by West, CJ
Charlie held his breath as his mother zeroed in on the purple bruises peeking out from under Randy’s sunglasses. These weren’t the cracked glasses from the night before; this was a new pair exactly like the old, with thin black frames and iridescent lenses. For once, Charlie was glad for the glasses and stubble. They hid the bruises well enough so even Charlie couldn’t see them from across the table.
Rosalie drifted in from the kitchen and waited between Charlie and his mother to take orders from the two late arrivals. Elizabeth’s eyes reluctantly shifted to the middle-aged woman with the plump figure of an excellent cook. Rosalie had naturally curly hair that was thin and unnaturally brown for a woman her age. She’d raised two grown children and now enjoyed traveling with Charles and Elizabeth. The arrangement afforded Rosalie a lifestyle she would never experience otherwise.
“I’ll make your coffee extra strong,” Rosalie said with a slight Spanish accent.
Charlie wished that last night of all nights, they could have avoided her notice. “Thanks, Rosalie. Sorry if we woke you.”
“Never mind that. What can I get you?”
Charles set down his mug without taking a sip. “You’re too kind, Rosalie. That sort of ruckus is inexcusable. The boy needs to get his head on straight and stop chasing women half the night.”
Randy popped upright in his chair like a rooster preparing to crow. “Give us some credit, Chuck. It was the whole night and half the morning. Any fool can stay out half the night.” Randy shot a proud smile at Charlie.
Charles glared at Randy, stifling the language he’d use if Mrs. Marston and Rosalie weren’t in the room. “Well, you certainly qualify as any fool. If you had sense enough to take those sunglasses off at night, you might be able to park the car without crashing into my garage.”
Charlie flashed a look at Randy, expecting a quick retreat from the nasty tone and the logic of his father’s reprimand.
Randy went still. He slowly turned toward Charles as if aligning a massive weapons turret. His eyes bored out from behind the glasses as if his vision penetrated clear to Charles’ core. He spoke in a deep, measured voice, “I wear the shades for your protection. My soul sees the evil in all men. My eyes seek it constantly and when they find it, they summon the power of the heavens to make the guilty pay for their sins. In your case, the devastation would be complete. The fury would melt that spoon in your hands and turn your bones to dust. Only the pure can ever see my eyes. I wear the glasses to keep you safe. You should thank me.”
Charlie barely kept from bursting into laughter.
Mrs. Marston hid a broad smile behind her coffee mug.
Charles looked awkward, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Finally, he said, “How silly of me. I should have thanked you for crashing into my garage.”
Charlie jumped in before Randy could get started on another rant and make things worse. “We’ll fix that today—good as new.”
Rosalie tapped Charlie on the shoulder. “Having breakfast this morning?”
“Sorry, Rosalie. Yes, two eggs, poached please. Any bacon left?”
“Plenty. I made fresh muffins, too. I’ll bring some out.”
“I’d love a ham and cheese omelet if it’s not too much trouble,” Randy said.
“On the scale of the trouble you cause, breakfast doesn’t register,” Charles said.
“Thank you, Chuck. But you fail to see how much I’ve helped young Master Charles. Look at the lad. He’s a stout young man coming into his own. All the money you gave those fancy schools didn’t help him as much as a few weeks with me. All this for a place to stay and an occasional meal! You should be overjoyed, but still you complain. You’ll thank me when Young Charles manages your kingdom with the shrewdness of the wisest emperor. He’ll be ready soon.”
Rosalie disappeared toward the kitchen hiding a grin.
Charlie wasn’t amused. Randy and Charles had been twisting him in opposite directions for weeks. When he was alone with either man, they tormented him for choices that defied their leadership. Charlie scolded himself for letting them do it. Loyalty was his burden. He was grateful for the life his father provided regardless of the things he failed to do. And Randy had been exactly what Charlie needed to help him adjust to the workaday world.
No matter how grateful he was, last night had changed everything. Charlie had decisions to make. He didn’t need his father’s handouts anymore and that meant he didn’t need to make wine. Randy was a fun guy, but too dangerous. In another six months, he’d find new interests. When Charlie found his own way, Randy would be forgotten like a child’s toy stored in the attic.
Charles and Randy squared off again. “Your talents are so obvious. I should’ve hired you sooner,” Charles said.
Charlie interrupted, “If we’re going to talk about my future, I think I should have some say and I think it’s time for me to get serious about winemaking.”
“It’s about goddamned time.”
Rosalie brought coffee for Charlie and Randy and refilled Mr. and Mrs. Marston’s mugs.
Charlie took a long sip. “I called Sebastian last night. He’s holding three bays in the cellar for my sparkling.”
“Are you still stuck on that? We’re here. The wine’s here. Why pay to ship it all the way back to Westport?”
“When’s the last time you spent more than six months there?”
“What’s your point?”
“You can’t control the operation if you’re never there.”
“That can’t be helped. We have seven wineries now.”
“Why not have seven vineyards and one winery? You could stay here and focus on fixing this place while I get ready to take over in Westport. That’s where our focus should be.”
Randy slapped his palms on the table. “Great idea! You tell him Charlie.”
Charlie thought he’d won until Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He frowned and said, “You just don’t have the experience yet.”
“I’ll get it, but not here. I’ve spent two years working with the latest gear in the business. I wouldn’t know what to do here. There’s still a guy out back whose sole mission in life is to make barrels. That can’t be saving us money.”
“I admit the equipment is dated, but Andre is the best winemaker we’ve got. I invested in this place because with a little help, Andre will make great wines.”
“Why invest here when you can invest your money so much better?”
“When you have five million dollars, you invest it any way you like. I bought this place and I’m going to see it through.”
Charlie couldn’t believe they bought Chateau de Piolenc for five million dollars. The four-hundred-acre vineyard, the winemaking facility, the antique furnishings, the artwork, the inventory aging in the cellars, it was all incredibly valuable. There would never be a thirty-room stone castle in Westport, but if there were, the house alone would be worth five million.
“I didn’t buy this place, you did. I’ll make wine for you, but not here.”
“And I’m supposed to pick up the tab to ship your wine wherever the wind takes you? This costs money, Charlie.”
“We don’t need to ship it in oak. We can use flexitanks or even plastic-lined barrels for the trip. That’ll cut a third of the cost.”
Rosalie brought in two plates of steaming eggs.
Elizabeth eyed Charles sternly above her reading glasses. Charlie could feel her prodding Charles to support his son.
“The flexitanks are disposable, so we can get the maximum shipping weight out of every container and there’s no cost to get the container back.”
“I know what a flexitank is. But I’m not rearranging the entire business because you decide to do some work. Who knows what you’ll be doing in a month.”
“Just get me a hundred barrels and I’ll have it stored away before the crush.”
“Who’s going to pay for the barrels and the shipping costs?”
“The profit from the wine.”
“W
hy don’t you understand that shipping’s just an added expense?”
“And I’m just an employee. Do you want me to make wine or not?”
“As long as you do it here. Andre has a lot to teach you.”
Charlie mopped up the remainder of his eggs with a piece of dry toast. The argument was lost. Charlie didn’t really care about making wine and he guessed it was obvious. He’d find another way to get the money home and get himself out of France. He stared down at his plate, thinking about ways he could foil the airport screeners.
Randy stood up with his back to the men, leaned down face to face with Elizabeth and lowered his sunglasses, something he rarely did. “Thank you for another lovely breakfast Mrs. M. As much as I joke with your husband, I really do appreciate the hospitality, especially yours.” The suggestion in his voice was unmistakable. He was hitting on a woman twice his age. He put his glasses back on, walked around behind Elizabeth, tracing his fingers across the shoulders of her pale floral dress as he went. He stopped on the opposite side and whispered in her ear.
Charles fumed at her familiarity with the hoodlum.
“Charlie enjoys having you here, Randy. You’re welcome.”
“Sorry about the garage, Chuck. We’ll get it fixed today.” Randy took two steps toward the door and paused. “You coming, Carpenter Boy?”
Charlie followed him out.
A few steps down the driveway, Charlie grabbed Randy by the shoulder. “I know you’ll take any woman regardless of her age or how nearby her husband might be, but, dude, that was my mother.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Don’t put moves on my mother. Got it?”
“That wasn’t a move. That was just left over glow from last night. I have all this energy and nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll let you carry the lumber.”
“Seriously, man. Why’d that guy have to come in and get hostile?”
“It was his wife, remember?”
“This is France. He could have joined in. You weren’t really using your end anyway.”
Charlie remembered his excitement the moment they were interrupted.
Randy threw up his hands. “We could have all just taken turns and gotten along, but no, he had to try and bash my head in and make me kill him.”
“So inconvenient, Sir Black.”
“Quite.”
The two men walked past the guesthouse to the cooper’s shed, where the barrel-chested man gruffly reminded Charlie that he worked exclusively in oak. If they wanted a pine board to replace the trim, they’d have to visit the mill ten kilometers away. He loaned them his truck and gave them directions in broken English. Randy jumped behind the wheel and they were off.
The directions took them straight back to the scene of the fire.
As they approached the farmhouse, Charlie wondered about driving the money north into Switzerland. He absently noted five cars clustered at the end of the drive, and a Volvo several yards away from the others. Charlie scrunched down in his seat so no one would see his face as they drove by, but to his surprise, Randy slowed down. There was a long fire engine in the driveway and several men working nearby to pick up the hoses. Randy pulled over and parked behind the Volvo.
“Are you insane?”
“I just want a look.”
“This is crazy. Do you have a death wish?”
“Some days. Today, I’m just curious.”
“How many foreign nationals stop by a fire scene? They’re going to think we’re terrorists or something. Especially you.”
“It’ll look suspicious if we don’t get out now.” Randy was out the door and rounding the back of the truck before Charlie could respond.
Charlie followed him up the drive, but couldn’t catch him without breaking into a run. He watched Randy walk past the firemen and onto the lawn a few feet from what was left of the building.
One of the young firemen began shouting. “Part! Le bâtiment n'est pas sûr!”
Randy walked closer and the fireman rushed toward him.
“Part! Part!”
Randy ignored him and turned to Charlie. “Wow, there’s nothing left.”
An older man appeared from around the corner and angled between Randy and the burned out building. “Are you familiar with this house?” His English was perfect.
“No, sir. Just driving by,” Charlie offered.
“My associate there is trying to tell you the building is unsafe.”
“Obviously,” Randy said, impressed by the damage.
“Why don’t you step back and we’ll have a chat.”
Laroche herded them a dozen feet further from the rubble and introduced himself. Charlie smiled politely, but underneath, a torrent of thoughts stunned him speechless. Randy had all but told Deirdre how to find them and here he was talking to the man investigating Henri’s death. If Randy was trying to get himself caught, this was his opportunity to confess. If he went down, Charlie was going, too.
“Where are you from?” Laroche asked.
“The United States.”
“I never would’ve guessed. That’s not a rental. Where’d you get it?”
“Rich Boy here,” Randy said.
“My father owns the winery up the road,” Charlie offered.
“Oh. I heard about that. Shame.” Laroche seemed genuinely sad.
Charlie had just learned that his father had gouged the previous owners on the sale. It seemed Laroche and Randy agreed that Charles was a ruthless capitalist, taking advantage of poor grape growers who had gone bust.
“We’re hoping to turn it around so the workers can all keep their jobs.”
Laroche didn’t pretend to appreciate the corporate line and Charlie felt foolish for spewing it.
“Do you boys know who lives here?”
“I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I’ve never seen anyone around.”
Randy stepped up. “You mean the owner doesn’t know about this yet?”
“We haven’t notified him.”
“Man, he’s going to be pissed.”
“We’re not sure what happened,” Laroche said.
“You think he torched it?” Randy asked.
“Anything’s possible.” Laroche seemed amused by Randy.
“We’re just down the road. If you give us a card, we’ll call you if we see anyone nosing around after you’re gone.”
Lieutenant Laroche handed them each a card. “How long are you boys staying?”
“Not sure. If I make my next batch of wine here, it’ll be ten weeks or so. Otherwise, we’ll be gone in a week.”
“Let me know if you boys see anything suspicious.”
“We will.”
Randy and Charlie walked back to the truck and headed off to fix the garage.
Chapter Eight
Deirdre spent the early morning hours combing her past, scouring for incidents that would displease Henri. She imagined him in human form, ethereal, but not floating in the clouds. Somehow there was solid ground in Heaven; she was sure of it. Henri was sitting up there watching her life stream by. She had raced through her memory to find the most disappointing moments ahead of him, as if he could hear her mental justifications accompanying the footage he was watching. Unfortunately, her panicked efforts failed to bring the feeling of peace she sought.
As the sky brightened and her energy dwindled, her head began to pound and aspirin did little to dull the pain. She conjectured that this was Henri’s retaliation for her infidelity. More likely, it was Randy’s incessant refilling of her drink that brought it on. Images of them in the bar, then driving, and then in the farmhouse flashed by. She couldn’t help feeling exhilarated by the bedroom scene, but then Henri appeared at her mind’s door and she gasped with a start.
A wave of embarrassment shuddered through her. She could almost feel Henri pushing her to confess, but the consequences would be devastating. This little village was everything to the Deudons. If the truth were told, Henri and his family
would be disgraced on the land they’d tended for six generations.
Nausea roused her from her thoughts. She glanced around at the humble furnishings as she tried to calm her roiling insides. Symbols of the Deudons’ struggle were everywhere; from the walls of stone they’d cobbled together, to the orange floral cover on the couch, to the kitchen table Henri and his father had built one winter in the barn. She swore she could smell Henri there in the room with her.
A shameful waste.
Henri had wanted such a simple life with his livestock and a few children to help him when he was old. Instead, he died childless, defending the honor of the woman who had deceived him. She had betrayed him for the touch of a younger man, two in fact. It wasn’t the first time she’d considered cheating. Years had passed since Henri had lost interest in sex. There had been several tourists who caught her flirtatious eye as she wandered along the beaches, but this was the first time she had given in to her yearnings. She had planned this, searched for this, and when it finally happened, the shame of being discovered was unbearable. She wondered how she would have felt had Henri not interrupted; whether the guilt would have pushed her to confess. She remembered the horrific pain in Henri’s eyes; his figure frozen in the doorway. How horrible it must have been to see her tied to the bed, naked, drunk, and enraptured with her companions.
She hoped he had died thinking she was being raped. At least then his death would have been honorable. But she knew it wasn’t so. Henri understood the scene the moment he entered the room and saw her face.
The sounds of the fight came back and she started to weep again. Her own screams echoed in her ears. She saw Randy rushing across the floor with the wine bottle. She pictured the impact and wondered again why the bottle didn’t break. She saw Henri’s limp body being pulled from the wall and dropped to the floor in a heap.
As Deirdre stretched for yet another tissue, her wrist slipped from the Syracuse sweatshirt, exposing a thick, purple ring of bruises. She pulled back the other sleeve, held her palms together, and compared the marks that had blackened through the morning. Anyone seeing them would know she was a victim and not a murderess. She yearned to show the bruises to the gendarmes and tell them what had happened. Randy deserved to be punished, but incarceration wouldn’t protect her from him; only death could do that. She imagined a sudden encounter with the firing squad. Swift. Loud. Fatal. A drawn-out torture session would be more fitting.
