“It is. You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The woman patted her arm. “That’s the spirit. Just stick with me. I was a nurse, back in the day.”
They caught up with the group. The tour guide was describing the original process of cave formation. “Chinese laborers were used to dig these caves out of the side of the mountain. You’ll be surprised by the…”
Alex worked to focus on the guide’s words, to slow her heart and breathe evenly and deeply.
“… use only French oak barrels. The barrels cost anywhere from five hundred to two thousand dollars each.”
The group chattered excitedly. Her Florence Nightingale had wandered back to her husband. Blindly, Alex followed the guide, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
She began to sweat. The clammy sweat of panic. Her heart beat so high and fast it felt as if it had climbed up into her throat.
Why was this happening to her?
Get out, find the exit.
“… high humidity reduces the amount of evaporation from the barrels. Now stay with me,” the guide called, “it’s easy to get disoriented in here.”
Dylan. As her brother’s name popped into her head, so did his image. A beautiful dark-haired baby. Cooing up at her. Smiling.
Then screaming.
Alex stopped. She brought a hand to her mouth. The smell of incense filled her head.
She looked wildly around her. The group had rounded the bend and disappeared from sight. Alex took a step backward. Then another. And another.
Not backward, she realized. Sideways. She was pressed against the cave wall, surrounded by the stacked oak barrels. The fingers of lichen brushed against her face and scalp and she pushed at them, a cry rising in her throat.
The smell of incense grew stronger. It burned her nose. She opened her mouth to call out to the group, to call for help. Her head filled instead with a wild thrumming.
She flattened herself against the wall, even as she was dragged into a long, musty tunnel. Her vision narrowed until it consisted of a small, round opening at the end.
The light flickered crazily. Not lights, she realized. Flames dancing around her. Crackling, their bright, hot tentacles reaching out to her. Surrounding her. The howls of creatures, writhing within the fire. Being consumed by it.
One of the creatures grabbed her arm, its bony fingers like claws digging into her skin.
“Miss? Are you all right? Miss?”
A security guard. She blinked, coming fully back into reality. He had a round, pleasant face. He was looking at her with a combination of concern and suspicion. As if she had sprouted horns.
In a way she had.
“Get me out of here,” she managed. “Please.”
Hand on her elbow to guide her, he led her out of the cave. She stepped into the fading sunlight and greedily sucked in the fresh air, as if she had been deprived, suffocating.
What the hell was happening to her?
“I need to sit down.”
He led her to a bench not far from the cave entrance. She sat and lowered her head to her knees, breathing deeply, fear fading and her resolve returning.
She straightened. “How did you find me?”
“Ma’am?”
“Did I scream?”
He looked at her oddly. “No, ma’am.”
“I have claustrophobia,” she lied. “It’s something I’m working on.”
“Can I see you to your vehicle? Get you a glass of water or-”
“No. The tasting room, which way is it?”
By his expression she could tell that in his opinion, wine was the last thing she needed. What he didn’t know was, wine was the last thing on her mind. She meant to get a look at her mother’s painting.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Friday, March 12
5:10 P.M.
Alex arrived in the tasting room at the same time as her group. They rushed the bar en masse, ready to enjoy their prepaid samples.
Alex hung back, gaze going to the large painting behind the bar. Her mother’s work, she would have recognized it anywhere. The swirling use of paint, the lively, rich color.
Only this piece possessed a quality the later ones had lacked: a joie de vivre, a hopefulness. Looking at it made her ache.
“See,” the kindly nurse said, coming up beside her, “you did it.”
Alex didn’t bother correcting her. “How about that?” she said.
The woman followed her gaze. “It’s fetching,” she said. “I wonder who the artist is?”
“Patsy Sommer.”
“A family member?”
“Yes. She was married to Harlan Sommer. His second wife and mother of the child who-”
“Alexandra? This is a surprise.”
Alex turned. Clark Sommer stood behind her, smiling warmly.
She thought of the story Reed had told her, the things his father had said: “Your mother didn’t just fuck our sons. She fucked them up.”
A whisper of unease moved over her. “Hello, Clark. Just playing tourist.”
“Excellent. “He turned to the nurse and smiled. “Clark Sommer. Are you enjoying your visit?”
She gushed that she was. He handed her a business card. “Give this to Cathy at the bar, tell her I said you and your companion should have a taste of our Stone Hill Reserve Cabernet. On me, of course.”
“That was nice of you,” Alex said after her new friend had hurried off.
“Good P.R. and it costs me nothing. There’s an open bottle of it behind the bar and we’re closing in thirty minutes.”
“Okay,” she said, softening her words with a smile, “not nice. Calculating.”
“Could I have a moment? In private?”
“Sure.”
Clark took her arm and steered her out of the tasting room and across the walkway to the museum. Tours had ended and it was deserted.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“The question I was about to ask you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I walked up, what were you telling that woman?”
Alex frowned, working to recall. “I was admiring my mother’s painting; she asked who painted it.”
“So you were telling her.”
“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Let’s make something perfectly clear, your mother is no longer part of this family’s history.”
“You can’t rewrite history, though”-she motioned around them-“I see you’ve tried. There’s not one picture of her or Dylan.”
“Do you blame us? Do you think we want to remember either of them? Or you, for that matter?”
Alex counted to ten before she spoke. Lashing out at him-in anger or hurt-would prove nothing. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”
She started past him; he caught her arm, stopping her. He leaned closer; she smelled wine on his breath and realized he had been drinking.
“Take your hand off me.”
“Your mother,” he said softly, trailing a finger across her cheek, “was a beautiful woman.”
Alex jerked away. “I asked you not to-”
“Exciting. Full of life. You’re just like her, aren’t you?”
She made a move to leave, he grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall. Fear turned the inside of her mouth to ash. She worked to keep him from seeing it.
“Aren’t you just like her?”
Alex wedged her hands between them. “Dammit, Clark! Don’t do something you’ll regret. Let me go!”
“Don’t talk to me about regret.” His mouth tightened. “You think I don’t know how that feels? Or what it’s like to wonder… every day-”
He weaved slightly, as if suddenly off balance. “Mike Acosta killed himself. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know who Mike is.”
“Spanky, we called him. He hung himself.”
Like Max. She searched her memory for a Mike and came up empty.
“Couldn’t take it.” His words slurred slightly. “Terry’s dead, too. How does that feel?”
“I don’t know either of those men. Now, I suggest you-”