Blood Vines

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Friday, March 12

5:10 P.M.

Alex arrived in the tasting room at the same time as her group. They rushed the bar en masse, ready to enjoy their prepaid samples.

Alex hung back, gaze going to the large painting behind the bar. Her mother’s work, she would have recognized it anywhere. The swirling use of paint, the lively, rich color.

Only this piece possessed a quality the later ones had lacked: a joie de vivre, a hopefulness. Looking at it made her ache.

“See,” the kindly nurse said, coming up beside her, “you did it.”

Alex didn’t bother correcting her. “How about that?” she said.

The woman followed her gaze. “It’s fetching,” she said. “I wonder who the artist is?”

“Patsy Sommer.”

“A family member?”

“Yes. She was married to Harlan Sommer. His second wife and mother of the child who-”

“Alexandra? This is a surprise.”

Alex turned. Clark Sommer stood behind her, smiling warmly.

She thought of the story Reed had told her, the things his father had said: “Your mother didn’t just fuck our sons. She fucked them up.”

A whisper of unease moved over her. “Hello, Clark. Just playing tourist.”

“Excellent. “He turned to the nurse and smiled. “Clark Sommer. Are you enjoying your visit?”

She gushed that she was. He handed her a business card. “Give this to Cathy at the bar, tell her I said you and your companion should have a taste of our Stone Hill Reserve Cabernet. On me, of course.”

“That was nice of you,” Alex said after her new friend had hurried off.

“Good P.R. and it costs me nothing. There’s an open bottle of it behind the bar and we’re closing in thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, softening her words with a smile, “not nice. Calculating.”

“Could I have a moment? In private?”

“Sure.”

Clark took her arm and steered her out of the tasting room and across the walkway to the museum. Tours had ended and it was deserted.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“The question I was about to ask you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I walked up, what were you telling that woman?”

Alex frowned, working to recall. “I was admiring my mother’s painting; she asked who painted it.”

“So you were telling her.”

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Let’s make something perfectly clear, your mother is no longer part of this family’s history.”

“You can’t rewrite history, though”-she motioned around them-“I see you’ve tried. There’s not one picture of her or Dylan.”

“Do you blame us? Do you think we want to remember either of them? Or you, for that matter?”

Alex counted to ten before she spoke. Lashing out at him-in anger or hurt-would prove nothing. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

She started past him; he caught her arm, stopping her. He leaned closer; she smelled wine on his breath and realized he had been drinking.

“Take your hand off me.”

“Your mother,” he said softly, trailing a finger across her cheek, “was a beautiful woman.”

Alex jerked away. “I asked you not to-”

“Exciting. Full of life. You’re just like her, aren’t you?”

She made a move to leave, he grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall. Fear turned the inside of her mouth to ash. She worked to keep him from seeing it.

“Aren’t you just like her?”

Alex wedged her hands between them. “Dammit, Clark! Don’t do something you’ll regret. Let me go!”

“Don’t talk to me about regret.” His mouth tightened. “You think I don’t know how that feels? Or what it’s like to wonder… every day-”

He weaved slightly, as if suddenly off balance. “Mike Acosta killed himself. Did you know that?”

“I don’t know who Mike is.”

“Spanky, we called him. He hung himself.”

Like Max. She searched her memory for a Mike and came up empty.

“Couldn’t take it.” His words slurred slightly. “Terry’s dead, too. How does that feel?”

“I don’t know either of those men. Now, I suggest you-”

“You want to know what your mother was, Alexandra?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then breasts. “You want to know so bad, I’ll show you.”

His words reverberated through her. Sudden, deep and debilitating panic took her breath. She fought against his grip.

“Let me go,” she cried. “Now!”

“You like to fuck for an audience?”

“No!” she cried. “Let me-”

“Clark!”

He jerked around, so quickly he lost his balance. Treven stood in the doorway, face pinched with fury.

“Dad!” He cleared his throat and steadied himself. “I didn’t… this isn’t-”

“Son, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get the hell out of here. One second more than that, and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

He meant it, Alex thought. Clark must have thought so, too, because he didn’t hesitate. He slipped off without another word-or glance-for either of them.

Treven crossed to her. “Are you all right, Alexandra?”

She couldn’t find her voice. Tears filled her eyes and she nodded.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” she managed, voice shaking.

Though, the truth was, he had hurt her. Down deep, a mortal wound she wondered if she would ever fully recover from.

“Come, let’s get you a glass of wine.”

When he steered her toward the tasting room, she resisted. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“They’re all gone,” he murmured. “The winery’s closed.”

He was right. One lone winery worker remained, cleaning the bar area. Treven motioned for him to leave, then pulled two chairs together. “Sit.”

She did and lifted her gaze to her mother’s painting. How could someone as morally corrupt as they said her mother was have created something so beautiful, so full of life and hope?

“I came to see her painting,” she said softly.

“I’m so sorry.” Treven handed her a glass of red wine, then took the chair opposite hers. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Ever since-”

He didn’t finish the thought. It hung in the air between them and she looked at him. “Ever since what?”

“You got here.” His expression softened with regret. “Try the wine. It’ll help. That’s what it does.”

They sipped in silence. The fruits and spice filled her mouth first, followed by the tannins that coated her tongue, the alcohol that warmed her belly. She felt its effect steal blessedly over her.

“Legend has it,” he said softly, “that Ikarios and his daughter Erigone were the first humans to taste wine. Dionysus, the god of wine, shared it with them, then instructed them to make the fruit of the vines known to all. But when Ikarios did, the fellows gulped it down and became drunk.

“Observers, thinking Ikarios had poisoned their friends, beat him to death. When his daughter discovered his body, she hung herself in grief.”

Alex laughed weakly. “That’s a gruesome story, Treven. One I don’t understand why you’re telling me.”

He motioned to her glass. “The history of wine is intertwined with the history of the world. It has been a tumultuous pairing. Wine has soothed the heartbroken, fueled both ecstasy and violence, and incited responsible men to act like idiots.” He paused. “Case in point, my son.”

She appreciated his apology and told him so.

“Not an apology,” Treven corrected. “He’s too damn old for that. An explanation. Perhaps a request for understanding.”

Alex nodded and he went on. “History is populated by tragic stories. Our lives, too.”

He glanced up at her mother’s painting. She followed his gaze. Her mother’s life. Her own. Those who had loved her.

Or been abused by her.

“Who was Mike?” Alex asked. “Clark said he hung himself.”

“A good friend.”

“When did he-”

“He was twenty. Clark found him.”

“My God.”

“Another of his childhood friends is gone, as well. Terry Bianche. Terry battled drug and alcohol addiction. He died in a motorcycle accident.”

Treven held the glass slightly aloft and swirled the liquid, studying it. She sensed he did it from habit. He shifted his gaze to hers.

“I understand Reed spoke to you about your mother’s actions with our sons. I also hear that you’re having a difficult time accepting it. I don’t blame you.”

She flushed, uncertain if he meant he didn’t hold her accountable for her mother’s actions or that he didn’t question her loyalty to her mother.

“Mike was one of the boys. So was Terry. They were sixteen and seventeen at the time.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He cradled the bowl of the wineglass in his palms. “We handled it all wrong. Everything. I share the blame for that.”

He sighed, the sound heavy. “The boys should have had counseling. She should have been held accountable. But after Dylan…”

Alex looked away.

He laid a hand over hers. “I’m so sorry, Alexandra. None of this was your doing. After all, we can’t help who our parents are.”

Her parents. Mother and father. She turned back to meet his eyes. “Do you know who my father is?”

“I’m sorry.” He released her hand and stood. “I wish I could help you.”

She lifted a shoulder and followed him to his feet. “Someday, I’ll ask someone and get a different answer.”

“I hope so, Alex. I really do.”