Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“I want you to know this chapter is finally closed for me and I bear Leland no ill will.” Her voice had taken on a slight patronizing tone. “You seem like a good person, a decent person, and I’m glad, in the end, your father found his way back to his family where he belonged.”

I stared at her. She was forgiving Leland? Her whole story hinged on my father’s lust for her—a passion so strong it motivated him to commit murder so he could have Annabel to himself. And that’s what I couldn’t buy. Leland was a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. The only constant in his life was my mother. He always came back and she always forgave him.

That was the flaw in Annabel’s carefully stitched together story—at least as I saw it—that my father carried a torch for her and never got over her. It was a lie but I couldn’t prove it. And I sure as hell didn’t need her forgiveness for something my father didn’t do.

“I appreciate your compassion,” I said, “but there were plenty of women in my father’s life. He loved my mother in his way. He just couldn’t help getting involved in other relationships.”

Annabel drew her head back and I knew then I’d hit a nerve. She hadn’t known what a serial womanizer Leland had been and that she had been one of many passing flings rather than the great, unrequited love of his life. No woman, especially a vain one, wanted to discover how easily she had been replaced—and forgotten.

“It’s time to go, Annabel.” Sumner put his arm around his wife. “We’re done here.”

He emphasized done.

The Mercedes drove off as I walked up the stairs to the villa. A light rain began to fall, as fine as mist. Maybe I had punctured a tiny hole in Annabel’s account of what happened between her and Leland and Beau, but it was too little, too late.

I may have won that skirmish, but she had won the war.

B.J. and Ray Vitale stood in front of a hand-drawn map of their battle plans, which they’d unrolled on the oak trestle table at the far end of the tasting room.

“We’re finished,” I said. “The site’s all yours.”

“Why’d you take that blowhard and his wife out to see that grave?” Vitale asked. “I wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

“Let’s go, Ray,” B.J. said, rolling up the map.

“Do you think Chastain actually spends time checking out any of the projects he builds?” Vitale persisted. “You should have read the letters I got from his lawyers— lawyers— when I wrote about the foundation cracks in my buildings and the leaks and the shoddy construction practices I found out about later.” His voice rose with memory and anger. “Sumner Chastain is a contemptuous, greedy bastard who believes his wealth and power set him above the law.”

“Ray, I’m sure Lucie needs to get back to work,” B.J. said. “Thanks for letting us spread out here, Lucie.”

“No problem. It’s starting to rain again,” I said. “Call me if you need anything.”

B.J. smiled. “They didn’t have cell phones in those days, my dear. I’m sure we’ll manage. Feel free to stop by anytime.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Vitale’s gaze was hypnotic. “I can’t believe you of all people don’t agree with me, Ms. Montgomery. Look what he and his wife did to your father. I heard about his publicity goons taking over and controlling what information was parceled out to the press.”

“We’re out of here,” B.J. said, tugging Vitale’s arm.

After they left I poured a glass of wine with hands that shook.

Maybe Sumner Chastain was a bully. But Ray Vitale, who seemed obsessed by his hatred for Sumner, was a loose cannon.

Quinn was sitting at the winemaker’s table nursing a beer with his feet propped up when I stopped by the barrel room later in the day. I sat down next to him. His eye was less swollen than yesterday, but it still looked spectacular in shades of red and purple. Some of the puffiness in his face had gone down.

“The Riesling’s finally chilling in the tanks,” he said. “I’ll add the yeast tomorrow and get fermentation going.”

He delivered the news in a dull, flat voice and took a swig from his bottle. Last night’s tension still hung between us like a fog.

“When you’re finished adding the yeast, can you help out at the villa?” I matched his tone. “I’ll probably be spending most of my time at the reenactment site. Gina will need help in our booth. One person can’t handle selling wine tasting tickets to that crowd.”

“That depends on what happens with fermentation. That’s first priority,” he said. “I don’t understand why we can’t sell wine right there at the site like we do at other festivals.”

“Because B.J. and Ray Vitale don’t want alcohol around people who have guns, even if they’re shooting blanks,” I said. “I had to agree with them.”

He tipped his head back and drank more beer. “Your call.”

If he wasn’t going to bring up last night and what happened with Chance, neither was I.

I traced a pattern on the tabletop with a finger. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Babysitting the Riesling.” He set his bottle down. “What’d you expect?”

“Just wondered. Need any help?”

“I got it covered.” He swung his feet around and stood up. “Is there anything else?”

“Nothing at all.”

“See you in the morning.” He walked toward the stainless-steel tanks, which were making quiet gurgling sounds as the glycol coolant circulated between a glass wall and the steel jacket.

I would have preferred an argument to this deep freeze. We’d gotten mad at each other plenty of times, but this was different and I didn’t like it.

I finished his beer, which he’d left on the table, and got up to leave. I had no idea if he heard me pull the door shut hard enough that it slammed, or if he even cared.

Either way, it symbolized the current state of our relationship.

I fell asleep in the hammock to the soft sound of a steady rain that invaded my mind like white noise, blocking out all thoughts. Saturday was supposed to be another dishrag day of wet weather, but the light that woke me early the next morning held out the surprising promise of clear skies and cool temperatures without the humidity we’re so famous for in summer.

I checked my phone. Just past six thirty. I sat up and rubbed at the pattern the rough woven fabric had imprinted on my arm. In the kitchen, I made coffee and toasted pieces of baguette. Eli must have done some grocery shopping because I found a plate of cheese in the refrigerator. He’d bought the usual Brie and Camembert, but also splurged on Pont l’Évêque, Brillat-Savarin, and my favorite, Humboldt Fog. I cut some of each for my bread and left the plate on the counter so the cheese would be room temperature when he finally showed up for breakfast.

After the credit card incident the other day, Eli and I had avoided the subject of whether I needed him to help out today. I hadn’t asked and he hadn’t offered. He’d also told me he finally decided not to take Zeke Lee up on his offer to be a walk-on reenactor for the weekend, though he still planned to show up as a spectator.

After breakfast I showered, dressed, and drove over to the camp. We had Bush-Hogged the field B.J. wanted to use as a parking lot, but he’d been adamant that the battlefield remain unmowed. As he’d pointed out, nobody cut the grass before the two armies showed up at Ball’s Bluff.

I parked on the freshly mowed field at the end closest to the campground. At least fifty vehicles belonging to reenactors who’d arrived last night were parked in ragged rows. In another hour the rest of the participants were due to arrive, so that by ten o’clock all tents would be pitched and the camp in working order when it opened to the public.