Syd reached for her hand. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie sighed deeply, sipping the scotch tenderly. They sat quietly for a half hour, passing the snifter back and forth. Charlie refilled it twice.
“All of the arrangements are done,” Charlie broke the silence, startling Syd out of her troubled thoughts.
Syd nodded.
“Dad came by with the autopsy report. And some tampons for you,” Charlie delivered in her usual deadpan. Syd smiled at her and chuckled. Charlie caught her eye and smiled back. They surrendered to the crescendo hysterical humor and cackled, bending over and gasping for breath. Charlie fell off her chair and thudded onto the deck.
Syd toasted to the air. “To Jim Yesler, the father I never had!”
“Here, here!” Charlie said, threatening to pee her pants.
Chapter 9
Friday started with a severe headache and a bout of nausea. Syd sat naked in bed with her work clothes balled up on the floor. She had no recollection of going to bed, let alone undressing. The night before had dissolved into a foray of Clarence's liquor cabinet. A tall glass of water sat on the nightstand. She picked it up and drank the entire glass in one go.
A dry cleaning bag with her Armani suit in it hung on the door. She sat up and tested her body slowly. She wrapped the old quilt from the bed around herself and shuffled out of the room to meet Olivier in the doorway. He held a small glass of fizzy water.
“This will help,” he said, shoving the glass in her hand. He turned on his heels and left before she could feel embarrassed.
She crawled back into bed and drank the fizzy water. She slowly tried to piece together the day ahead of her. She would have to meet with Jim Yesler. He had the autopsy report and he wanted to discuss it with her. She had an appointment with the insurance agent in the afternoon, a new guy she had not met before. And she was expecting Marcus late that afternoon. Marcus. She threw herself back on the bed, and burrowed under the sheets.
Charlie burst in a few minutes later and flung open the window. The room filled with head-pounding light. Syd threw a linen pillow at her.
“It burns, it burns!” she yelled, burying her face in the other pillow.
“You need to get up, lazy bones,” Charlie said. She flopped down next to Syd and stroked her hair. Her fingers probed for the bump from a few days before. Syd knocked her hand off playfully and they held hands behind Syd's head.
“What time is it?” Syd asked, rolling over and kissing Charlie on the lips.
“Geez! Time to brush your fucking teeth,” Charlie said. She recoiled in feigned horror and bounced toward the door. “9:15,” she shouted on her way out.
~
Paul Renquest sat at the table, absently spinning the mug of tea she had placed in front of him a few minutes before. His other hand sat protectively on a file in front of him. He waited patiently for her to emerge from the kitchen with her own mug, flip flops snapping on the hard wood floors.
After the usual apologies and condolences – which Syd was growing accustomed to by now – she watched as the middle-aged man paused to collect his thoughts. He bowed his head and fiddled with the file in front of him. He was bald and bespectacled, but his obvious fitness bulged out of his tight-fitting fleece. He was a member of the wind chaser tribe that was so prevalent in the Gorge. Being a kiteboarder and windsurfer required the kind of job that left time for a quick jettison to the river when the wind kicked up, which it did every afternoon during the windy season like clockwork. Middle-aged adrenalin junkies were a dime a dozen here. She watched as he cleared his throat, unaware of her scrutiny.
“Your uncle had a life insurance policy that left you enough to be comfortable for life,” he said. “We had been talking about different ways to set up a policy to give you more. Unfortunately, we had a meeting scheduled this week to consider other options for you. Too late. I'm sorry. But I think that you'll find he was thinking about your future.”
He slid the file to her across the table. The grief hung in his eyes, but his face was charged with an odd excitement. Her stomach churned as she stared at the file. She opened it and read it slowly, a blank expression on her face. Enough to be comfortable was a gross understatement. She took a deep breath.
“It will fund soon after you file the claim. Within the month, in fact. In the meantime, are you able to cover the funeral expenses?” He searched her face for some kind of response.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Uncle had savings. And his plans for the funeral have been set for ages. He was very particular about the wake. No funeral. He wasn't religious. He always said he wanted a good old fashioned party. The memorial will be short and sweet.” She smiled at him demurely, a foreign gesture for her. Her head was still rolling over the figures on the papers in front of her.
He nodded and folded his hands on the table. Syd watched the powerful muscles in his forearms when he moved his hands. They sat in a charged silence for a few minutes. He began to drum his fingers on the table.
“There's one more thing,” he said with averted eyes. “I'm not sure I should be telling you this, but there was another policy. It was taken out for a business contract between your uncle and an investor. It’s called a key man policy. It’s normal for an investor to take out a policy on a person of talent when that person is the primary source of the investment. Like your uncle was to the winery. These policies were drawn up when his winery was being purchased by an investor. There are two recipients in the key man policies. The potential business partner and a smaller policy for the lawyer who drew up the contract. Both policies are still current.” He glanced up at her, over his glasses.
“Current? Why weren't they stopped when the buyout fell through?”
“I'm not sure. Most of these kinds of policies aren't kept when escrow falls through or when a deal goes sour. Considering your uncle's age and his risk habits, the policy is expensive. He was lucky to get insured at all.”
“Why are you telling me this, Paul?”
“These kinds of policies are fixed monetary sums intended to make up for the loss of the talent in the event of death and to facilitate business continuity. A business is usually the recipient, but this policy claimed Hans Feldman as the primary recipient.” He sighed and fidgeted with the corner of the folder. “I was with your uncle when his plane nearly crashed last June, Syd. I was on the tarmac. We've been flying together for years. Your uncle was an excellent pilot.”
“And?” She felt a nasty lump caught in the back of her throat.
“And I'm not comfortable with what I know. I'm not so sure that the plane malfunctioned accidentally.”
“I understood that he was in a stall during a dive. And he couldn't pull out of it, correct?” Syd asked through a dry throat.
“Have you ever known your uncle to not recover a stall?” he asked quietly. She stared at him. “Listen, I'm not saying this to frighten you or stir up any trouble. But before he went up that day we had coffee and he was pretty pissed off. He told me about the buyout and that he was backing out. We talked about revamping all his policies to make up for the loss of business I would incur from his backing out of the contract. He was fair like that. But the hospital after the accident and the busy summer got in the way, and we never got together to redo his insurance plans. He got lucky that day. It’s only because he is, was a damned good pilot that he could recover that dive at all. And his love of that old plane, I suspect.” He winked at her.
“So what are you saying to me, Paul?” she asked, suddenly feeling exhausted.
“I'm just giving you information, Sydney. Your uncle was a friend of mine. I respected him. He was a good man.” He bowed his head. “And I can't imagine anyone paying those kinds of premiums for a policy on a man who’s no longer a business partner.”
“Who paid the premiums?”
“Hans Feldman paid one of them.”
“So, you’re telling me Hans Feldman had something to gain by Uncle’s death? And that he may have been complicit in th
e plane crash in June?”
“I'm just saying that the circumstances are curious,” he said in a whisper, raising his eyebrows. “About the lawyer too.”
“And who’s the lawyer?” she asked incredulously.
“Jack Bristol.” He lowered his voice and inspected the back of his hands.
Chapter 10
Jim walked through the door holding a greasy paper bag. He wore a red plaid Pendleton button-down flannel, jeans, and old Danner mountain boots. His out-of-uniform attire made him look like a handsome lumberjack. He strode across the kitchen in two steps and embraced Syd in a protective embrace.
“Hey, Pop,” Charlie said from the open fridge. She tossed a beer bottle at her dad. He caught it in his huge hand and released Syd, who looked as lost in thought as ever.
“You're late.” Charlie added. She lunged for the bag in her father's hand. He dodged her and held it high over her head, nearly touching the ceiling. He dwarfed his very tall daughter.
“Hold your horses, little piggy!” he yelled back at her, spinning his giant body in the cramped kitchen.
“Where you keep the plates, Syd?” he asked, opening random cupboards. “If I don't find plates now the vulture will eat over the kitchen sink!” He jabbed a thumb in Charlie's direction.
Syd navigated a path between a father/daughter game of keep-away to gather the plates and utensils they needed for dinner. She grabbed a few beers from the fridge and walked into the dining room to set the table, smiling to herself. Sometimes these intimate father/daughter moments filled her with envy. But today she was simply grateful that she could be near it. They had a loud, rough-and-tumble kind of love.
It was soon apparent that Charlie had gotten hold of the greasy paper bag. She hopped into the room and jumped into a chair at the table triumphantly, where she began divvying out burritos and rationing containers of hot sauce. She glanced with purpose at Syd and nodded at the red folio that was pushed aside for their plates, still waiting to be read.
“You might want to read that soon,” Charlie said, ripping the paper off her giant burrito. “Before tomorrow?”
'I can't right now,” Syd replied, feeling a tinge of shame. She was going to have to find the courage to read the will and face all the secrets inside another day. Her grief was enough to bear, and yet she was still bombarded with information that tore away any sense of closure she could have about her uncle's death. Her head was still spinning from her conversation with Paul. She knew she needed more time to process it all. She knew she would have to talk to Jim about it. After the memorial, she told herself.
They were all hungry and they tore into dinner in relative silence. Syd had very little to eat in almost a week, and her appetite was returning to her. She was ravenous. The burritos were her favorite, and the beer was cold and delicious. She looked up to see Jim watching her, his eyes filled with tears. Syd looked down, unable to bear his naked empathy and grief.
“Pop's sad to see his girls eat like wild women,” Charlie said, noticing the looks they exchanged.
“Well, at least Syd chews her food,” he joked. He wiped his own mouth and his eyes with the crumpled napkin in his lap. He paused, looked at Syd, and took a deep breath.
“I've got the autopsy report,” he said, soberly. “We should talk about this, Sydney.”
“I think I need to talk you too, Jim. But maybe after tomorrow.”
They were all startled when the kitchen door slammed a second later.
“Sydney?” a man yelled into the darkening kitchen. They all exchanged looks. “Sydney?” The voice called again, louder this time.
“In here!” Charlie yelled back. A moment later a good-looking, tall, toothy blond man filled the doorway.
“Sydney!” he said in something like an exasperated sigh. Syd slumped down in her chair. He moved to hug her in an awkward embrace while she stayed seated.
“Marcus,” she said into his shoulder. Her voice was muffled in his death grip of a hug. She shrugged at Jim, who took a cue and got up to leave. Charlie cleared the table and left them to work out their troubles alone.
Chapter 11
The day of the memorial was filled with a gorgeous, crisp, autumn sunshine. Syd awoke to the sound of trucks driving around the house to the lawn on the north side of the property. A stream of bright light filled the guestroom upstairs Syd now claimed as her own. She lay listening and followed the sound of the trucks around the house, up past the lower vineyard to the Green. The Green was a half-acre of flat field, the only flat ground on the property. Clarence called it the Green, as he was not inclined to maintain a lawn. But he did mow the wild grasses when they browned in the summer and cast out meadow seed mixes every spring for a gorgeous wildflower field in June. Now it was clumpy and brown, and would endure a good many feet later in the afternoon.
The first truck delivered a fancy vault toilet in the far north corner of the field. The second was noisier and delivered a giant tent along with four loud and burly young men who set to work quickly on erecting the large white structure.
Syd got up, made some coffee, and watched the tent go up from the deck. She wore an old oilskin coat of Clarence's over her black silk nightie. The tinny clanking of mallets driving in tent stakes sounded thin and far away.
“Good morning,” Marcus said as he dragged a heavy Adirondack chair next to her.
“Morning,” she said, flashing a lazy smile. “Looks like a good party.” She said ruefully, gesturing with her mug at the scene in front of her.
Marcus looked uncomfortable. He had slept in her old room downstairs and she knew that he was feeling untethered from her. He had wanted to sleep with her, but she couldn't bear the closeness. She needed to steel herself and she knew his clumsy empathy would only soften her and make the day more difficult to bear. But he looked miserable now, and she felt sorry for him in spite of herself.
“I met Olivier,” he said. “Any reason why he waltzes into your bedroom like he owns it?”
She stared at him. “Beats me.” She said, trying to stifle a smile. Jealous. She was barely holding it together and Marcus was jealous?
Olivier walked out of the kitchen door a moment later holding a bundle of dark cloths. He walked over to them and nodded formally.
Syd raised her mug to him. “Good morning,” she said, flashing her friendliest smile. Olivier blushed with embarrassed and nodded again. Marcus's eyes narrowed.
“My apologies,” Olivier said. “I had to get my clothes for today. I assumed Sydney was using the room upstairs.”
Syd looked at each of them. “No problem,” she said with a wave. She could see Marcus's shoulders relax at Olivier's sense of formality and submissiveness.
Olivier inched closer to her chair and spoke softly “I was planning to speak a little today. I wasn't sure if Charlie told you. Do you mind?”
She felt an immediate lump in her throat. Oh god. “Why would I mind?” She answered flippantly and swallowed hard. She looked back at him and saw that he was hurt. “I appreciate your consideration. Really.”
Olivier looked defeated. She felt a deep stab of empathy for him, comprehending for the first time how much he must have loved her uncle. She knew now that he was devastated. And perhaps confused. Maybe even as confused as she was. She was a little ashamed that she was only now figuring out that he had been living in her old bedroom until her arrival. He must have moved into the old Airstream for her comfort, and she was clueless about it. He was close to Uncle Clarence, close enough to be living in the house. His grief was obvious. And she had only been thinking of herself in her own grief. She realized how strange and uprooted his situation must be, and how much he must despise her. She had been self-important, petulant and rude to him. And he held her when she sobbed. He held the winery together through his own grief. He even dry-cleaned the suit she would wear today, for lack of anything else. She thought of the Alka Seltzer and the glasses of water by her bed.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. “Tha
nk you,” she croaked out of a dangerous throat, not sure of what she was thanking him for. He looked away and stepped back, looking for an escape route, but she jumped up and embraced him. Tears streamed down her face. They stood in quiet agony together, letting the tears flow freely. When they finally broke apart, they smiled at each other and averted their eyes.
“No more tears today,” she said, wiping her nose on the stiff sleeve of the old coat. “I promise.”
“No,” he said, nodding. He took a sharp breath. “I have work to do.” He turned on his heels and strode across the deck to his trailer in the vineyard.
Marcus strained to watch him walk up the vineyard path and enter the trailer. He sat and stared at her in confusion.
“Who is that guy?” The suspicion in his voice betrayed his feelings, though he kept his hands in his pockets in the practiced relaxed posture of a confident man.
“Honestly, I don't really know,” she answered. Marcus looked alarmed. “He is the working winemaker now. From Argentina. An old friend of Uncle's.” But she knew she had no idea who Olivier really was or why he was here.
Chapter 12
Charlie had outdone herself with the flowers. There were huge urns of sunflowers and dahlias in a cacophony of color at every corner of the tent. Each table was adorned with a tall vibrant centerpiece featuring brown, black, orange, yellow and red sunflowers, more fitting for a wedding than a memorial. But Clarence had always loved sunflowers, and she had chosen his favorite things to theme the memorial. It was fitting that these blooms were the last of the season from his own garden. Sydney sat in a black satin-covered folding chair that looked out over the sea of empty chairs and tables under the tent. A young man was working on the PA system in the corner, but the scene was otherwise deserted. Clarence would have hated the fuss of this day. But he would have understood the ceremony, the rites of passage a death facilitated, in a philosophical way. Clarence was always fascinated by the human need to mark important events in life in a form of social acknowledgment. He loved to study wedding traditions, birth traditions, and death ceremonies. But Clarence was an atheist, and he had no spiritual traditions of his own to follow. He always told Sydney that he would like his wake to be a bawdy party, featuring loud music and drunken souls. It was not an easy recipe to deliver for a man who was something of an eccentric recluse. Charlie's answer was a superbly stocked bar and a classical guitar and cello duo. She knew that Clarence's fantasy was more hyperbole than genuine desire, and as usual, she was dead on.
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