Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“You’re welcome. And I’m glad you’re home again, too.”

He said grimly, “It’s not over. There might be a trial, though Sammy thinks there isn’t enough evidence anymore to convict me.”

“Oh, God, Ross. A trial would be horrible.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll survive that, too,” he said. “But I’ve learned a lot the past ten days. I never thought after all the years I’ve been part of this community, saving lives and helping people, that so many of my so-called friends would believe I’m capable of murder.”

I wasn’t used to seeing this side of Ross. Angry. Resentful. Bitter. Then again, he’d just spent a few days in jail.

“No one thinks you killed Georgia,” I soothed him. “Some of the Romeos are upset about that Jeff Davis letter, but that has nothing to do with Georgia.”

I walked him to the door. His hands were jammed in his pockets and his head was down. He was in no mood to be cajoled or comforted.

“Don’t get me started on that goddam letter,” he said irritably. “I got a letter myself. Signed by several of the boys. They’re ready to lynch me. A couple of them offered to buy it off me. Urged me to ‘do the right thing.’ Don’t stir up any trouble. They offered a pittance.”

“What did you say?”

“Pass.”

“This will blow over,” I told him, though I wondered if it would. “You’re an important part of the community, Ross. Look at all the good you’re doing at the clinic, the people you’re helping. None of that’s changed. The Romeos will come around and it will be all right again.”

He shook his head. “No, they won’t. Anyway, it’s too late. I’m moving on after this is over. Making a new start somewhere else.”

I said, startled, “You’d leave here? The clinic, too? Does Siri know?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m thinking about asking her to come with me. We’re both free now. I have no children, hers are scattered around the world. My wife is dead. That chapter of my life is over. If I stay here, I’ll never get away from Georgia. She’ll haunt me.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Maybe you should think—”

“After what happened to Georgia,” he interrupted, “I’ve learned you never know when your time is up. There are things I still want to do. I’m going to do them, but it won’t be here. When I die, I don’t want any regrets.” He looked at me and added, “If there’s anyone who understands what it’s like to get a second chance in life, it should be you. So I’m counting on your support, because this won’t be easy.”

Then he kissed my forehead and left.

The rest of the day did not go well. At noon when I went back to the house, Mia was finally awake, out on the veranda nursing her hangover with an espresso and a cigarette. I expected her to be remorseful or even penitent after last night’s performance, but she was hostile and belligerent. So we fought, except this one ended more spectacularly than usual with her telling me to go to hell, before slamming doors as she left for Abby Lang’s place.

Then Quinn and I had words when he saw the two floral prints I’d finally propped up on the credenza in my office.

“Where’d you get those?” he asked.

“From Mac Macdonald. They’re original prints of native Virginia wildflowers,” I said. “I thought we could use them for the labels for our new wines. He’s looking for more like these.”

“Flowers? You want to use old prints of flowers on our wine labels?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to be new and edgy when your label is a couple of hundred years old and it’s a picture of a flower. I thought we were moving ahead, not backward.”

“We’re a Virginia winery,” I snapped. “And these are native wildflowers. I think they’d make great labels. Unique and very classy.”

“Yeah. Thomas Jefferson would love ’em.”

“You know, if you don’t like it here…” I stopped and pressed my lips together.

“What?” His eyes flashed anger.

“Nothing. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Well, you did.”

“Look, we were both up late last night, so we’re both tired,” I said wearily. “Let’s forget this conversation.”

“How do you know how late I was up last night?” His eyes were black and depthless.

“Because I went out on the veranda around midnight and I heard you and Bonita in the summerhouse, that’s how. I didn’t intend to, but you were kind of noisy. Next time, maybe you could find a more private place to conduct your affairs instead of my backyard, okay?”

That made two things I shouldn’t have said. “My affairs?” He looked bewildered, then his expression lightened. “Oh, so you’re talking about me and Bonita, is that it? Tell you what. How about if I take my telescope out of there so I won’t disturb your beauty sleep ever again? Would that suit you?”

“Wait—”

But he’d already left.

A moment later the front door to the villa slammed. I heard his car as it roared out of the parking lot. Probably going right over to the summerhouse.

I laid my head on my desk.

What had I done?

I had just gotten home for the day when my doorbell rang. Mick Dunne held a bottle of Dom Pérignon in one hand and a couple of shopping bags with the logo of an upscale grocery store in the other.

“I brought dinner,” he said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh…gosh…I…” I had been planning on microwaving anything in the refrigerator that still looked edible and eating dinner while soaking in the tub. Then straight to bed.

“Is that a yes or a no?” he asked. “It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”

I opened the door and let him in. “It’s a yes. But I really need a shower. I just walked in the door.”

“Then show me where your kitchen is,” he said, “and go have your shower.”

He’d brought filet mignon, baking potatoes with sour cream, and white asparagus. A fabulous bottle of Pétrus to go with the dinner, and fresh local raspberries and blueberries for dessert.

By the time I got back downstairs he was making a vinaigrette for the asparagus. “This is very extravagant,” I said. “No offense, but I thought ‘British cuisine’ was an oxymoron.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about the British, then. Here, try this and tell me if there’s too much vinegar in it.” He held a spoon to my lips.

“It’s perfect.”

I didn’t have too many illusions and he wasn’t subtle. We started kissing in the kitchen and continued throughout dinner, which we ate at dusk on the veranda. I lit the candles and the torches that ringed the porch while he finished grilling the filet mignon.

He came around to my chair to refill my wineglass yet again and kissed my hair. Then he put the bottle down and started to rub my shoulders.

“You’re very tense,” he said. “Your shoulders feel like they’re made of concrete.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I’m giving you a massage tonight. You need it.”

If he meant what I thought he did, then he would finally see my bad foot, now well hidden under a floor-length halter dress. “Let’s take this kind of slow, okay?” I said. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

He went back and sat down, then took my hands in both of his. “I signed the papers the other day so the Studebaker place is mine. I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“When do you move in?”

His mouth twitched. I’d changed the subject and we both knew it. “I’m going back to Florida in a few days to wrap up matters there.”

“Are you going to stay with Ross in the meantime?”

Mick shook his head. “I took a room at the Hilton by Dulles Airport the day of the funeral. Ross needs some time on his own.”