by Diana Stone
“I’ll say my goodbyes and be right back.” She touches my shoulder in concern as she hurries past.
“Hello again,” says that masculine Italian voice from the food table.
No, I’m not in the mood—this isn’t a good time. I look up and summon enough energy to give him a small painted-on smile. “Hi.”
I have nothing to say to the suave Italian. But even in my current state, I notice he doesn’t have the Latin lady at his side.
Veronica chooses this moment to come bustling out again, almost clucking like a mother hen. I find myself ushered into the parking lot, poured into the passenger seat and driven away.
The evening didn’t turn out as I had planned. It started great, I’m not complaining. “Thank you for inviting me, I met some really nice people tonight.”
“You’re welcome, I’m sorry you’re getting a bad impression of my town,” she frets. “I didn’t see Jack. I’m going to call him in the morning and let him know what happened. It’s not right that you got thrown out.”
“I’ll get over it, this is just a glitch, nothing major. I still like it here.” But I don’t love it.
Suddenly, the inside of the car lights up. Headlights from a too-close tailgater are shining in like a spotlight. I look back, making sure not to stare directly into the light. I can’t see anything but the high beams of the car behind. He’s very, very close on our tail—only a few feet away.
“I can go faster, do you think I should?” Veronica asks, her voice laced with tension.
“Yeah, your car can handle it. See if he’s trying to get us to go faster, or if it’s something else,” I advise.
I lean over to look at the speedometer, she nudged it up another 20 MPH. That’s too fast for this road and the guy is still on our tail.
“Do you know any hidden driveways we can dive into and turn off the lights?” I remember doing that when I was followed. “We need to get somewhere where there are people.”
Our headlights shine on a yellow road sign with an ‘S’, advising us of the curves ahead.
“I know these curves,” she shouts with adrenaline. She mashes down on the gas pedal and the car easily slides through the S turn. We start to lose the guy behind by the time we get to the next S just ahead.
Veronica begins the turn by cutting the curves and sliding into the straightaway. The car behind is rapidly losing ground. “Hold on!” she yells, as she turns off the lights, then cuts the wheel hard to the right. We spin off the road into a little lane heading uphill through the trees. I can’t see a thing, but she keeps driving without hitting the brakes. She makes two more turns before our car loses momentum and slows to a crawl. Finally, she drops it into park, without touching the brakes. She didn’t alert our pursuer with our brake lights.
Now that I see we aren’t flying off a cliff, I twist around in my seat. Looking back—I see our pursuer’s red tail lights driving fast down the winding road. He’s still racing, but he missed our turnoff!
“Who taught you to drive like this?!”
“Marc and I used to come here when we were dating. We raced the curves in his car,” she takes a few deep breaths, “Wow, it paid off. Wait till I tell him!”
“I’m impressed! You look so normal, who would have guessed?”
“Let’s get out of here, we need to get somewhere safe. I know another way home.”
I get my phone from under the floor mat and punch in Marc’s number. I put it on speaker as Veronica describes her race car driving. We can hear Marc running with his keys. Then he’s out the door and heading in our direction. When we meet, he will follow us home, providing an escort.
What was that all about? It could have been that psycho. I doubt there are two dangerous people on this road. I make a call to the police but can’t report a description of the car or driver. The dispatch says he will alert patrols in the area to look for a reckless driver. I hate being ineffective—my call did absolutely nothing.
It occurs to me that the psycho committed the misdemeanor crime of battery against me. I’ve been so pissed off with that stupid Mr. James, the muscular guard, and my treatment, that it slipped my mind. He took charge by throwing the guy out, but he didn’t follow it up by getting information about the guy. I know a misdemeanor isn’t anything big, but it will start the wheels of justice rolling. I will definitely make sure our car chase is also added.
I call the Sheriff’s dispatch once more and request that a police unit meet us at the house.
We’re making good time on the trip home and see headlights coming toward us. It’s Marc in their ranch truck. That makes me feel safer.
His face is tight as he stops opposite us. “Are you okay?” He reaches his hand out the window to hold Veronica’s. “I’m not letting you go anywhere without me,” he sternly advises.
“Oh Marc, our racing paid off. I’m so proud of myself,” she exclaims. “We need to get home without that guy seeing us. Jess has the police coming to the house, she has quite a story for them.”
Marc swings a U-turn and follows us home. There aren’t any other cars on the road, I think we’re safe for now.
They both suggest I make the report in the house, rather than in the dark barn… that sounds good to me. To convey a welcome, I have the front door open for the deputy as he drives up to the house. I introduce myself and explain the situation. My story seems to have lost something in the telling. It sounds less dramatic and it has become a simple crime report. The deputy doesn’t seem particularly interested, he’s here to take a report and get on to his next call. I make sure I keep to the facts, and leave the emotion out. He’s taking notes as I speak; he gets my story but asks very few questions.
“I wanted this documented in case something comes of it.” His dull expression makes me feel inconsequential. “Thanks for coming out,” I mutter while ushering him to the door.
Marc gives me a questioning look, “I’m glad you got the police involved, that creep might be really dangerous,” he stresses the possibility. “But what’s the deal with the deputy… he didn’t seem to give a damn?”
“I don’t know what to say. Maybe he’s tired, or he’s a jerk, I have no idea.” I always try to be reasonable.
Veronica comes to stand next to me and points down the hall. “Would you feel better sleeping in our guest room?”
“I’m okay in the trailer, thanks. I have my gun and he doesn’t know where we live,” I give them both a hug, “I’ll go turn in now. Thanks for the exciting evening, you’re a great driver!”
I quickly walk down to my trailer, leaving the friendly lights of the house. I’m feeling a little uncertain and alone in my new life.
6
Reparations
Today begins as usual as I head into the hills for my morning fitness walk. It also clears my mind. I usually go until I’ve finished stressing about things, then I turn around and head back. That can be 5 miles round-trip if something is really bothering me. Today, I’m still feeling agitated, so I take a long walk. I’m analyzing the events of last night which don’t seem as dramatic in the daylight. When I finally return, I’m feeling normal. Today I’ll do my job, enjoy my horses, and absorb nature. I won’t think about my future or anything that involved emotion. I refuse to get sad and cry. I can’t let that take hold of me. I’ll concentrate on the beauty in my life.
Unfortunately, the rides are small, and the tastings aren’t as fun as usual. I don’t think it’s me. There is always an energy from each group, but these tourists arrived acting subdued. It’s hot and everyone is feeling weary. The exception is Edith the German girl, she loves the heat.
I sprayed off the last horse with cool water and I’m letting him drip-dry in the shade. They are all crunching on fresh carrots the feed store delivered this morning. I move down the aisle going from mouth to mouth as horse lips reach for another tasty bite. The carrots are great this time, there’s a lot of sugar in them. I’d love to make a carrot cake, but maybe not in my current kitchen. I think
there’s a way to put all the ingredients in a mug and microwave it. Maybe I’ll try that.
A white van pulls up to the barn. A young man dressed in immaculate white pants and a neatly tucked-in white shirt hops out. He sees me and heads in my direction. When he’s close enough he asks, “Are you Jessica, I have a delivery,” he gives me a friendly smile.
“Yeah, I’m Jessica.”
“Good, I’ll be right back.” He jogs back to the van and opens the sliding door. He pulls out a big terra-cotta vase overflowing with sunflowers. It looks like Tuscany in a vase.
I follow him back to the van. “This is unexpected, who sent these?”
“Just a moment.” He gives a little groan as he reaches inside to haul out a heavy basket covered with clear cellophane wrap. I peer inside and see wine bottles, imported cheese, crackers, cookies, and preserves. “Do you have a table in the shade?” he inquires.
“Yes, in here.” I direct the way to our big trestle table while puzzling over the reason for the delivery. After he carefully lowers the basket to the table, I step forward to investigate. “Thank you, this is an impressive basket.” It begs to be opened, and I’m surveying the basket with increasing interest. I poke my finger around the wrap, making a hole which gives me access to a bar of dark chocolate. This is a great start, and it doesn’t cause any damage to the array.
“I have more.” He grins at me, then hurries back to the van. Returning to the table, he is lugging two large wicker picnic baskets, one in each hand. Out comes a blue, green and silver tablecloth. He fluffs it out with a whoosh and it settles on the table. I recognize the color scheme from the Spanish Hills Winery. I’m beginning to get the picture… I think this is an apology. Next come the plates, silverware, and linen napkins that are artfully tied with twine and sage. Then come the white marble pepper and salt shakers. Finally, he sets out two elegant candlesticks and works them onto the table setting. The colorful vase of sunflowers highlights the table as a centerpiece.
Standing back to survey his handiwork he queries, “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“Well, I guess so.” I’m puzzled, but I’ll go along with it. The chair that belongs to the table has disappeared so I drag over the plastic mounting block. Obviously, I wasn’t prepared for a dining experience this afternoon. He removes two wine glasses. Two?
The sound of a car purring up to the barn announces an arrival. It’s a high-end German import with dark tinted windows—those cars tend to look alike to me. As the fine machine glides to a halt I see it’s a Mercedes.
The door swings open and I get the impression of status when the man steps out. He’s strong, solid and casually well dressed. He’s in brown slacks, wearing an untucked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He’s in his mid-forties and a little over 6-feet tall. His softly waving dark brown hair makes a statement worn a little long at the collar. He is an attractive mix of a devil-may-care and self-assured entrepreneur.
Slowly removing his sunglasses, he reveals his well-shaped brows. He carefully phrases his sentence, “Jessica, I’m here to offer my apology for your rough treatment.” He takes three strides and reaches out to shake my hand. “Jack Courtland.” He smiles enigmatically. “May I share a glass of wine with you this evening?”
I’ll accept his apology, even though it’s definitely overdone. “Thank you. Yes, a glass of wine would be nice.” I’m a bit distracted, being pulled away from the horses into a dining experience.
I’m still upset about last night, but I’ll see what he has to say for himself.
Reaching inside the car, he grasps a bottle of white wine, then closes the door with a quiet puff of air. “Please call me Jack, I use Mr. Courtland for business.” He gives me a coaxing smile.
I glue a smile onto my sweat-streaked face while tucking a clump of stray hair behind my ear. “Would you like to step into the shade?” I lead the way to the welcoming table-scape. I hear the van start outside the barn. The delivery man is making a quiet departure.
“Do we have a cork-screw?” Glancing down at the table, he doesn’t see one. “I bet there’s one in the basket with my name on it,” he chuckles.
I do some digging into the gift basket and, “Ta-da, you’re right, complete with your name.” I hold it up, showing his Spanish Hills logo.
He looks proud of the decadence. Using a practiced hand, he takes the screw and removes the cork. He sniffs it and proclaims it to be a wonderful vintage. He would, it’s from his own winery.
Squinting my eyes, I wonder out loud if cork sniffing is just an old wives’ tale. “Is that really the way to tell if the wine is good?”
“Yes and no. It can sometimes tell you it’s turned. I’ll be happy to explain the other ways of judging quality; by the aroma and the bouquet.”
He fills the two glasses to the, I assume, appropriate height and hands one to me. “Cheers.” We carefully touch bell to bell. Meaning the bowl part of the glass, not the rims which are fragile, but everyone clinks. I’m glad I read about not-clinking in one of the brochures. I haven’t embarrassed myself yet.
I briefly lock eyes with him. I sip after swirling my glass to release its bouquet or whatever it is. “Mmm, crisp and satisfying.” I leave out any reference to wet stone, minerality, lively green apple, melon, gooseberry… or any other flavor that it may or may not have. Some creative writers have made a mint describing saddle leather, graphite, and tar as something you’d want in a bottle of wine.
He smiles with pleasure. “I thought it would go well with the meal you missed last night. Let’s begin with a European cheese.” He reaches down and removes the silver cloche that was protecting a plate holding triple cream Brie, Bleu and a yellowish one I assume may be Asiago. I think perhaps there’s also a white Cheddar from somewhere where cows get to graze in pastures, like New Zealand or Ireland.
I slice off a small chunk and drag my front teeth across it. “Mmm, this has a wonderful nutty flavor.” It’s delicious with little crunchy bits mixed in.
“So tell me a little about yourself. Luke mentioned you used to be a police officer? That’s unusual for a woman.” He sounds slightly condescending. “Though I have to admit, you have strength. Do you ride horses?”
I’ll go along with it, and see where the conversation goes. Is he a chauvinistic jerk or not? I appreciate good food, especially now with my meals limited to protein shakes and bread. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Food works for me too since I’m not into cooking. I’ll tell my story as if it’s an interesting adventure, and see what kind of reaction I get from him. I still need to clear the air about last night, but it can wait awhile.
“I joined the police department after years of watching exciting crime shows. It gave me a good income and supported me and my riding habit.” I grimace. “Of course, my mother wasn’t pleased with the danger, but she liked that I could make enough money to save for a house, buy a nice dressage horse, take lessons and get a truck and horse trailer.” I evaluate his interest then continue, “I worked patrol the whole time, but got burned out working nights and testifying in court during the day. I only got about four hours of sleep a night and I was exhausted most of the time. Plus, I was always commuting on the crowded L.A. freeways. It felt like I was spending my whole life working doing a job I’d begun to hate.” I pause for a moment. “Then I met the man who became my husband and combined our resources. I started working in his insurance business and resigned from the department. I was married for 4 years and now I’m not.”
“And now you’re not…,” he repeats, encouraging a response.
“We had different ideas. We each kept to our own path which created problems that festered. You know, when you talk and talk but nothing gets through? He ‘checked out,’ as he calls it and found someone else. I understand why he left, but I’m still frustrated we couldn’t fix it.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re harboring too much ill-will.” He sounds interested.
“No, I�
��m not really. I’m frustrated I lost four years, but I try not to think of it as a loss.” I shrug, “I’d have been doing something else and the years would have passed. Now I make conversation a priority. If there are any problems at the beginning that are deep and systemic, I walk away.”
“A good relationship comes with a lot of work and mileage.” He tops off his glass. “Would you care for a refill?” he holds up the bottle.
“Yes, thanks.” I take a sip from my glass. “So you’ve been married, or you are married?”
“I’m ending my second marriage. I tell you, talking doesn’t always work out, even with counseling. When someone changes from how they were when you were dating, it makes you question the institution. I’m finished with marriage, it’s too expensive and too destructive.”
“It sounds like your marriage is different than mine. I thought I could find someone better than my ex, but without his issues. So far I’m not having much luck.”
He nods. “It seems harder now we’re out of our 20s. Perhaps we have more baggage, or maybe we’re less tolerant.” He shrugs. “There are things I simply won’t accept in a woman now. When I was younger anything was okay. Maybe I got lucky with my first marriage.”
He continues, “I think when we’re young, we have common life experiences. As we get older, we move further from home and head down different paths. You really can’t come back together again. Perhaps, if you never moved away from that small town, but in the big city too many things change us.”
“Yes, you’re right.” I nod in agreement. “And I think a lot of it is timing; finding the right person at the exact time you’re both looking. I tried online dating, it sounded easy because you have access to a lot of people. You can just scroll down the photos like you’re looking for the perfect horse.” I feel a look of disgust slide across my face. “There are so many men with issues and ulterior motives. I kept notes about my dates. They’re kind of amusing, in a depressing way. I don’t want any of those guys, and I’m not going to rescue them.” I take a sip of wine, smiling to myself, then I continue, “Not finding anyone, I’m getting to where I accept who I am, and what I need to be happy. I’m finding things that bring me satisfaction and contentment. It sounds easier than it is, I’m still a bit lonely.”
