by Janet Dailey
“You have a full afternoon ahead of you,” Hugh observed and laid the handwritten note on top of her stack of mail. “We’ll chat about my idea another time.”
“Sounds good.” Kelly managed a smile as he moved toward the door. She picked up her phone messages and pretended to look through them until the sound of his footsteps faded. She stared at the phone, wondering what she was going to do if he called again.
Slowly, mechanically, Len Dougherty returned the receiver to its hook and stared at the pay phone. She wasn’t going to give him the money, that was as clear to him as the hatred in her voice. Dear God, what was he going to do?
Stone-cold sober, without a single drop to drink for the last six days, he staggered down the twisting alleyway, past a handful of shopping boutiques, the tucked away entrance to the Hotel St. Helena, and emerged on Main Street. Traffic clogged both lanes, Lincolns and Mercedeses bumper to bumper with campers and farm trucks, creating a steady hum of idling engines. Overhead, the flag atop the hotel’s cupola snapped and crackled in the strong breeze.
Dougherty saw and heard none of it. He felt sick inside, sick and frightened. He bumped into a heavyset man in yellow Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian floral shirt without ever seeing him.
“Watch where you’re going.”
But the sharp complaint didn’t register either. Any second he thought his knees were going to buckle. He clutched at the solid support of an old iron lamppost, one of the antique electrolaires that lighted Main Street. He stood there, swaying in shock.
He had been so certain she would come through with the money. So certain... He passed a hand in front of his eyes, wanting it all to be a bad dream. But it wasn’t.
He was going to lose the land. He’d promised Becca he wouldn’t. He’d promised her.
His breath started to come in little sobs as he slumped against the post. There was nothing he could do, no one else he could turn to, no one who would give him that much money. Without it, the Rutledges would take his land away.
“They’re gonna win.” Whispering, he looked up to the sky, mindless of the disgusted stares from passersby. “I can’t stop ‘em, Becca. I’ve got no one else to go to, no one who’ll stand up to the Rutledges.... . .
His voice trailed off as he stared at the high, blue sky, a thought slowly forming in his mind, forming and growing. The Rutledges. Maybe he hadn’t lost yet. He had to try. Becca would want him to try.
Chapter Nine
Over the next few days each ring of the telephone became Kelly’s own personal sword of Damocles. Every time she mentally braced herself for the worst. Over and over again she had rehearsed what she would say, how she would react, the words she would use to deflect the pity.
So far, nothing.
Kelly sat at the walnut conference table amid the producers and writers on the show’s staff, all of them gathered there for the regular Monday-morning meeting. She doodled absently on her notepad, making little squares and rectangles, connecting them with straight lines. It was too soon to draw an easy breath. But at least she felt fully prepared now, ready to handle whatever came.
When Hugh began to talk, she looked up in a show of interest, only half listening to his words, too distracted to really concentrate until she caught the phrase “wine country of Napa Valley.”
“What” She broke in, drawing a frown from Hugh and amused glances from the rest. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Kelly admitted, half convinced her mind was playing tricks on her. “What was it you just said?”
He glanced at the others, an eyebrow arching as he quoted from the Bible, “‘They are drunken, but not with wine.”’ When Hugh focused on Kelly, his look was faintly impatient, but he repeated himself. “I have decided we will do a feature on the wine country of Napa Valley. DeeDee will produce it. I spoke with Katherine Rutledge over the weekend and she has agreed to be interviewed. Believe me, it would be impossible to find a better subject than Katherine Rutledge. She exemplifies the area’s past, its present, and quite possibly, its future direction.” He paused, his attention again coming back to Kelly. “By the way, Kelly, she specifically asked me to give you her regards. I had the feeling that she is genuinely looking forward to seeing you again.”
No! Kelly screamed the word in her head. Napa Valley was the last place she wanted to go. But when she opened her mouth, she managed to voice her objection very calmly and very reasonably. “Do you really think it’s wise to do a story on wine, given the growing anti-drinking sentiment in the country and the tougher drunk-driving laws?”
“A good point, but I think it’s very wise, very topical, and very rich in scenery and mystique. More than that, I think the risk of offending anyone is very small, especially when you remember that Katherine Rutledge lived through the years of Prohibition. The subject has to be addressed.”
She felt trapped, and stalled. “How soon do you plan to put this on schedule?”
“In two weeks.”
“Two weeks? That’s impossible,” Kelly protested instantly. “There isn’t enough preparation time.”
Hugh’s eyebrow shot up, his look both puzzled and amused. “This from a woman who had less than ten minutes to prepare before doing a live interview with Katherine nearly two weeks ago? And superbly, I might add,” Hugh challenged, then continued without a break. “Logistically it works out perfectly. While you, Kelly, are wrapping up the segment on Harry Connick, Junior, DeeDee and her crew can fly out to California, shoot the color footage on the grape harvest, and select the locations for the interview portion. Then Kelly can fly out, do the interview, and go directly from there to Aspen for the feature story on John Travis.”
He flashed Kelly a smile of silent congratulations on the latter. The day after her luncheon with Travis, his press agent had called, agreeing to the interview. If there had been any attempt on the part of Linda James to sabotage it, it had obviously failed.
“Two stories from one transcontinental flight,” DeeDee observed. “The boys in budget will love you.”
“Exactly my thought. By the way, DeeDee, the grapes at Rutledge Estate won’t be ready to pick for two or three more weeks. Therefore, you’ll have to scout around for other vineyards in the valley that are being harvested. I promise you will find many. Different varieties of grapes mature at different times.”
“Why not wait to shoot the harvest at Rutledge Estate?” Kelly argued, seeing it, as least, as a means to stall for time.
“That was my first thought, but Katherine was adamantly opposed to it. She insisted they were much too busy during crush, and a television crew would be much too disruptive. We do it at her convenience or not at all.”
Kelly was strongly in favor of the latter, but she knew better than to say that. She couldn’t without giving a reason, and how could she do that when this panic she felt was without reason? There was no hope at all of talking Hugh out of doing this story, not now that he had his mind set on it. She had only one way out of this – convince Hugh that it wasn’t necessary for her to go.
“Considering how important this interview with John Travis is,” Kelly began, sliding her fingers down her pen and flipping it end over end in a small show of agitation, “I think it would be best if I concentrated my efforts on it. DeeDee can do the wine story without me, the interviews and everything. Later I can do the lead-in and narration and the whole piece can be edited together.”
It was something that was done all the time, giving viewers the impression that the person had actually conducted the interview when, in fact, it had been done by the producer of the segment. More than that, the show had three stories currently being shot in just that way.
“Every piece we do is important, Kelly.” Hugh fixed his gaze on her, his look both puzzled and faintly irritated. “One may pull the viewers in, but the rest have to be equally good to keep, them from switching to another program.”
“I know t
hat, but-“
“You will do the interview,” he stated. “There is a definite chemistry between you and Katherine. It may not be there with DeeDee. In any case, I have no intention of finding out.” He paused a beat, his study of her narrowing. “You surprise me, Kelly. You have always professed to have an interest in the place where you were born. Here’s your chance to go to Napa Valley, at the network’s expense, yet you’re coming up with reasons not to go.”
She was trapped, trapped by her own lies and fabrications. “It isn’t that I don’t want to go,” she lied again. “This show the success of it – is far more important to me than going to Napa Valley. I thought it was best, I still think it’s best, to have my energies directed toward the interview with Travis.”
“That is for me to decide. Not you.” It was Hugh Townsend the show’s executive producer talking. Not her friend and onetime mentor.
He had listened to her arguments and rejected them. His tone of voice made it clear that he considered the matter closed. If she continued to press it, she would be challenging his authority and putting both her personal and professional relationship with him at risk. She wasn’t willing to do that; she couldn’t afford to do it.
“As you say, you’re the boss, Hugh.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug of concession, and privately tried to rationalize away as childish the dread that she felt.
Granted, the valley held only unpleasant memories for her, memories she preferred to forget. She’d go there, do the interview, and leave. With luck, she’d encounter very few ghosts. And only she would know when she did.
Brave words. It bothered her that they rang so hollow in her mind.
In the coolness of the great pillared building that was the winery of Rutledge Estate, Claude Broussard moved along the alleyway between the huge stainless steel tanks. They stood empty now, but in a month’s time, perhaps less, they would seethe with the juice and skins of this year’s grape harvest. All must be in readiness for that time.
A worker emerged from one of the tanks, momentarily blocking the alleyway. Claude paused, searching the pointy features of this new worker, a wiry man with glasses and a swiftly fleeing hairline. He tried without success to recall the man’s name.
The man gave a small start of surprise when he saw Claude standing there. He threw him a jerky nod, his glance bouncing away from him as he pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and turned to drag his hose to the next tank.
His suspicions aroused, Claude challenged, “This one is clean?”
“Yup.” The man’s head bobbed in a quick and nervous affirmation. “Shiny as brand-new.”
The man was too new and his words rang too false.
Claude grunted his doubt and crouched down to peer inside. The interior walls gleamed as if in confirmation. But Claude trusted his instinct more than his eyes.
In the next minute, he performed a seemingly impossible feat as he squeezed his broad shoulders and big torso through the small hole near the base of the tank. Once inside he made a closer inspection. When he had finished, he wedged himself back through the opening with the ease of experience, then stood, holding himself stiffly to contain the rage within.
“Have you a wife?” He glowered at the worker.
“Yes.” The man nodded, his eyes blinking rapidly behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Would you have a child of yours born in there?” Claude thrust a rigid finger in the direction of the tank.
“In there?” The worker frowned, his mouth staying open, bewildered and uncertain.
“You would not because this tank is not clean.” The instant the words were out, his control snapped and he bellowed, “Do you think a great wine can be born in a place that is not clean? It cannot! Go!” With a slash of a big hand, he waved the worker toward the door. “Leave this place. I will have no slacker in my winery.”
“But if it isn’t clean enough, I’ll do it again. You can’t just fire me without giving me another chance.”
“Would my wine have had another chance if I had not found this? No. You shall not have one here. Seek it in the employ of some other winery.” When the worker remained rooted to the floor, Claude took a step toward him, his big hands balling into gnarled fists. “Go. Collect your things and go.”
“But....” The worker paused and glanced past him. “Mr. Rutledge, I-“
“If Claude says you’re through at Rutledge Estate, you’re through, Johnson.” Sam Rutledge walked up to stand next to the cellar master.
“But it isn’t fair.”
Sam smiled without humor and replied, “What is?”
Red-faced with anger, the man threw down the hose and stalked off, grumbling under his breath.
“Achh.” Claude made a sound as if ridding his mouth of a bad taste. “I regret I did not take the hose and use it on him. Wine will have no future if it is plagued by careless workers such as that one. It is vital that wine has its beginnings in clean vessels if it is to start its life well. That imbecile thought only of finishing his task quickly.”
“He’s gone.” Sam laid a hand on a sloped shoulder, feeling the vibrations of the old man’s fingering wrath. “I’ll round up Gino and have him clean the tanks.”
“All of them,” Claude added with a quick glare. “When he has finished, I shall inspect them.”
“I’ll be sure he knows that.” Sam gave his shoulder a final pat and walked off.
Claude watched him. But it was several minutes before his temper cooled sufficiently to allow him to consider the worker Sam had chosen to clean the tanks. Claude nodded his grizzled head in approval. The choice was a sound one. Gino D’Allesandro could be trusted to do a thorough job. Still, he would inspect the tanks. One could not be too careful.
“Claude.”
Turning, Claude saw Katherine coming toward him, a grimness about her lips and a snap of anger in her eyes. This was not the time of day she came to the winery
“Madam.” He frowned. “What is wrong?”
“Have you seen Sam? I was told he was here with you.” Her glance searched the area, then came impatiently back to him.
“He left only minutes ago. He is to get Gino to clean the tanks. Is there trouble, Madam?”
“Indeed, there is trouble, and it is all the doing of my son.”
“Gilbert,” Claude said, giving his name the French pronunciation.
“Yes, Gil.” The grimness in her expression increased. “I spoke with Baron Fougere this morning. It seems Gil has been talking to him at some length, and casting doubts.”
“Doubts?”
“About Sam. His ability to lead Rutledge Estate, or any other winery. The very thing I have long questioned.”
“Sam is a good man,” Claude stated, firm in his belief. “He cares strongly for the vines, for the land.”
She released a breath of disgust. “It is the only thing he feels strongly about. Sometimes...” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes I wish he were more like Gil, that he had some of his aggression. But he lacks ambition. He is too soft, too content. He would never fight to hold Rutledge Estate.”
Claude gently disagreed with that. “I think he would never start a fight, Madam, but he would finish one.”
Her look was full of skepticism, but she didn’t argue the point. Instead her hand tightened on the cane and her head came up, her chin lifting to a determined angle. “I must know that the future of Rutledge Estate is secure. This business arrangement with the baron can give me that. Nothing and no one must prevent that from happening. Certainly not Gil.” With that, she turned. “I must find Sam.”
Claude nodded in understanding. As she moved away from him, he noted the pride in her carriage. As a boy he had thought she must be a princess from some royal house. To him she had been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. While he had grown gnarled and old with the passing years, his
face creased with as many lines as those that ringed a tree stump, she had kept much of her beauty. Just as she had kept the slimness of her youth.
Her hair had been black then, with all the shine of the onyx ring his patron, the baron, wore. It had been cut short then, too, in the new fashion of those years that followed the end of the Great War. The one they now called the First World War.
He had been a mere boy of eleven the first time he had seen Madam, in the chateau’s garden with his mistress, the baroness, and another man with hair as yellow as the sun. Though he hadn’t known it at the time, the man was her husband, Clayton Rutledge.
Laughter had been a rare thing to be heard coming from the chateau in those days. But it had been the sound of hers, so musical and so clear, that had drawn him to the chateau for a closer look at the guests who had arrived that day...
A May breeze brought to him the mixed scent of lavender and roses as Claude crouched behind a trellis of roses and peered through the latticework into the garden. Beyond it rose the brooding magnificence of the chateau. Its collection of soaring towers and turrets built of huge, age-blackened stones jutted into the polished sky.
He took no more notice of it than he did the green web of vineyards that stretched behind him, in full leaf nearly all the way to the back of the Gironde. He had eyes for nothing except the young woman with the baroness. Her coloring was vivid, her skin as white as chalk, her hair as black as ink, her lips red like the wine in the chai, and her eyes bluer than the sky and sparkling with laughter.
The man spoke English. Claude thought his accent might be American, though he didn’t know, for he understood none of the words. But the woman spoke French. Beautifully.
How long he hid there, looking and listening, he didn’t know. He felt the tingling begin in his legs from being forced too long in one cramped position. Yet he didn’t want to leave, not even when she strolled along the path of carefully raked gravel toward his hiding place.
When she turned to call to the baroness, Claude recognized the threat of discovery. He intended to slip away, to steal along the trellis of climbing roses until he was safely out of sight. But his big feet failed him, tripping him up and sending him crashing into the thorny roses.
