That she did. “You didn’t tell me there was such bad blood between you two.”
“Just disappointment.” Before she could comment, he added, “Here comes Mom. Big surprise.”
His mother, Lyla, proved to be the epitome of elegance and hospitality. Alex realized instantly that she played peacemaker between father and son. Or rather, she tried.
As Reed had predicted, she approved of the dress. “Don’t you look lovely!” she exclaimed, catching Alex’s hands and looking her over. “Little Alex, grown into a beautiful woman.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Lyla.”
“To meet me? Why, we’re old friends.” She linked their arms. “Come, let me show you something.”
Alex glanced at Reed, who shrugged, his expression amused. He followed as his mother led her through an alcove into a large, paneled room. The room was richly but comfortably furnished, the walls hung with photographs, some of celebrities and politicians, framed medals and certificates. A scent lingered in the air, at once woodsy, sweet and somehow familiar. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth. A video monitor played a promotional piece about the making of the Bear Creek Zinfandel.
“Trophy room,” Reed said.
“Our family history room,” she corrected, leading Alex to a grouping of photographs. “Our Marvale Pinot was served at the White House.” She indicated a photograph of a man who looked remarkably like Reed standing with President and Nancy Reagan. “That’s Wayne’s father.”
She pointed to another photograph. “Joe and Ferris with Governor Schwarzenegger. And here, Wayne and his father with Robert Mondavi. But that’s not why I brought you in here. Look.”
A photograph of Lyla and Patsy, both smiling for the camera, her mother very pregnant. They held up glasses of wine. Apparently, the picture predated the Surgeon General’s warning about consuming alcohol while pregnant.
Or maybe it didn’t. Here in wine country, Alex suspected, people wrote their own rules about such things.
“I missed your mother terribly when she left. We all did.”
“Were you close?”
“Very.” She sighed and lightly touched the glass. “We loved Harlan. He and Wayne were best friends from the time they were in short pants-as Wayne likes to say. I was close to Susan, his first wife… such a terrible tragedy.” Her voice thickened and she cleared it. “Poor Harlan, he has endured so much.”
She paused as if in thought. “Patsy made him so happy. You, too. Then, when Dylan was born… Those were joyful years.”
Alex imagined those years. In a strange way, as Lyla Reed led her through a series of photographs, she almost remembered them.
Lyla stopped on a picture of Harlan and Patsy, swinging Dylan between them. “That was right before-” She bit the words back, overcome with emotion.
Alex gazed at the image, then looked away. A log dropped in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the flue. She turned back to Lyla. “I don’t understand… why did she leave?”
Lyla looked surprised. She glanced at her son, then back at Alex, obviously distressed. “I thought you knew about Dylan.”
“I do. Now, anyway. But I’m having a hard time understanding the way she picked up and left. And an even harder time reconciling the woman she appeared to be in these photos and the mother I knew. Here, she seemed so happy, and all my life-”
“You’re not a mother,” Lyla said sharply. “You can’t truly understand until you are. His loss destroyed her.”
A young girl poked her head into the room, “Grandma, Pop-pop is asking for you.”
“Thanks, sweet pea. Tell him I’ll be right out.” She turned back to Alex. “If it had been one of my boys, I don’t know what I would have done. Or how I’d have gone on.”
She gave Alex’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Take all the time you need. We have photo albums from those years. Dan will show you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, March 6
9:45 P.M.
Alex hadn’t wanted to see any more photographs. Instead of answering her questions, what she’d seen had posed more. Not only that, it hurt to look at them. She couldn’t stop thinking about her mother, the smile she’d worn in each picture, and comparing that to the woman who had been so despondent she had swallowed a bottle of pills.
Maybe Lyla was right. Maybe she couldn’t understand because she wasn’t a mother.
“Are you okay?” Reed asked.
She forced a smile and held up her glass. “I’m empty. And hungry, I think.”
They found the buffet and filled their plates. The spread was incredible, everything California and that paired with zinfandel, all fresh, natural and arranged beautifully.
There they ran into Rachel. She was talking wine with a journalist, but paused to give Alex a hug and kiss on the cheek. “We’re going to lunch on Monday,” she said. “You can’t say no. Noon at El Dorado Kitchen.”
Next, she met Treven Sommer. Although she knew Treven to be several years older than Harlan, he looked a decade younger.
“Alexandra,” he said warmly, gathering her hands in his, “Harlan told me you had been by to see him. He told me about Patsy. She was an exceptional woman. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she managed, voice thick. “I’m certain she would have appreciated you saying that.”
“Did she ever do anything with her painting?” he asked. “She was quite gifted.”
“She was painting back then?” Alex asked, surprised. No one else had mentioned it.
“Yes, indeed. The painting in our tasting room, behind the bar, is one of hers. I believe Harlan has several. There are a few in the collections of friends in the valley. Come by the winery before you leave.”
“She’s going to be around awhile, Dad. Haven’t you heard?”
She turned to the man who had come up behind them. Forty-something, she guessed. Trim and fit-almost too trim. She would bet he was a runner. He had that look about him, tightly coiled, the kind of guy who pounded the miles as a release.
“My son, Clark.”
He held out his hand. “Alex. Good to see you again.”
“You, too.” She took his hand. “Though I wish I could say I remember you.”
“I heard about that. Think being here might jog your memory?”
“I can hope, though it hasn’t yet.”
They chatted awhile; others came and went. Her glass was refilled-several times. Suddenly, she needed fresh air. While Reed took a call, she headed out onto the patio.
She breathed deeply though her nose, the cold air clearing her head. The sky was brilliantly black, dusted with stars. Laughter floated on the night air. At the back of the property, the lit entrance to the wine cave created a welcoming window in the darkness.
And it beckoned. Why not? she thought. The caves were open for tours tonight, and truthfully the idea of them fascinated her. If she had explored them as a child, like everything else, she didn’t remember.
She stepped off the patio and onto the gravel path that led to the cave. Considering the wine she’d consumed and the impracticality of her strappy sandals, she probably shouldn’t be doing this alone, she thought. Of course, she’d never let pragmatism stop her before.
The walkway wound through the gardens. She glanced back at the house, at the dark path behind her. Beyond it, a circle of light spilled from the house into the gardens. Music mingled with the laughter on the night air, though the nearer she drew to the cave, the more muted the sound.
The area directly inside the cave served as a sort of welcome center. A table had been set up, complete with some brochures on tonight’s Bear Creek Zin as well as the Reeds’ other wines and the winery’s history. On the table, also, stood an open bottle of wine and a display of glasses. Above the table hung a magnificent candelabra constructed out of a wine barrel.
If someone had been manning the table, they were gone now. Perhaps giving a tour, she thought. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she waited for their return, using the time to take in the cave’s interior. The walls were relatively smooth, the corridors narrow. Although a good thirteen feet high, the ceilings’ barrel shapes made them seem considerably more closed in.