LITMIR.BIZ

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and forefinger to the ticking bomb behind her eyebrows. “Please. Tell me you’re not the manager.”

      He smiled, revealing a missing incisor and delivering another lethal dose of boozy halitosis. “I am.” He stuck out a hand. Then, realizing it held a wrench, he dropped the tool, and winced when it clanged on the cement. “I’m Cyrus Delaney. Proud to meetcha.” He held out his square, dirty hand again.

      She shook only the ends of his fingers. The pretty dreams she’d imagined on the drive here detonated, gone in an instant. “Why isn’t the tasting room open?”

      “The bitches up and quit, that’s why.”

      When he turned to get to his knees, she didn’t slam her eyes closed fast enough. A close-up of his butt crack seared into her brain.

      “How long ago?” She moaned.

      “Oh, I think it was...uhnn.” He gained his feet. “Around about a couple weeks ago, reckon.”

      Questions hit her brain with the heavy thud of bullets hitting raw meat. Then the hollow-pointed one hit. “Why isn’t it cold in here?”

      She didn’t know much about making wine, but Uncle Bob always kept this room at a steady sixty degrees. Fermentation might be a natural event, but uncontrolled, it resulted in vinegar, not wine.

      He looked around. “Yeah, why in’t it? That’s a good question.” He tottered away, swaying right and left, as if his knees didn’t bend.

      God help me. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and hit speed dial. Then, catching herself, she pushed End.

      There was no cell tower where Harry was.

      What now? Dread zinged along nerves made brittle by the adrenaline dump.

       Who am I to decide?

      Oh, sure, she’d made lots of decisions as a married woman in regards to running the household, party planning—the mundane white noise of everyday life. But Harry, or his staff, had taught her all that. And though he was gone now the thought of him, no more than a phone call away if she needed help, still resided in the back of her mind. His presence had always been a comfort. And a safety rope.

      She swallowed a burr-edged nugget of fear. This fiasco was hers to fix. There was no one else. The winery had been Uncle Bob’s baby. Harry’s haven. Failure meant she’d always carry the guilt and shame of losing that. It would be like losing them all over again.

      She looked up at the metal roof. “Harry, you know I suck at this.”

      The only original idea she’d ever had was moving to Hollywood. And if Harry hadn’t stooped to lift her up, dust her off and take her in, no telling where she’d be now. Giving BJs to up-and-coming stars? Worse?

      A shudder rattled through her so hard her bones shook. She took a breath, then headed in the direction she’d seen her “manager” take.

      She found him fiddling with the thermostat on the wall beside the tasting-room door.

      “It’s not coming on.” He frowned at the dial as if maybe he’d merely forgotten how it worked.

      Thank God she’d gotten the business checkbook from the accountant before she left LA. “Who do you call when this happens?”

      “Never happened before.” He smacked his lips. “I’ll be right back. I need...” He pulled the metal door open, and dim lights came on in the barrel room—a glass-walled display room of oaken barrels of product. He went deeper, into the darkened tasting room, turned the corner and disappeared.

      Indigo followed. She could see the sun through the windows out front, but the shaded porch left the tasting room in shadows. What wasn’t hard to see was the gray-on-black form lifting a bottle to his lips. Anger fired in her chest and shot through her so fast that white sparks drifted across her vision. She put her hands on her hips. “We have an emergency here. The entire year’s stock could be destroyed, and you’re drinking? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

      The shadow lowered his arm. “Well, I was just gettin’ some fortification, then I was going to—”

      “You’re fired.” She might not have the experience to make good decisions, but at least they wouldn’t be clouded by alcohol. She’d seen enough red-veined noses and yellowed eyes to recognize chronic alcoholism when she saw it. “Get your stuff and clear off.” She strode past what she knew to be the long burled-wood bar, with racks of wine behind, to the counter with a cash register next to the door.

      “You can’t do that, missy. I been here for a long time.” She heard the slosh of a bottle being lifted.

      “Bullshit. I just did.” Where was the phone book? She dug around under the counter. At least the light was better up here. Her intestines gurgled a warning, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. “Get your stuff and get off this property. Aha.” She pulled out the thin Widow’s Grove phone book. “On second thought, wait right there for a minute. I’m following you out. I want to be sure some of the product is left when you’re gone.”

      Once she’d looked up an air-conditioning company, called and extracted a promise that someone would be out right away, she walked to where Delaney stood, grumbling under his breath. “Let’s go.” She led the way into the warehouse and to the back door.

      Barney stood when they walked up.

      “What kinda dog is that?” Delaney slurred.

      Barney sniffed the man’s pants leg then, lip curling, backed up.

      “One with good taste.” She held the door and her breath when Delaney brushed by her.

      “You won’t get away with this, lady. I’m going to the EDD.”

      “You do that. Please. And I’m only guessing here, but I’ll bet when I contact the tasting room staff, they’ll have plenty they’ll want to say to the labor board themselves.” When Barney scooted out behind her, she let the door fall closed.

      Delaney walked to the loading zone and turned to go up the hill.

      “Hey, where are you going?” She and Barney jogged to catch up.

      “To get my stuff. I moved into the cabin.” He huffed, trudging up the hill.

      “Bob’s place?” Outrage fisted her hands as she imagined the cozy little log cabin defiled by this drunken slob. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”

      “It was sitting empty.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And the bed down there was lumpy.” The cabin came into view as they crested the hill. The grapevines marched right up to the edge of the dusty yard, and the setting sun washed the old log walls golden.

      She half expected to see Bob and Harry sitting in the wooden chairs, feet up on the railing, sipping merlot.

      But they weren’t. Indigo’s chest squeezed her heart in a painful spasm of nostalgia.

      Delaney went on grumbling about the slights he’d borne in his life as they stepped inside.

      “Oh, no.” The air went out of her in a whoosh. The bear-tapestry-upholstered couch was sagging and stained. The Navajo rug was pocked with cinder-blackened holes, some possibly as recent as the foot-high ashes that spilled out of the huge fireplace.

      Bottles, cups and filthy dishes occupied the low coffee table and graced every flat surface. The air was close and stale, smelling of garbage. Barney snapped at a buzzing fly.

      All the pain she’d held inside since Harry’s death gathered, filling every space in her body, pushing, pushing. Every slight, every abuse, every loss started to boil. Her skin tightened in an attempt to contain it, but the pressure built in her soft parts—in her gut, behind her eyes.

      She clapped her hands over her ears as the pressure exploded from her in a howl of pain. “Getout-getout-getout. Get out before I kill you!”

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