Everything was delicious. I took one last bite of French toast then took my plate to the kitchen. I was expecting there to be a complete mess but it looked like no one had even toasted a slice of bread let alone made an entire feast. I was about to ask where all the food had come from when I saw the clock on the microwave and realized I was already running late. I poured some coffee into a thermos and headed out the door with a quick “thank you” tossed in Robert’s direction.
I made it to my studio in no time, staying off the busy streets and parking my car with several minutes recovered from my late start. I unlocked the front door and headed straight for the back room. The message light blinked on Jessie's phone but I didn't have time to check it. If it was important, Jessie would give me a call when she got in. I quickly unlocked the back door leading to all my equipment and flipped on the lights.
Walking over to the storage cabinet I pulled out my large camera bag. I hadn’t looked at the bag since stuffing it in here after the wedding. The black canvas felt cool against my fingers, like it contained a piece of that night. I could almost smell the cold, sticky air wafting off of it as I pulled the zipper open. Taking a deep breath I shook off the chills the memory created and brought myself back to the present. Quickly I stuffed a few extra memory cards, two backup batteries, a light meter, two different flashes and my camera into the open pouch. I closed the cabinet and relocked it, throwing the bag over my shoulder and heading for the dark room.
I swung the door open and flipped on the red lights. I never kept regular lighting in there for fear that someone might flip the wrong switch and ruin any photos I might be working on. I kept a medium-sized stepladder and my light diffusers in here, both of which I needed for the day’s shoot. Juggling everything out into the main office, I picked my laptop off my desk, shut the lights off, locked the front door and placed everything on the sidewalk next to my car. Out of habit I went to unlock the trunk but stopped just before I put the key in the lock. It was like being hit with a bolt of electricity and the memory of my attack flashed before my eyes.
“Hey, watch where you're going!” a man crossing the street yelled and a horn blared. I looked toward the noise and for a brief moment I thought the man behind the wheel was Ian. Doing a double take as the car passed I tried to get a good look at the drivers face, but was unable to confirm my suspicion.
I turned away from the trunk and unlocked the car with the keyless entry. The small tremor of panic subsided back into the dark recesses of my mind as I piled everything into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. Now that I was on my way, I could relax a little.
I turned onto the 101 south, selected the Beatles playlist on my phone and settled in for the hour and a half drive down to Caltome Vineyards.
Now that I was free of Robert, I could think about everything he’d said a little more objectively. I’d never been someone who believed in psychics or anything having to do with the spiritual world. Although, the one thing I had to believe was that Robert was something different, something Magical maybe. I’d spent the last few weeks trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for how he saved my life, but the more I thought about it the more I couldn’t deny that reason and logic had nothing to do with how Robert healed me.
So what did that leave me with? I still wasn’t sure, but what I did know for sure was that I trusted Robert with my life. And if I could trust him to never let anything happen to me, then maybe I could trust that he was telling the truth. The problem with that was even if I trusted him to tell me the truth, it didn’t mean I could believe the truth. And what was I supposed to do anyway? Step up and be The Waker? Or walk the other way and write this whole thing off as a bad dream? I let out a heavy sigh and leaned my head against the headrest. So much for having a boring, normal life.
Thinking about my predicament made the drive to Caltome Vineyards go by fairly quickly. I pulled off the freeway in just under an hour and fifteen minutes and parked in a dirt lot in front of the building marked ‘Guest Relations.’ As I got out of my car, the sweet fragrance of grapes and fresh dirt hit me like a ton of bricks.
I walked into the antique-looking building and into an elaborately elegant reception area. A large front counter made of aged wood accentuated the romantic charm and feel as you walked in. The winery’s name was burned into the wall behind the large counter. The cursive letters flowed into each other like smooth and flawless grapevines. To my left and around a slight corner, enormous bookshelves along the walls displayed hundreds of bottles of wine. Opposite the bookshelves was another counter that matched the one just ahead of me. This counter had tall barstools neatly tucked underneath the wood with more wine glasses than I could count hanging from the ceiling. Several displays had been set up to showcase particular bottles and a few crates were still strewn about the room waiting to be emptied. I approached the counter and pulled on the string attached to a small brass bell.
A tall, red-headed woman appeared from behind a false wine case. “Can I help you with something?” Her voice was warm and the laugh lines around her smile were welcoming.
“Yeah, my name’s Violet. Scott hired me to photograph the winery,” I answered, taking in the woman behind the door. The flannel she wore was a faded blue and cream, a glaring contrast to her wild, fiery red hair.
“Oh yes, yes that’s right.” She shook her head. “He told me you were coming by today. Come on back.” She motioned with her arm for me to follow her and disappeared behind the case.
She was pretty, though not traditionally so. Her eyes were like bright blue crystals and the faintest evidence of shadows around them indicated how little sleep she must be getting. She kept her curly, thick red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and a few hairs had managed to escape and fall around her face.
I made my way around the counter and as I came to the door she held out her hand and said, “I'm Meredith, Meredith Deardon, Scott’s wife.”
Why did her name sound so familiar? Deardon, Deardon, where had I heard that before?
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. She returned the handshake with a firm, callused grip. Apparently she didn’t just handle the winery’s paperwork.
The room behind the case was completely different and took me a moment to adjust to. It was a plain office with boxes stacked high against the walls. The florescent lights cast a comparatively rude glow after being in the soft, elegant light filling the room just outside. Everything was simple, plain, save for a glass door to my right with a beautiful view of the sweeping grape fields outside.
“Excuse the mess. We’re still trying to get everything together before our grand opening in two weeks and things are just everywhere right now,” Meredith apologized as she sat behind one of the two desks. “Scott had to run a few errands but I can tell you what we’re looking for. Our assistant, Matthew, can show you around and help you with anything you need.”
I sat in the folding chair across from her and she hit the speaker phone button and punched in a number. It rang twice and a young man’s voice came through the speaker. “What's up?” he asked.