Ana Palmer slammed on the brakes. She felt them fighting back - the anti-lock feature - and prayed the car wouldn't lurch forward. Mere inches from her bumper, a golf cart cruised across the parking lot. The driver yelled back to someone - she thought he said "tell my son to wake his lazy ass up!" - and drove on as if the near miss hadn't happened. It was 8:23 a.m. on a bright Thursday, and Ana was driving up the approach to the Creek Valley Winery. The winery wouldn't be open for hours, but Ana had not come here to taste or buy wine. Nor had she come planning to have near misses with golf carts.
She was shaking, and took several deep breaths, trying to relax. She reddened, certain her almost accident didn't go unnoticed. Her sporty yellow German made car drew attention under normal circumstances. She considered quietly driving away, but decided she would look even more suspicious if she fled. Besides, Uncle Chester was supposed to be here; if she left, she would be letting him down.
She took one more breath, put the car in gear, and drove slowly forward. She carefully parked at the far end of a row of other vehicles, mostly trucks, watching all directions for any sign of cross traffic. She looked around, and at the other end of the parking lot she saw a large high peaked wooden building. On the deck extending around the side of the building, a group of about half a dozen men stared her way. She instinctively glanced up at the rearview mirror to finalize her appearance. Her usual touch up - quick brush of her hair and final touches of powder and lipstick - was replaced by a careful check of the efficiency of the ponytail wrap. Ana's wavy reddish-blond hair tended to have a mind of its own, especially now that she preferred to wear it longer. She spotted a small blemish in the rear view mirror. Ana, when will you outgrow those, she thought. It's about time, at 32. She reassured herself, it doesn't matter - they don't care what I look like, as long as I can do the work! Satisfied, she opened the car door. Looking over toward the crowd, she tried to find a familiar face. They were no longer silently staring but were engaged in an animated conversation.
The group of men - clothed in flannel shirts or coats, blue jeans and work boots, were all older than Ana - most in their 60s. She looked down at her feet and was sorry now that she didn't buy work boots. But, shiny new work boots might be worse than the aged, paint-stained athletic shoes she was wearing. At least they were comfortable, and she didn't care if they got muddy.
Ana walked across the gravel parking lot with her hands in the pockets of her windbreaker. She had decided, after listening to the forecast, to wear jeans and a tee shirt, adding the windbreaker for the morning chill. She regretted not bringing a warmer coat - the winery was some miles from the city and the air was colder as well as cleaner. Gloves might have been nice, too, she thought. Her hands turned cold as soon as she left the warmth of the car. She drew nearer to the group, and was relieved to pick out the familiar shape of Uncle Chester.
Chester VanMeter wasn't really her uncle though he had been around her family for as long as she could remember. Although he was once married - his wife died 20 years ago of cancer - Ana thought of him as a perpetual bachelor. Chester was large, but not fat. He had a round, open face. His hair was silvery grey and thinning, although he was far from bald. Ana didn't actually know how old Chester was, she guessed that he was somewhere in his late sixties. He and her father had been business associates for years prior to their retirement and remained friends afterward. He often spent time with her parents at their house on the lake. Last weekend, he had suggested that Ana meet him at Creek Valley on Thursday to pick grapes.
Uncle Chester made wines, and almost always brought bottles for the Palmers to try. When Ana was younger, Chester's wines were light and sweet, almost like soda. Within the last few years, Chester's wines had changed in style - they now reminded her of 'real' wines she ordered in restaurants or bought in wine shops. Chester brought an exceptional bottle of red wine last weekend, and when Ana asked him for details, he told her, to her surprise that the grapes were local - from the Creek Valley Winery, located about an hour south from Ana's home on the outskirts of the capital. Ana knew the area - it was just a couple of miles from South Central State, a small public university. Ana had visited the campus - it was located in a rural, though quaint community known as Creekboro - but she had never been to the winery. Uncle Chester explained that Creek Valley contacted the Amateur Winemakers' Club he belonged to and made a deal - if the winemakers would help with picking, they would receive grapes to make at least five gallons of wine apiece for each picking day. Chester's incentive for inviting Ana was to double his take, since she wasn't interested in winemaking herself.
Ana walked up the steps in the front of the building. She paused and looked at the heavy wooden double doors. Next to these was a sign showing 'Closed' and listing hours. This must be the main entrance, she thought. She walked around the corner on the deck to where the group of men stood.
"Ana," Chester said as he saw her, "you made it!" He opened his arms to pull her next to his ample frame. As he drew her close, "Guys, this is little Ana, who I've been telling you about." He always called her 'little Ana.'
She looked around and nodded at the group of older men.
"I won't bother to tell you everybody's name yet," said Uncle Chester, " because you'd just forget them. They'll remember you, and you'll get a chance to meet the guys one at a time. This" he pointed around "is pretty much the regular crowd."
Ignoring Uncle Chester's remark, a flurry of quick handshakes and introductions followed. 'Ross' and 'Howard' were names she could catch, but she wasn't certain which was who. Adding to the confusion, there were two Marks.
Suddenly, there was a loud noise. Ana decided it came from around the corner, and guessed it was the sound of the big doors closing. Sure enough, within seconds, a man came around the corner of the deck, an air of impatience about him. He was younger and taller than the others, in his mid to late 30s, clothed in a sleeveless tee shirt despite the morning chill. He was easily over six feet and his hair was on the long side - at least compared to the corporate types that Ana was used to. He had a mustache and a light outline of beard - as if he simply didn't bothered to shave for a few days. His work pants and high rubber boots showed stains of mud and grass.
He stopped and looked around, at the group. Ana was immediately struck by the intensity the man projected. She wondered if this was the man Uncle Chester cautioned her about. If so, he was nothing like he imagined. The tan, well-defined arms and sun streaks in his hair verified that he spent much time working outside, yet there was something in the way he carried himself that suggested that there was a far more complex character inside the laborer's body. Ana could see how this man was irresistible to many women, though he wasn't what she considered her type. Nonetheless, something about him attracted her. She couldn't take her eyes off him.
He stopped a few feet from the group and spoke.
"OK, who tried to kill the old man?"
Ana's private thoughts faded away as she felt a sudden sick sensation in her stomach. Of course, the golf cart! She started to say something, but Uncle Chester interrupted.
"You know damn well he doesn't look where he's going! Since he got that ridiculous thing, he's completely out of control!"
The younger man narrowed his eyes and Ana thought he was going to confront Uncle Chester. But his manner relaxed, and he laughed, a rich and honest laugh.
