Cold River Read online

  She left the piano and went upstairs to dress. As she considered the contents of the shoe rack against the closet wall, she murmured, “He said fields of daffodils.” Remembering the debacle in Mrs. Foley’s garden, she chose a pair of lightweight hiking boots. She put them on and looked at herself critically in the mirror. “I don’t suppose you’re going to grow any more,” she told her reflection. “But you look sufficiently Pacific Northwest in those shoes.”

  She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. Vince wouldn’t be here until eleven. She walked to the balustrade and looked down at the living area. Everything was neat and tidy. Nothing to do there. A stack of district procedure notebooks sat on her desk in the corner, but she couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for an hour spent amid state-mandated regulations.

  She raised her eyes to the river. Sunshine glinted off ripples like newly minted coins scattered on the water. Without even a conscious decision to do so, Mandy descended the stairs, went out the door, and crossed the road. She spied a trail in front of her house and followed it through ankle-high grass until it dropped down into a sterile, stony expanse that bordered the river’s flow.

  Mandy walked upstream, keeping her eyes on the ground because of the difficult footing. She was conscious of the warmth of the sun on her face, the songbirds in the trees alongside the river, and the soft sound of the water lapping against the rocks in the shallows. She had gone perhaps a couple hundred feet when she came to an immense pile of tree trunks all jumbled together like a game of giant Pickup Sticks. The snarl of logs rested mostly on dry riverbed but reached about a third of the way across the wide, inexorably flowing river.

  She stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the logjam. Picking her way among the cobbles, she walked alongside a huge, horizontal trunk that lay on the ground. The upended roots of the mammoth tree were still anchored into the soil of the grassy bank. She grabbed hold of one of the roots, pulled herself up onto the trunk, and walked back out toward the flowing river. When she reached the water, she sat on one of the logs that had piled up behind at bench height. Leaning back against another that had been thrown up diagonally by the forces of the flood, she looked out over the scene before her. Steep mountains rose to her left, and the river stretched before her, reflecting the blue of the sky.

  Mandy breathed deeply and compared the peace of this moment to the anger she had felt toward Grange Timberlain on Friday afternoon. She closed her eyes and saw again that one brow pulled down and heard him saying, “Have you tumbled to the fact yet that the reason we have to let Vonda and Sumner go is so we can pay you?” She had been too angry to consider his words, but she considered them now.

  No, she hadn’t realized that her salary had put the district budget out of whack. That information had rocked her more than she let show. But, she told herself, she wasn’t the one who caused the problem. If Grange had stepped up to the responsibility he had to the district, taken the classes he needed, he would still be superintendent and she would be… where? Chevak, Alaska? Still in Albuquerque? Still involved with… She shook her curls and forced her thoughts back to her surroundings.

  The sun climbed in the sky, and she looked at her watch. Vince would be here in twenty minutes. She stood, dusted off her pants, and retraced her steps along the log. She jumped down onto the grassy bank and spied a path that took off into the woods. Following it, she discovered that it paralleled the river for a while and then angled up to the road just before the A-frame. As she stepped into the sunshine, she saw the black Escalade parked in front of her house. Vince stood on the deck.

  “Hello!” she called, waving when he turned to look her way.

  A broad smile replaced the frown on his face, and he hurried down the steps and came to meet her. He was dressed casually in chinos and a shirt of muted brown plaid, pressed to perfection as before.

  “You’re a bit early,” Mandy called. “I’ve been down by the river.”

  He met her halfway to the house and walked the rest of the way beside her with his hands in his pocket, looking down with warm eyes as he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t wait.”

  “No. I’ve been ready for an hour, too. I wonder…”

  He stopped. “What?”

  She stopped as well. “Would you mind taking the Miata? It’s such a lovely day. We could put the top down.”

  He nodded. “You got it. The Miata it is.” As they continued on, he didn’t speak again, but as they walked, his elbow lightly brushed her upper arm every now and then.

  When they got to the house, Mandy put the top down, and Vince took a small cardboard box out of the back of the Escalade.

  “Is there room in the trunk for this?” he asked.

  “I think we can manage that. What do you have there?”

  He opened the box and she peered inside. “What are they?”

  “Morel mushrooms.”

  “Is that right? They look like brains.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Brains? I’ve never heard anyone describe them like that. Most people say they look like little Christmas trees.”

  “Yes, but look at all those wrinkles and folds. And the color is very brain-like.”

  “Mutt Maypole brought these to me. It’s early for morels, but he knows a place up on the mountain where you can find them early. Must be some geothermal activity that makes the ground warmer than usual.”

  “You’ve got hot springs around?”

  “Yes. That and other activity. Mount Stevens is a dormant volcano, you know.” Vince put the mushrooms in the trunk.

  Mandy’s eyes widened. “How dormant? Wait, don’t answer yet. Let me get my driver’s license.” She ran into the house, grabbed her purse and car keys, locked the door, and rejoined Vince, who was holding the driver’s door open for her. She got in and smiled up at him. “Thank you very much.”

  “Quite dormant,” he said as he shut the door, “though Mt. Stevens is a cousin to Mt. St. Helens, and ever so often she blows steam through a vent at the top.”

  Backing out of the driveway, Mandy chuckled. “That’s another thing your agent neglected to mention when he hired me.”

  Vince gave her directions that took them back to the highway and farther upriver. As they drove, he leaned back and turned slightly, so his shoulder was against the door, and his view of the driver was unobstructed.

  She glanced over at him. “What are you smiling at?”

  The wind ruffled his hair. “You. Me. The day. What’s not to smile at?” He pointed. “See where that truck is turning? Turn there, only go left instead of right.”

  She did as she was told, downshifting to make the turn. The road climbed through trees for about a mile and then suddenly opened out into a huge open field of yellow daffodils.

  “Oooooh!” Mandy slowed, looking from right to left. “Oh, Vince! I’ve never seen anything like this.” She glanced at him and found his eyes on her.

  “Drive on,” he said. “We’ll turn at that sign. Do you see it?”

  “The one set in those rocks? What does it say?”

  “Bratararia,” he said, still watching her. “I see you recognize the name.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Well, yes. I recognize— winery? This is a winery? Where?”

  “You’ll see. Keep going.”

  They had passed the daffodils, and now they were in a vineyard. Trellised rows of well-pruned grapevines marched in formation at eye level as far as they could see.

  “You’re full of surprises,” Mandy observed. “Since Bratararia was the name of Jean Lafitte’s colony off the Gulf Coast, I’m assuming this is yours?”

  “Yes. The winery is just ahead. There’s a more direct way to get to it, but I wanted to show you the flowers.”

  They approached a quaint stone building, with a red tile roof and Roman arches along the front. Mandy pulled into the yard, where topiary trees and daffodils grew out of half casks lining the parking lot.

  “Let’s go in.” Vince opened his door. “
I’m going to cook you lunch, but I want to show you around first.”

  Mandy got out and preceded him through the heavy, rounded front door into a shadowy interior. She looked around at the massive beams and leaded glass, rough stone walls, and slate floor of the empty room. “It has a medieval feel to it.”

  “By design. This will be the wine-tasting room. It’s still a work in progress. Step through this way.” He led through an archway into a long, narrow, windowless room with sets of empty wine racks perpendicular to the wall all the way down. “These lights are temporary. We’ll have better lighting after next week.”

  Mandy folded her arms for warmth. “Reminds me of the stacks in the library on campus,” she said. “It was cold there, too.”

  “This will be climate controlled. They’re coming next week to get it installed.”

  From that room they stepped into another that was large, open, and windowless. “Temporary lighting here, too,” Vince said. “This is for the casks. They’re over at the other place right now. We’ve been operating for ten years in a pole building in the fields down closer to Limestone.”

  She looked around dutifully. Finding no apt comment, she simply nodded and followed him to the last room, a clone of the previous one. “This is where the vats will be, the actual making of the wines. We’ll move our stock of wine this spring and the machinery this summer in time for the harvest in the fall.”

  He stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, obviously waiting for some comment.

  “This is something completely out of my world, Vince,” she said, “but I can tell that it’s something you’re excited about. I’m glad for you.” She touched his arm as she said it. He looked down at the floor and then up at her, and exhaled.

  “I don’t know why I was so nervous about bringing you out here,” he confessed. “Come out on the patio. I’m going to cook for you.”

  Mandy followed him willingly out onto a flagstone expanse under a grape arbor. A green resin table with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth was set for two with china and crystal goblets. The bare grape vines of the arbor did no more than filter the sunshine, and it was pleasant after the dim chilliness of the winery.

  Vince drew up a chair and seated her. Then he lit a propane barbeque and took two steaks out of an ice chest. As he cooked, he explained about the grapes he grew, pinot noir, and how he hoped this area, with its east-facing slopes and soil high in calcium carbonate, would be good for growing consistently good grapes. They were difficult to grow and difficult to ferment. “But when you get it right,” he said, “it creates a lasting impression on the palate, and it sticks in your memory.”

  He looked at his watch. “It won’t be long, now. Oh! The mushrooms. May I borrow your keys?”

  She handed them over. He walked quickly around the building and returned momentarily with the box. He put a sheet of aluminum foil on the grate, poured the mushrooms out, dusted them with salt and pepper, and closed the lid.

  Ten minutes later he set a steak smothered in mushrooms in front of Mandy and then produced a crisp green salad and vinaigrette dressing to go with it. “Mmm,” she said. “You are full of surprises today.”

  “Here’s the last one.” He produced a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. “This is the product of my winery.”

  She sat still as a statue as she watched Vince ply the corkscrew then pour the dark red liquid into her glass.

  “What’s the matter?” He paused with the mouth of the bottle suspended above the goblet.

  “Oh, Vince,” she whispered.

  His black brows drew together. “What’s the matter?”

  She pressed her hands over her face as she felt the color rising to her cheeks. “You’ve made such a lovely lunch, and you’ve brought your wine to share with me… ”

  “Yes?”

  There was nothing to do but say it. “I don’t drink.”

  “What do you mean?”

  It was easier now that she had said it once. “I mean, I don’t drink alcohol.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “You’re kidding!”

  Mandy took her hands from her face. “Why would you say that?”

  “You’re intelligent, educated, sophisticated.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know about that. Maybe that’s the way you see me, but I’m a lot of other things that you know nothing about.”

  “Ouch!” He set the bottle down on the table. “I’m not doing very well here, am I?”

  She looked at her hands, clenched in her lap. “That came out wrong.”

  “No, you’re right. I know very little about you. I suppose it’s a religious thing? I shouldn’t have pushed.” Vince put down the bottle. “Try the steak.” His white teeth gleamed. “You do eat meat, don’t you? Or do I have that wrong, too?”

  She picked up her fork and knife. “Not at all. My grandfather is a rancher. I grew up on beef.”

  Hoping to take the sting out of her refusal to drink his wine, she kept up a flow of light conversation during lunch. She talked about her house and about her morning amble. She told him about walking out on the great trunk to sit in the sunshine above the river.

  Vince frowned and told her that logjams like that were deathtraps. Mandy lifted her brows and he went on to explain. “The current is flowing so fast when the river is high that it creates suction as it goes under. If your boat comes up against the logjam, first it’s going to turn broadside and then it’s going to capsize because of the forces pulling on it.” His mouth was set in grim lines. “Hiesel is a local Indian word that translates as ‘dangerous.’ Only it’s more than that. It carries the meaning that death can be sudden, and you’ve been forewarned. Stallo means river, and before white men came, they called it Hiesel Stallo to let strangers know a person in the water didn’t have a chance. I hope you’ll be careful.” He paused and looked away.

  He didn’t speak again, and she searched for a way to break the silence. She picked up the wine bottle and studied the label. A picture of a square-rigger, flying a black flag, rode the crest of a wave that melded cleverly into the word ‘Bratararia.’

  “I like your label,” she said. “Did you design it?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She smoothed the label with her thumb where it had come unstuck from the bottle. “So, why wine? What made you, a building demolisher, decide to become a maker of wine?”

  “It must be in the blood. My father made moonshine.”

  Involuntarily, Mandy’s eyes flew to Vince’s face.

  “Ah,” he said. “You have heard that I’m a— that I’m illegitimate.”

  She nodded. She felt her cheeks getting hot and looked away.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s the truth, but I know who my father was.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Buck Timberlain.”

  Mandy blinked. “Timberlain? Then, you’re Rael’s—”

  “I’m Rael’s cousin.” Vince took the wine bottle from her, as she was in danger of tipping the contents into her lap. “Grange is also my cousin.” He set the bottle on the table. “Israel Timberlain— my grandfather— was a baby when his family moved from North Carolina in the twenties. Rael lives in the house he built.”

  Mandy nodded. “That’s just up the road from me.”

  “Old Israel had three sons.” Vince lined up his knife, fork, and spoon. Touching each in turn, he said, “Rael’s father’s name was Joseph. Grange’s father’s name was Frederick. My father’s name was Benjamin, but everyone called him Buck.”

  Vince raised his brows for permission, and she nodded, so he picked up her spoon. He put the spoon down with the others. “There was a sister, Lucinda,” he said. “She married Ben Hawes and had two children, Tammy and Stevie Joe. Anyway, Buck had a still in the woods on his father’s property.” He moved the wine bottle to the edge of the table. “It sat on a bluff by the river, and he did a tidy bit of business around the county.”

  “You speak of him in the past tense.
Is he dead?”

  Vince took a sip of wine before he answered. “Yes, he is. He was found in the woods near his still, shot to death. I was eighteen at the time, and I remember my mother wept when she read about it in the newspaper. It was the only time I ever saw her cry.”

  “Did she tell you why?”

  Vince shook his head. “I didn’t find out who my father was until just before she died.”

  “When was that?”

  “Thirteen years ago. I was twenty-five.”

  Mandy carefully folded the checkered napkin on her lap. “I never knew who my father was,” she said without looking up.

  “But your name— Steenburg. Is that your father’s name?”

  She smoothed the edges of the folded napkin. “No. It’s my mother’s maiden name. It’s funny how society’s views have changed in the last thirty years. People don’t think anything about it anymore. Back then it was called out of wedlock. I came to hate that phrase.”

  Vince leaned back in his chair and fingered the stem of his wineglass as he regarded Mandy.

  She didn’t look at him. “I made the decision not to drink when I was ten. I asked my mother why I didn’t have a father, and she told me how she had been drinking one night at a teenage party, and that’s when I was conceived. I decided right then I was never going to let alcohol influence my life in any way. Too many people carry the scars.”

  She laid the napkin on the table and met Vince’s eyes. “But it turned out all right. When I was eleven, my mother married a man I called Poppy. He wanted to adopt me, but I wouldn’t change my name because I wanted my real father, though that’s silly because Poppy was a real father to me. But in my childish fantasy, I wanted the man who… who… you know. I wanted him to be able to find me, and I was afraid if I took Poppy’s name, he wouldn’t be able to.”

  Vince reached over and laid his hand briefly over hers, curling his fingers under her palm and giving just the slightest pressure. “It’s tough, isn’t it, waiting for your father to recognize your existence?”

  “Yours never did?”

  He shook his head. They sat in silence for a moment.