“I am, Faith. I’m calculated. I’m cold with everyone but you, and yet I say that after the way I just treated you. I’m a bastard made by a bastard, and he was a damn good attorney. I drive myself to be better than he was. And I am.”
“Your version of being a bastard is a man who demanded to know everything from me. Not a man who assumed he did. Once I came to the realization that I’d pushed your buttons, I realized that too, even if you did not.”
“I pushed you.”
“I pushed you, too. And for the record. It’s pretty impressive that your version of ‘fucked up’ is to be amazing at your job.”
“I’ve seen your art, Faith. Your version of fucked up makes you amazing at your job, too, and obviously, from your recent success, I’m not the only one who shares that opinion. But there’s a difference between the two of us. I know I’m amazing at my job. You don’t.”
“I’m working on that,” she says. “You’ve helped. Last night helped. But right now, in this moment, I’m consumed with the same demon I’ve been consumed with since my mother died. I go back and forth between anger and gut-wrenching guilt. But never grief, and that starts the guilt all over again.”
I hand her another glass of whiskey. “I shouldn’t drink this,” she says.
“Why not? Are you driving?”
“Right,” she says. “Why? I’ll just go slower.”
“And as for your current demon,” I say when she sips from the glass, “I predict that once we get the chaos your mother created under control, you’ll find the grief. Or not. Maybe you’ll find out things about her that make that grief impossible.”
“Is that what happened with your father?”
“Yes,” I say. “It is, but I feel like I should remind you of what I just said. I came to terms with what I felt for my father many years before he died. And he wasn’t in my life, therefore there wasn’t anything to change those terms.”
“And you really feel no grief?”
“I really feel no grief,” I say without hesitation. “But you asked me if I feel alone now.”
“You said that you don’t.”
“And I don’t,” I confirm, and when I would offer nothing more to anyone else, I do with Faith. “But, on some level, I have moments where I’m aware that I have no blood ties left in this world, and that stirs an empty sensation inside me. Maybe that is feeling alone. I just don’t name it that.”
“You have no family at all?”
“My mother’s family has been gone for many years. My uncle on my father’s side died a few years back, but I hadn’t seen the man in a decade and as far as I know, neither had my father.”
“We live odd parallels,” she says. “My father and my uncle hadn’t spoken for about that long when my father died either.” She sinks back against the cushion. “And I’m feeling all the alcohol now.” She shifts to her side to face me. “I’m not drunk,” she adds. “Just kind of numb again, which is a good thing. It’s better than guilt.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Is this a sobriety test?”
“If it is, will you pass?”
“Yes,” she says. “I told you. I’m numb, not drunk. And I have fifty employees, at least part of the year.”
“And your mother’s mishandling put all of those jobs on the line. You had to protect the winery.”
“I know. Especially Kasey’s job, and another ten or so key people who have been with the winery for their entire careers.”
“And yet you still feel guilt for fighting for them?”
“I feel guilt for not finding a way to fight for my mother and them.”
“Your mother didn’t want help.”
“But she needed it,” she argues. “She was clearly an addict, both with alcohol and sex.”
“You said you hired an attorney?”
“Yes. An expensive one, too. That’s what happened to part of my inheritance.”
“Who?”
“Cameron Lemon. Do you know him?”
“In passing and by reputation. He’s good. What happened with him?”
“One of my mother’s many male friends was an attorney too, and he knew just how to nickel and dime me to death with Cameron. I ran out of money and with the winery in debt, I couldn’t even promise him I’d pay him when we won ownership. I had to back off.”
“Who was your mother’s attorney?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer I am sure I will receive.
And as expected, she says, “Nathan Marks,” her lashes, thankfully, lowering with my father’s name on her lips. “Do you know him?” she asks, looking at me.
“Yes,” I say, telling her every truth I can at this point. “I do. And your mother chose her friends wisely. He would have been a formidable opponent.”
“She got naked with my uncle. She didn’t choose wisely. She just chose often.” She downs the drink. “I can’t believe this but the whiskey effect is wearing off. Maybe I wasn’t really feeling it after all.”
I fill her glass. “Try again.”
“What if it hits me all of a sudden, and I wipe out on you?”
“I promise you that we won’t fuck,” I say, placing her hand on the glass. “Because I want you to remember every time we fuck.”
Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. “You’re really quite memorable, Mr. Rogers.” She downs the drink. “I think my mother watched that program. I’m really glad that you don’t wear button up sweaters and sing like the real Mr. Rogers on the show.”
“Last I heard I was the real Mr. Rogers.”
“Right,” she whispers, giving a tiny laugh. “You are, but without a button up sweater. Or is it button down sweater?”
“I vow to never, ever wear a button up or button down sweater.”
“It might be cute on you.”
“I don’t want to be cute,” I assure her.
“What’s wrong with cute? Women like cute.”
“Only women who have been drinking really expensive, smooth whiskey or picking out a puppy.”
“Or cat. I prefer cats. I really need to get a cat.” Her hand goes to her face. “I was wrong. I’m feeling those drinks now and I just drank more.” She sets the empty glass on the cushion between us, as if she can’t quite sit up and get it to the table. “What have I done?”
I set the glass on the table, lower myself to the cushion beside her, and roll her to face me. “I’ll catch you if you fall, sweetheart.”
Her hand falls from her face. “Will you? Or will you fall with me?”
I stroke her cheek. “What does that mean, Faith?”
“It means that if we’re both fucked up, then sometimes, two fucked up people fuck each other up more.”
“We’re all fucked up, remember? Which means that sometimes, two fucked up people make each other whole again.”
“That’s like a fairytale ending. We don’t believe that.”
“Now we have each other, don’t we?”
“Do I have you, Nick?”
“Yes, Faith, you do.”
She reaches up and strokes my cheek this time. “Ah Nick. I have to paint you again. You know that, right?” Her lashes lower and her hand falls from my face. I catch it, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I count seconds. One. Five. Ten. She sighs and seems to fall asleep. I sit there, staring at her, searching every line of her face, and I swear she grows more beautiful by the second. Her full cheeks. Her fuller lips. The confession that says she wants to trust me, even if she doesn’t quite yet.