Dead Letters(24)

“No, Dad. ’S me. Ava.” He slumps in relief, a slightly silly expression on his face. It is unbecomingly lined from the pillow.

“?’Course. You, uh, startled me.” He straightens up on the couch.

“I’m going out for a bit longer. But you shouldn’t have to worry about Mom. She’s sleeping, and I locked the door behind her. I’ll be back in time for dinner,” I reassure him. He nods blankly. I feel sorry for the man. In pity, I almost unlock the liquor cabinet. But then I decide that I really can’t afford for him to get into the bourbon; I can look after only one parent at a time.

I clamber into the truck and drive up the lake toward Bartoletti Vineyard, humming softly to myself. An old Russian lullaby our father used to sing.

The Bartolettis have a sprawling, successful operation. Much more so than ours on both counts. Their grapes win awards; people drive across the whole Finger Lakes region to taste their wines. They make a particularly good Riesling, one with a flavor profile I have always coveted and was never able to approximate. They have a slick tasting room with huge antique beams, expensive-looking lighting, an entire wall of temperature-controlled wine storage behind clean glass doors. “Emerging artists” vie for space on the wall to display their uninteresting acrylics. Tourists flock. Affluent locals buy the Bartolettis’ sparkling wine for their children’s weddings.

As a young, enthusiastic vintner, my father had endeared himself to the Bartoletti patriarch, charmed the matriarch, and gotten himself invited over for bacchanalian feasts where he soaked up as much booze, information, and cannoli as he could from Seneca Lake’s wine tycoons. Mr. Bartoletti had always kind of scared the shit out of me. He was a tall, swarthy Italian, now probably in his seventies but still imposing. When we were younger, Zelda convinced me that Mr. Bartoletti was part of the Mafia, that he ruled the underworld of Watkins Glen with an iron fist. This hadn’t seemed at all fanciful at the time.

I pull into the drive and park by the tasting room. The vineyard is busy, it seems; the parking lot is mostly full. I bypass the tasting room and head straight for Mr. Bartoletti’s office, in front of which is the sign in Zelda’s photo. I’m sure that he’s in his office, working. My father had desperately wanted there to be some secret to running a wildly successful vineyard, some occult practice that would guarantee a brilliant harvest, like plucking grapes under the full moon or debauching virgins in the fecund fields. But Mr. Bartoletti’s secret was much less glamorous. The man worked with a maniacal, dedicated fervor.

I knock on his office door and hear only a grunt. Interpreting that as an invitation to enter, I poke my head into the office. Bartoletti doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, his face turns scarlet.

“Zelda Antipova. You have some gall to show up in this office,” he says, visibly seething. “I knew you probably weren’t dead. Seemed a tad convenient, given your predicament.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bartoletti, it’s, um, Ava. Antipova. Zelda’s twin.” Bartoletti’s scowl barely falters.

“Oh. It seemed unlikely your goddamn sister would show her face in here. So, is she dead after all?”

“Looks that way,” I say, annoyed. He grunts and makes a show of going back to his paperwork.

“We’ll see if it sticks,” he grumbles.

“We’re hoping for the best,” I say ambiguously. He almost smiles but settles for a harrumph. “Can I ask, though, what did you mean, her ‘predicament’?”

He looks up at me, assessing. “She managed to keep it a secret?”

“I’ve been away, overseas. I’ve just come home to tie up loose ends, and I found a mention of you in some office paperwork—”

“Just a mention?” he spits. “Your goddamn sister owes me a hundred thousand dollars. Or a tractor. An expensive one.”

My eyes widen. “What do you mean? She…borrowed it from you?”

“She came here desperate last season. A bunch of equipment had crapped out on her, and she was struggling to keep Silenus afloat. I know she got a raw deal, with both your parents out of the picture. How is your father, by the way?” He forces a deeply unpleasant smile.

“Fine,” I lie.

“I should have known, after he left the way he did, that your whole family couldn’t be trusted. Hucksters. But Zelda just seemed so upset and…well, sincere, damnit. I went against my judgment and sold her the tractor. To be neighborly. She had only ten grand to give me, on a tractor worth over a hundred.” He snorts and shakes his head, clearly disbelieving how easily he had been had. “We worked out a payment plan that we both thought was reasonable. But the first payment was due months ago, and you can guess how much I’ve received.” He leans back in his chair, eyeing me. I focus on not squirming. “You really do look a lot like her.”

“Funny thing about identical twins.”

He smiles joylessly. “Any chance you’re here to settle her debts?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll go home and look at the books. Like I said, I just got here. And my mother isn’t exactly on top of things over at Silenus,” I add, hoping to appeal to any shred of compassion he has left. “Looks like you guys are doing well over here.”

“Hard work and solid accounting. Not too difficult. Something your father never quite believed,” he says.