by Janet Dailey
There was a click and the line went dead. Kelly leaned back in her chair with immense satisfaction, and a belated feeling of relief that she had been wrong.
A hot wind blew through the open window of the green-and-white Buick as it roared down the Silverado Trail, its muffler dragging, striking sparks on the pavement. The deep green of well-tended grapevines stretched off to the right in neat, symmetrical lines. Len Dougherty couldn’t help noticing them and comparing them to his own, which still had a wild, jungle look despite the hard week he’d spent, working from dawn to dusk, trimming and thinning to give some order without damaging too much of the crop.
Just ahead tall columns of poplar trees lined the short drive that led to the collection of monastic-style buildings housing the winery, tasting rooms, sales area, and offices of The Cloisters. Len drove past the entrance and continued down the road another mile to a private road that wound up the steep side of a mountain. He turned onto it.
Lofty stands of eucalyptus trees, redwoods, and oaks hugged both sides of the narrow road, their limbs arching over it to form a leafy green canopy. The rocky ground at their feet was a tangle of parched grass, poison oak, and tough, crimson-stalked manzanita.
As he neared the crest of the spiny ridge, he came to a set of ornate iron gates and slowed the car to a stop. The trailing dust swirled in the open windows and instantly began to settle in the still, hot air. He slapped it off the sleeves of his best suit – his only suit, a navy pinstripe he’d bought to wear to Becca’s funeral.
The gates stood open. Dougherty debated whether to drive on through. At most it was probably another quarter mile to the house. He climbed out of the car and slammed the door, slipping the ignition key into his pocket. He started walking and the sweat started rolling. Cursing under his breath, he held his arms away from his sides. He didn’t want to show up at the door with wet circles of sweat staining his underarms.
A short distance past the gate, the dirt road gave way to a paved drive of aggregate concrete, edged with red paving brick on each side. He followed it around a curve and spotted the stuccoed walls and tiled roof of the guest house, tucked in the side of the ridge slope.
Lush green grass surrounded the rock garden and mock waterfall at the rear of it.
The drive widened and made a looping circle around a marble fountain, ringed with bright flowers. At the apex of the circle sat the main house, low and sprawling, its red tiled roof baking in the afternoon sun.
Dougherty stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, mopped the sweat from his face and ran it around the neck of his collar, then stuffed it back in his pocket. As he started toward the house, he had a glimpse of the tall fence surrounding the tennis court off to his left, and more green lawn and flowers.
“The whole place takes up more than my ten acres,” he murmured with envy.
It was almost enough to make him want to turn around, but it was also enough to keep him walking all the way to the front door. There, he hesitated again and licked his lips, trying not to think how good a shot of icy-cold whiskey would taste right now. Before he lost his courage, Dougherty punched the doorbell and tried to peer through the lens-thick panes of glass that checkered the door from top to bottom. But they distorted the view. He had the impression of a dark shape moving toward the door seconds before it opened.
A Mexican dressed in the black suit of a servant gave him a quick once-over, followed by a cool stare. “How may I help you, senor?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Rutledge,” he said quickly, nervously.
Again the dark eyes examined him with skepticism. “Is he expecting you?”
Dougherty was saved from answering by a woman’s voice calling from some room in the house. “Who is it, Luis? If it’s Clay, tell him his father is at the croquet court.”
“The croquet court. Is that over there?” Dougherty jerked his thumb in the direction of the tennis court.
“No, senor. It is around the house on the lower lawn,” the Mexican replied, none too certain she should be telling him.
“Thanks.” Dougherty immediately set off to find it.
He rounded the corner of the house and dragged the handkerchief from his pocket again to wipe the sweat from his neck and brow. He ducked through a wisteria arbor and felt the breeze. He wished he could take his jacket off and enjoy it, but he needed to look businesslike. After all, it was a business proposition he was going to put to Rutledge.
As the ridge fell away from the house, he saw a swimming pool off to his left, complete with a bathhouse and cabana, lounge chairs and umbrellaed tables. He heard a cracking sound that reminded him of billiard balls breaking.
Then he spotted the familiar figure of Gil Rutledge, dressed in white shirt, shorts, socks and shoes, a white visor shading his eyes and blending with the gray of his hair. He was on a flat stretch of lawn, terraced into the side of the ridge. He stood slightly bent at the waist, with his legs apart and a long-handled wooden mallet between them. He aimed the end of it at a red ball and knocked it through a wire arch sticking out of the grass.
Dougherty picked his way down the steep incline to the lower lawn. When Gil Rutledge heard him, he looked up and gave him a cool stare, just as challenging as his mother’s. It made Dougherty bristle, but this was no time to be losing his temper.
“Afternoon, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Good afternoon.” The response was anything but friendly.
“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Len Dougherty.” He kept his smile broad and confident.
“Dougherty.” His eyes narrowed, then slowly opened again. “Yes, you were an assistant winemaker at Rutledge Estate once. I seem to recall you were fired for drinking on the job.”
“Just a little something to ward off the cold,” Dougherty replied, instantly defensive. Again he caught himself and said, more calmly, “You know how it is sometimes.”
Rutledge bent over the red ball again and measured the angle to the next wire arch. “If it’s a job you want, go to the winery and fill out an application.”
“I didn’t come about a job, though I could use one,” he admitted in an afterthought.
Rutledge swung the mallet between his legs and struck the ball, sending it rolling through the neatly clipped grass straight at the arch. It stopped an inch short of it. Rutledge glared at it for an instant, then walked after it.
Dougherty tagged behind him. “I have a business proposition for you.”
Rutledge threw him a glance as he assumed the same stance over the ball. “Not interested.” He gave the ball a light rap with the mallet. It rolled through the arch and stopped inches beyond it.
“I think you will be interested in this one.” Dougherty wished Rutledge would quit knocking that damned wooden ball around. “At least you will be if you’re as interested in getting back at your mother as I think you are.”
Rutledge had started to hit the ball again, aiming toward a pair of twin arches with a stake at the end. He straightened at the reference to his mother. “Katherine?”
“Got your attention, didn’t I?” Dougherty grinned.
“What does Katherine have to do with your business proposition?”
“It’s like this.” He paused a second to get it lined out in his head. “You see, I own ten acres of land that butts up to Rutledge Estate on the north. Ten prime acres of the best vineyard land around. At least, I own it now, providing I can figure out a way to keep her from stealing it from me. That’s where you come in.”
“How can she steal it from you if you own it, as you claim you do?”
“I own it, all right, but I also owe her thirty-five thousand, and she has my vineyard for collateral. If I don’t come up with the money by the end of October, she gets it. We both know it’s worth a lot more than thirty-five thousand. Why, prime vineyard land is selling for forty, fifty, maybe even a hundred thousand dollars
an acre.”
“There’s your answer – sell it.”
“Who will make an offer when she has the right to match any legitimate one I get?” Dougherty countered. “Besides, if I sold it, then I wouldn’t have a place to live, I wouldn’t have anything.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That you loan me the thirty-five thousand so I can pay her. I can pay you back so much every year when I sell my grapes, and you have the land for security. You can’t lose.”
Rutledge smiled and again bent over his ball. “I am not a banker. I’m in the business of making wine, not loaning money.” He swung the mallet. It hit the ball with a solid whack, and the ball streaked across the grass, coming to a stop in front of the arches, in a direct line with the stake at the end of them. “You have your problems with Katherine, and I have mine.” He walked after the ball.
Dougherty stood a minute, then hurried after him. “But you both want to work a deal with that French baron.” He saw the sharp look Rutledge shot him. “Everybody knows about it. This valley is just one big grapevine. Rumors travel fast on it.”
“If you know that, then you must know that currently all my efforts are concentrated on achieving that goal.” He stood over the ball and gave Dougherty a long considering look. “If I’m successful, I might be in a position to help you. But the money wouldn’t be a loan. There has to be something in the deal for me.”
“What do you mean?” Dougherty was suddenly wary.
“The thirty-five thousand would give me a long-term lease on your land for a modest annual sum. Naturally you would still be allowed to live there.” The more Gil thought about the idea, the more attractive it seemed.
Katherine wouldn’t like it if he had control of Dougherty’s vineyard. He knew that land. It was prime grape-growing soil. Dougherty hadn’t lied about that. How sweet it would be to use the berries from that vineyard for the new wine to be made under his cooperative deal with the baron. That would gall Katherine as much as losing out to him.
He smiled, gloating a little in anticipation of her reaction, and knocked the ball through the arches. It hit the stake and bounced back.
“When will you know about your deal with the baron?” Dougherty asked as Gil scooped up the bait, measured a mallet’s length from the stake, and set the ball down at precisely that distance.
“Soon, I expect. The baron is arriving today. In fact, he should be here.” He took aim and knocked the ball back through the double arches.
“It has to be soon,” Dougherty warned, hurrying after him, the change jingling in his pocket when Gil walked to the ball. “I need that money by the end of October. If I can’t get it from you, I’ll have to offer this deal to some other vintner.”
“Don’t do it.” It was a threat, not a suggestion.
“Oh yeah?” He made a weak attempt to challenge him, but he couldn’t hold his eyes. “How can you stop me?”
“Easy.” Gil again stood over his scarlet croquet ball. “I’ll simply start spreading the rumor that Rutledge Estate used that land years ago as a dump for all its toxic chemicals and insecticides, that every inch of it is contaminated. Nobody will touch it. Nobody will even buy your grapes.”
“It isn’t true.”
“Of course it isn’t. But will they believe you – or me?” The lay of the ball gave him a difficult angle on the next arch. His brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the situation.
Dougherty angrily swung a hand at the landscaped ridge with its guest house, tennis court, pool, expansive lawns, and the sprawling grandeur of the main house. “Thirty-five thousand is nothing to you. You probably spend that much every month just keeping up this place. Why does this deal have to hinge on your agreement with the baron?”
Three years ago, before the first of his vineyards was found to be infected with phylloxera, thirty-five thousand would have seemed little more than pocket change to Gil. Now he was faced with a staged replanting of every vineyard within the next four years – at a cost that could run as high as seventy thousand dollars an acre, with a minimum of four years before the vines produced fruit suitable for wine making. The total cost would run in the millions. In the meantime, production would go down, the cash flow would decrease, and the cash drain would increase.
The bankers were nervous, watching over his shoulder, looking at eve every penny he spent. To them, thirty-five thousand dollars for leased land was not a good deal. They would undoubtedly go through the roof if he even suggested it.
In their eyes, his deal with the baron was another story altogether. They were strongly in favor of it once he had explained the proposed terms to them. In fact, they had practically salivated when they learned of the baron’s financial strength and the cash he would be contributing. But until it happened, they weren’t about to loosen the strings.
Gil positioned the mallet between his legs and took several practice swings at the ball. “Paying you the thirty-five thousand hinges on my deal with the baron because I have no need of your land without it.”
“But this is one beautiful chance to thumb your nose at Katherine,” Dougherty reminded him.
It was, but financially his hands were tied. “There will be others.” He took aim on the arch and swung the mallet. The head struck the ball with a solid thwack. Gil straightened and watched the ball roll straight and true across the green. “Those are my conditions.”
“But I have to have that money before the end of October, otherwise-“
“You have nothing to worry about,” Gil broke in. “The deal with the baron is all but struck. Katherine is not going to win this one. I will do whatever I have to do to make certain of that. Trust me.”
Dougherty hesitated and chewed at his lip. “If you’re sure I guess that’s good enough. If there’s anything I can do, any way I can help. . .
“I’ll let you know if there is.” He turned, catching a glimpse in his side vision of Clay coming down the field steps to the pool level. The baron had arrived. Gil shouldered his mallet and glanced pointedly at Dougherty. “Good day.”
The man’s glance fell under the weight of his. Dougherty nodded, then took off across the lawn, slipping once climbing the grassy slope. He reached the top and ran a finger around the neck of his shirt, then headed off again toward the driveway in front of the house.
Gil watched him with contempt, certain the man wouldn’t stop until he’d reached the nearest bar or the nearest bottle. Clay joined him.
“Who was that?”
“Len Dougherty.”
“That drunk who owns the small vineyard next to Katherine’s,” Clay recalled and shook his head in amusement. “I saw an old Buick parked near the front gates and wondered who it belonged to. It must have been his. What did he want?”
“He had a business proposition for me.”
Clay looked at his father, expecting to see a smile that reflected his own amusement, but his expression was sober. “What kind of business proposition could he offer that would interest you?”
“A tempting one.” Gil swung the mallet off his shoulder and cast a brief smile in Clay’s direction. “Did you get the baron settled in?”
Clay nodded. “I passed on your dinner invitation for tonight, but he’s tired from the flight and plans to dine in. We’re to meet him for breakfast in the morning, then go from there to the winery.”
“Sounds good.” He walked over to the ball.
Clay strolled after him. “Did you receive an invitation to the party Katherine is throwing for the baron next week?”
“Yes.” His father smiled broadly, assuming his shooting stance.
“So did I. And I thought she was determined that neither of us – especially you – would ever darken her door again,” he remarked drolly.
“I intend to darken her entire life.” He lightly rapped the ball through the wicket.
&nbs
p; “Yes,” Clay mused faintly in agreement, watching his father set up for his next shot. He was a master at croquet, a game that required the putting skills of golf, the ball positioning of billiards, and all the wiles of chess. “It may interest you to know, I believe the baroness is solidly in our corner.”
“You talked to her?”
“Briefly. While the baron was checking in.” It had been simple enough, innocent enough, to have a few moments alone with Natalie Fougere while her husband was otherwise occupied.
After Clay unlocked the trunk, he left the porter to unload the luggage and went inside the poshly simple resort Auberge du Soled, the Inn of the Sun. The baron stood at the small registration desk, looking haggard from the long flight. His wife was wandering toward the glass doors to the terrace and the beckoning view beyond them. Clay stopped at the desk long enough to make certain there was no difficulty with the reservation, then followed Natalie outside.
She stood with her arms apart, her hands resting on the wooden rail, her face lifted to the afternoon sun. He heard her sigh as he walked up beside her.
“You must be tired after your flight,” he said, adopting his previous restrained manner with her.
She glanced at him and shook her head, her dark hair coiled sleekly in a simple twist. “Non. I had a very long and very wonderful sleep on the airplane. Emile, he has never been able to sleep during a flight.”
She turned back to the view the terrace commanded of the patchwork of Vineyards spread over the valley floor, punctuated with modern windmills to ward off frosts. The rugged Mayacamas Mountains formed a dark wall not four miles distant.
“This is lovely,” she said. “It reminds me a bit of Provence. Perhaps it is the palms and the olive trees that give it such a Mediterranean look.”
“I knew that would be your impression of the valley.” He gave her a long, meaningful look. They were in full view of the baron. Clay didn’t care. If anything, it added a little spice to the game. “Odd, isn’t it? How I could know what you think, what you feel. Sometimes, it’s as if I’ve known you all my life.” Then he glanced away. “Foolish, isn’t it?”
