Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“You will not. Forget it.”

“Speaking of questionable credit, you had a couple of visitors awhile ago. Eli.” She gave me a significant look. “And Brandi.”

“Both of them?”

“He came first, then she showed up. They, uh, adjourned to your office. I didn’t say anything since he’s your brother and it’s none of my business.”

“What were they doing in my office?”

“Talking.” She raised her eyebrows. “Fortunately we didn’t have any customers at the time.”

“You mean they were fighting?”

“Yup. Money again. I heard that part. I finally went out on the terrace so I don’t know the rest of it.” She shrugged. “When the front door slammed, I figured they might have left together, but then I saw her walking to her car by herself. The Jag was still in the parking lot.”

“When did he leave?”

“About ten minutes later.”

“He say anything?”

“Yup. ‘Good-bye.’”

“I think I’ll give him a call.”

But Eli had either turned off his cell or he was ducking calls because he never answered mine. After leaving three messages, I gave up.

I had no better luck at his office. The receptionist at his architectural firm in Leesburg said he hadn’t been in to work since last Friday. When I called his house as a last resort, I got the default message on his answering machine. Random words stitched together meant to imply that a genuine human being was asking me to leave my name and number and someone would get back to me. I hung up without saying anything.

Quinn called at the end of the day with the Brix numbers on the Riesling. A lot of people believe we pick our grapes when we think they’re ready and that it’s a somewhat subjective call based on upcoming weather along with a few other seat-of-the-pants assessments. It’s true there’s a certain crapshoot element in the decision-making process but there is also science, math—and the law.

Brix is the primary indicator in determining ripeness and when to pick because it measures the amount of sugar in the grapes. That measurement allows us to calculate the percentage of alcohol in the wine, which, by law, must range between 7 and 14 percent, depending on the wine varietal. Because Quinn and I liked our Riesling dry rather than sweet, we favored a low-alcohol wine that showcased the fruit—or as he said, a wine that wouldn’t blow the top of your head off because of too much alcohol—so we picked at a lower Brix.

“We should be ready on Thursday,” he said. “It’ll be about twenty-one and a half or twenty-two Brix by then. We’ll beat the rain, but just barely.”

“All right,” I said. “You’d better tell Chance to make sure we have enough pickers so we can wrap it up in a day.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll talk to him,” Quinn said. “One more thing. When we drove back from the field I saw Eli’s Jaguar parked over by the Ruins. Didn’t see him, just the car. Everything all right?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ve been trying to reach him all afternoon.”

“Lucie?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay? You seemed kind of distant this morning.”

How could I answer him? My father had been accused of murder, my brother’s life was falling apart as I watched, and Kit and I weren’t speaking to each other. Despite what was going on between Quinn and Savannah, fundamentally I knew he was my friend, and that had to be good enough.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, but I’m okay,” I said. “By the way, Savannah’s nice. I can see why you like her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just, she’s nice.”

“Sure. Yeah. Nice kid. Smart, too.”

After he hung up I wondered why he sounded puzzled that I’d figured out he was interested in Savannah. He’d been anything but subtle about it.

It was dusk when I stopped at the Ruins on my way home. My brother’s Jaguar was still there. I parked next to it and got out, calling his name.

The color had faded from the sky and the Blue Ridge was in silhouette against a bright white sky. The fields and stands of trees in the middle distance between the Ruins and the mountains already looked less substantial in the murky light. In a short while, it would be dark. The languid days of summer were already waning. On my way back from the General Store this morning I passed a Loudoun County school bus, the driver no doubt trying out a new fall route a few weeks early.

I found Eli on the far side of the Ruins, sitting where Quinn would not have been able to see him when he drove by. Eli had supervised the conversion of the burned-out tenant house into a stage for plays and concerts. He’d also added a dressing room and an equipment storage area. He knew the Ruins and its hideouts better than anyone else, including the places that weren’t entirely safe to climb on like the old brick hearth where he was now sitting, along with a bottle of Leland’s favorite single-malt Scotch.

There had been one last full bottle of Macallan twenty-five-year-old Scotch in the armoire of the dining room. If that was the bottle he now cradled, he’d put a nice dent in it, though I would have guessed that anyway the moment I laid eyes on him.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“And I plan to get drunker still.” He smiled the stupid smile of the woefully inebriated and patted a place next to him. “Join me.”

The brick floor was uneven and what was left of the chimney didn’t look like it could support much weight if I needed to hold on to it while I navigated my way to where he sat. Eli reached out his hand.

“Here. I’ll help you. Be careful.”

“Why don’t we move someplace safer? The mortar between these bricks is practically dust. It could collapse right under us.”

“Just like my life.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“How about letting me drive you back to the house?”

“Thanks, but I’m staying here until this bottle is empty.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very smart idea.”

“Does to me.”

“Why?” I gave in and eased myself down next to him.

“Because this is where I took Brandi when I proposed to her.”

In the aching silence that followed, I knew my brother had hit rock bottom if he had come back to the place where it all started with Brandi. I closed my eyes and listened, certain I would hear the sound of his heart breaking into pieces.

“Frankie said the two of you spent some time in my office today.”

Eli picked up the Scotch and took another swig. “She wants a divorce. There’s someone else. Has been for quite a while.” He handed me the bottle. “Fabulous stuff. Best in the world.”

His eyes slid over mine and I saw his grief.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“You and me both. What an ass I was not to see it coming.” His mocking laugh echoed against the old bricks. “The husband’s always the last to know. You think that’s such a crock, but you’d be surprised how easy self-delusion is.” He nudged me. “You’re not drinking.”

“You know I don’t like Scotch.”

“Am I going to be turned down by two women in one day? Come on, keep me company. Macallan’s liquid gold. The old man had first-class taste in booze. You have any idea how much this bottle costs?”

“Nope.” I tipped my head and drank. It warmed my throat and I coughed, but Eli was right. It did taste like liquid gold, making me think of oranges, spices, and a vague vanilla scent. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand as he reached for the bottle.

The Roman philosopher Seneca said that drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness. Tonight my brother was crazy with hurt, betrayal, and anger. It scared me to think what he might do in this self-induced state of reckless grief.