Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

He grinned and stood up. “Let’s vamoose.”

He’d left the red Mule, one of our ATVs, on the crush pad. We owned two of them—red and green like Christmas. I put my cane on the backseat and climbed in beside him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“No offense, but you weren’t doing mental calculations. When you run out of fingers, you take off your socks. You were talking to yourself when I walked in.”

He started the motor. “Take off my socks. Aren’t you funny.”

“Still avoiding the question.”

He shifted into gear and hit the gas. The Mule lurched forward and I grabbed the dashboard.

“I might have trouble financing the land I want to buy.” He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

I watched his profile and saw a muscle tighten in his jaw. Money woes. Him, too? Had one or several of his investors gotten sucked into the miasma of Asher Investments?

“Might or are?” I asked.

“I’m still working on that.”

“Have you talked to Seth? Maybe the bank—”

“It’s more complicated than that, believe me. Seth’s the first one I went to.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope. To be honest, I’d just as soon forget the whole thing for now.”

I knew him well enough to hear the clank of a drawbridge coming up, closing off that fortress of privacy he erected around himself. He had just shut me out.

We drove along the outer edge of the south vineyard, passing some of the first vines my parents had planted more than twenty years ago. Quinn seemed to have a destination in mind since he didn’t detour down the rows of Riesling or Chardonnay to check on things like we normally did when we were in the field together.

“Have you seen your mother’s trees lately?” he asked.

At this time of year, I knew exactly which trees he meant. Shortly before she died, my mother had planted a spectacular allée of flowering cherry trees just off the south service road near the larger of our two apple orchards. They reminded her of the trees that lined the drive at the entrance to my grandparents’ summer home in Provence.

“I haven’t been by in the last few days,” I said.

He turned the corner at the end of the Chardonnay block and the trees came into view in a blizzard of lacy pink flowers. Quinn parked the Mule and we got out.

“I love this place,” he said.

“So do I,” I said. “It’s so peaceful here. Nothing like the Tidal Basin. When I was there the other day you could hardly move. Beautiful as it is, it was like being in a packed Metro car.”

“I’ll take your word for it. That’s why they make postcards. I hate being jammed someplace like a sardine, especially when it’s outdoors.”

“Oh, come on. You have to see those trees for yourself at least once in your life. That’s like visiting Napa without stopping at a vineyard.”

He looked at me like I’d stabbed him through the heart. Before he moved to Virginia he’d been a winemaker in Napa.

“Next year we’ll go together,” I told him. “It’s too late this season. They’re past their peak.”

Quinn flung himself onto the wooden bench my brother and sister and I had put here under the trees last year on our mother’s birthday.

“Next year is a long way off. Who knows what I’ll be doing then?” He leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head and crossed one work boot over the other.

“What are you talking about?”

“I might not even be here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you will.”

I sat down next to him and ran a finger over the engraving on the brass plaque attached to the bench. A quote from Thomas Jefferson, whose Garden Book had been among my mother’s favorite reading: “No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I might not.”

He sounded serious. He wasn’t kidding around.

“Don’t say that.” My voice wavered. “You can’t leave.”

He reached over and brushed the sleeve of my jacket with the back of his hand.

“After what I found out last night, I may not have a choice.”

“I thought you were playing poker last night.”

“I was. Harlan and Ali Jennings’s stable manager got up the game for a bunch of guys. He’s got an apartment above one of the barns. Ali came back from riding with Tommy Asher’s brother while we were playing. You could hear ’em a mile away. Guess they didn’t realize the windows were open and we were there.”

“Simon deWolfe went riding with Alison Jennings?”

“They hunt together. Simon rides with the Goose Creek Hunt now, along with Ali and Mick Dunne.”

“What were they talking about?”

“What else? Harlan and Tommy Asher.” Quinn shrugged. “Ali was completely flipped out about the money that’s gone. Simon was trying to calm her down. He told her she needs to keep her head, stay calm. Same with Harlan. Panicking is just going to make things worse for everybody.”

“What did Ali say when she heard that?”

“She sure didn’t calm down, I can tell you that. They parked their money with Asher, too. She sounded hysterical. Blames your friend Rebecca for everything.”

“I don’t think Ali can be—” I began.

“Can be what?”

“Nothing.”

A sudden gust of wind showered blossoms around us like we were inside a snow globe. I didn’t want to get into Harlan and Rebecca’s affair with Quinn.

He picked up a flower and held it between his fingers. “Can’t be objective about the woman her husband was screwing?”

My cheeks turned red. “That’s vulgar.”

“Aha. Then it is true?”

I looked away.

“Lucie,” he said, “I’m a guy. Sorry I’m not all touchy-feely, but I’ve heard the rumors about Harlan. Your friend was one good-looking babe who happened to be working for someone Harlan does business with. You didn’t tell me anything I wouldn’t have found out in a day or two over coffee at the General Store.”

“I didn’t tell you anything at all.”

“Aw, come on. Lighten up.” He put his arm around me and pulled me to him. “You know me. I don’t mean to be crude, but the fact that they were, uh, having an affair just makes it worse. People trusted Harlan. Now they don’t—or won’t until they get their money back.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder and breathed in his clean, outdoors smell and a hint of whatever detergent he used to wash his clothes.

“What if they don’t get it back?” I asked.

“I watched that press conference. Asher says he’s good for it.”

“Uh-huh.”

He pulled away from me. “What’s ‘uh-huh’ supposed to mean? You were Rebecca’s friend. You got insider information?”

“Nothing I know for sure.”

“Join the club. Nobody seems to know anything for sure. What do you think you don’t know?”

“I don’t think Rebecca stole the money Tommy Asher says she did. She’s a convenient scapegoat because she’s not around anymore.”

“Then who did steal it?” He watched me.

“Maybe there wasn’t any to steal.”

Quinn smashed the blossom he’d been holding between his fingers. “If that’s true, then you’re telling me it was all smoke and mirrors?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I repeated. “But I think that’s one possibility.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Lucie. Then nobody’s gonna get anything back.”

“Maybe not.”

We sat in silence.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had all the bad news I can take for one day.”

On the drive back to the winery he said, “I think your theory’s way off base about there not being any money. I told you what Simon told Ali last night. All everyone has to do is keep their head and it’ll work out. Simon ought to know what’s going on inside his brother’s firm. He would have told Ali the truth.”