She always smelled like butter and garlic after a shift. No wonder she didn't have a boyfriend. Looking in the mirror, she took out the fastener that held her hair. The unruly mess immediately went big, like six inches big, all around her head. Scrutinizing herself, she despaired. Her hair was terrible and her skin pink and flushed from a hot kitchen. She sniffed under her arms before reaching for the deodorant. Should she really be in the company of a man in close proximity smelling the way she did? But if not, she'd miss the opportunity to be with him. With that thought in mind, she pulled on a pair of shorts and a Riversong T-shirt before peeking in on Alder, who was asleep, his face angelic in the dim light. After brushing her lips against his cheek, she headed back to the front room. Drake was already there, pouring a generous portion of wine into a glass. She settled onto the opposite couch, tucking her legs under her as he handed her the glass. It smelled of cherries and tobacco. What was it? She glanced at the label. Quilceda Creek Cabernet, 2007?

“Wow, how'd you get this?” she asked, knowing their distribution list was tight; one had to practically inherit a place on their customer list. “This is like gold. No, more like diamonds.”

“I've been on their list since almost the beginning of the winery. One of my buddies at work asked if I wanted to go in on a case every
year and I said yes. That was back in ’96. He dropped off so now I get the whole case. No reason to keep it in the cellar anymore.”

Unsure what he meant, she kept the obvious question to herself. She could do this. Just keep the conversation benign. Don't ask questions. Don't tell him inane details about your life. She took a first sip of the wine, holding it in her mouth for a moment. “This is so good. What a treat. Thank you. Tommy would love this. He's always on the hunt for the best bottle of wine for ten dollars but he appreciates the higher end, too.”

Drake watched her over the rim of his glass without comment.

She went on, his gaze making her nervous, which in turn made her talk more. Apparently her tongue was not connected to her brain in any way. “Tommy's the best. So is Lee. Actually, the whole gang. Cindi's a little rough around the edges but she has a heart of gold. And Mike, well, he loves this town like it's his child, I swear. You can't believe how hard he works to try and make it better here. All he wants is for jobs to come here so families will stay and maybe the meth makers will leave. It's so hard, though, especially with the economy the last several years. This resort they're building is taking a long time. Some of the investors dropped out because they've come on hard times or are skittish. That kind of thing. But we never give up. None of them can believe what you offered to do.” She paused, taking another sip of wine. Goodness, it was impossible to be anything other than a complete goof around this man.
Stop talking. Please, just shut your mouth.

“Ah, well, it pleases me to do it. This is the nature of philanthropy. The giver always gets more than the receiver.”

“I wouldn't know. I've never had anything to give.”

“It's not always money, you know. You give plenty. You wouldn't have so many loyal friends and such a good boy if that weren't the case.”

She gazed at him for a moment, a feeling like warm bread pudding on a cold night in her stomach. “That was a nice thing to say.”

He shrugged, sitting back and putting his feet on the coffee table. His socks were thick with reinforced toes, the kind athletes wore. “Just an observation, that's all.”

They were quiet for a moment. All the unasked questions were perched precariously on her lips but she knew not to pry into his personal life. She thought again of the noises coming from the forbidden room. What demons kept him awake at night?

The wine in her glass was nearing the bottom. How had she finished it so fast? She felt warm and bold and suddenly had the urge to tell him everything about herself. She had a dozen thoughts all at once.
Her mother. Culinary school. How they opened Riversong. Stay quiet
, she ordered herself.
No good can come from running your mouth
, her mother had told her a thousand times when she was little and exuberant at the breakfast table and after school and at dinner. But she'd had so much to say as a child, and like tonight, no one to listen. Embarrassment flooded over her, thinking of her mother and then of this nice man who probably found her to be this short of idiotic. The familiar urge to stifle all feelings and thoughts with something sweet to eat flooded her. That hadn't happened for a while now. She'd trained herself out of it. Now she did the opposite. When she felt bad or out of control, she opened the application on her smart phone that tracked calories and started adding everything she'd eaten that day. She could do this right now, just in her head. Yes. Breakfast had been a boiled egg and one piece of dry toast, 210 calories.

Drake, shifting on the couch, chuckled. “What's going on in that head of yours right now? Your thoughts are a mile a minute.”

She stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“You have one of those faces that gives everything away.”

“I'm trying really hard not to talk too much. I have a lot of questions all the time. And a lot to say. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“Nothing's wrong with you. Matter of fact, curiosity about other people is a nice quality. And, you're adorable.” He reached for her glass, his fingers almost brushing hers, before emptying the rest of the bottle into it.

Adorable?
Had he really just said that?

“I shouldn't drink any more of this.” She took another sip. “But it's so good.”

“Life has few pleasures, this wine being one of them. Seize it
while you can.”

No good can come from running your mouth.
There was her mother's voice in her head. Again. How long before this destructive voice in her head left? Perhaps never. “My mother always told me I yammered away all day about nothing.”

“All little girls talk a lot. That's what they do. You shouldn't have been made to feel shame about it. You deserve better.”

“Me? Deserve better? Is that what you just said?”

“It is.” He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “Is that a foreign concept to you?”

“Kind of,” she admitted in nothing more than a mumble.

“That makes me sad for you.”

She shrugged, taking in more wine in a gulp, fighting tears. What was it about this man that made her feel so emotional?
Kindness, that's what. He's kind to me. And it makes me feel cared for and loved and wanted.

“My mother didn't really believe in the whole build you up type of parenting. More of the boot camp style. Criticize you until you break.”

“My mother was the opposite. Almost zealot-like in her defense and encouragement of us.”

“That must have been wonderful.”

“It was. You have no idea how much Bella and I missed that when she died. Bella needs her now, more than ever.”

“Bella?”

“My baby sister. She was only sixteen when my mother died. Almost the worst time for a girl.”

“I'm sorry.” Thinking of her own mother at that age, around but useless to help her or guide her, regardless of her physical presence or not.

“Thank you,” he said, his face in its usual position of resigned sadness. “This is a hard life, here on earth. For most of us.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I suppose.” His eyes skirted to a space on the wall behind her, his expression wary.

“Why, if you're committed to becoming a recluse, did you just invite me to have wine?”

He gazed into his glass. “I don't know.”

“Have you always lived alone?”

He shifted his focus to the large windows. “No, not always.” His voice was so quiet she felt the urge to lean forward to hear him better.

“How long?”

“Three years.”

“Is that the same time you sold your company?”

He nodded, finishing the last of his wine. “Yes. A year after that I had them start building this house.”

“Why here?”

He put his hand on his chest, directly over his heart, his eyes still directed towards the windows. “Please, Annie, don't ask anything else. I can't, I can't talk about it.” His voice sounded dry and strangled now.

She put down her glass and uncurled her legs. “I'm sorry. I told you I talk too much and ask too many questions.”

“You didn't say you asked too many questions,” he said, softly. “You said you have a lot of questions. There's a difference.”

“I should go to bed.” Standing, feeling slightly light-headed from the wine, the rug pleasurable between her bare toes, she peered at him, wishing as she so often did in this life of pain and uncertainty that things were different. “I'm sorry I pried.”

He shifted so that he looked directly into her eyes. “No, I'm sorry. I wish I wasn't this way. Truly, I do. But I'm damaged beyond repair.”

There it was again, the urge to reach for him, take him into her arms and hold him. “We all are. You know that, right?”

“Not like this.”

Marco's knife glimmered in the light as he brought it to her neck.
Tag, I found you.
Annie awakened right at that moment, screaming. The clock read 2:12 a.m. She lay there for a moment, staring into the
darkness. Then, breaking through the silent night was the sound of the coyote's howl. In the next moment, it was silent, not even a cricket chirping or a breeze rustling pine needles. She went to the window, pulling back the shade. In silhouette, near the rose garden, under a full moon, stood the coyote. The summer night was still, the stars close. As she had before, she put her hand upon the window. The coyote turned and looked at her for a moment. She met his gaze, her other hand over her heart, before he loped into the trees, disappearing into the purple forest.

She crossed the sitting area and opened the door to the hallway. Alder's room was dark, as was the one with the music. But a light shone through the crack between the floor and the door of what she now thought of as the billiard room. She stood, listening, but heard nothing. After a moment, she crossed the hallway and let herself quietly inside Alder's room. He was asleep, his face peaceful in the moonlight that filtered through the window.

In the hallway once again, she hesitated. Unable to explain why, she moved towards the strip of light. Once there, she put her palm on the door, just as she'd done on the window only moments before. She heard footsteps coming towards her but she remained, despite all the reasons to flee.

“Annie,” came Drake's voice behind the door. “Are you all right?” She heard what sounded like him sitting down on the floor—a plopping sound and a sigh. The door shook slightly. Perhaps he was sitting against it?

“Yes.” She hesitated, tugging at the collar of her damp pajamas. “No. Another nightmare.” She slid to the floor as well, leaning against the door with her back. Could she feel the warmth from his body through the wood? Pure imagination, of course, but still she could not shake the image of him on the floor with his legs spread out before him instead of cross-legged as she was. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some, yes.” Silence, before the door moved slightly. Perhaps he was adjusting his position? “Then a nightmare. I hope I didn't wake Alder.”

“I checked on him. Fast asleep. Always, like a rock.”

“Did you ever read him the story about the donkey that makes a
wish that turns him into a rock?”

“Oh, yes.
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble
. One of Alder's favorites.”

There was silence from the other side of the door for a long moment. And then Drake's voice, with the same lonesome quality of her friend the coyote, only soft instead of a howl. “Don't you wish it were true?”

“What's that? A magic stone to make wishes come true?”

“No. That people lost to you could come back.”

“Yes, that would be good,” she said, an ache at the back of her throat. Who would he bring back? His mother? “I once heard this famous actress interviewed on Oprah say the meaning of life was loss. That always stuck with me because it made me want to cry out, no, it can't be loss. It's love. Surely it's love.”