?No, no, no.? Mike pointed out the door. ?Out there. Far away. I don?t want to see it.?
Keone took it away.
Mike would have smashed the spider flat with a shovel except he?d been told they kept the scorpion population down. And while he despised the spiders, at least he?d never woken up in the morning to find one scuttling across his kitchen floor. He couldn?t say the same about the scorpions.
When Keone returned, Mike waved him over to one of the wine vats. ?Come on, might as well do this now.? He took a clean wineglass off the shelf, blew into it to clear any dust. He thumbed the tap, filled the glass halfway with red wine, and handed the glass to the kid.
Keone sniffed it. Then he took a swig, swirled it in his mouth. He frowned and swallowed. ?Yuck.?
?Hell.? Mike took out a notepad and pencil. ?What?s wrong with it??
?Acid.?
Mike wrote
?A lot.?
Shit. He wondered if it was too late to add oak chips to cover up.
He took the glass away from Keone. When the wine was closer to being ready, Mike would have to taste it himself. But really, he couldn?t tell the difference. The kid was a better judge.
?Tell you what,? Mike said. ?Clean out those carboys, and we?ll call it a day.?
?Right, boss.?
The phone rang.
It was only last year, after Mike began missing calls from distributors, that he?d strung a phone line down to the barn. He grabbed the phone on the fifth ring. ?Scorpion Hill Vineyard. What? No, I think you have the wrong number.? A long pause. ?Oh.? Another long silence. ?Yeah. It?s me. You caught me by surprise. It?s been so long I?? He glanced at Keone. The kid rinsed out a carboy, but Mike could tell he was listening with one ear. ?Listen, I need to call you back. Give me your number.? He scribbled it into his notebook. ?Wait for me.? He hung up.
He stood there a moment, staring at the phone.
Keone said, ?Boss, you okay??
?Huh??
?Bad news??
?No. Just?? Mike shook his head, plopped into the chair behind his desk. He stared blankly at the rough desktop. He looked up, saw that Keone was still watching him.
?Go home, kid.?
?I didn?t finish the carboys.?
?Forget it. Finish tomorrow.?
Keone watched Mike a few more moments before leaving.
Mike stood in the barn?s open doorway and surveyed his property. It suddenly seemed like a strange place, like it had nothing to do with who he was or where he?d come from. He took off his hat, wiped sweat off his forehead.
It was so goddamn hot.
4
Andrew Foley had worn a path. Pacing. From the phone to his kitchen window to his bedroom. He?d developed a nice routine. First he?d stare at the phone a few minutes, willing it to ring. Then he?d go
