Season of Change(121)

                “The big corporations are going to swoop in and you’ll be obsolete. Alexanders don’t make box wine.” It was her father’s familiar argument, delivered like a fire-and-brimstone sermon with a finger pointed to heaven, as if predicting a lightning strike if she didn’t conform to his wishes. “The new owners will look at your salary and pink-slip you. I’m warning you now—”

                “And I appreciate it.” She cut him off, struggling to be gentle, but firm. “I couldn’t have advanced my career this far without your advice and guidance.”

                That mollified him. He nodded his agreement.

                “But it’s time I made my own decisions and took responsibility for my own career risks.”

                His nod did a 90-degree flip to a headshake. “You don’t understand what’s looming over you.”

                “I do, Dad.” And she told him, using her controlled, indoor voice. The one she used with investors and tour groups. The one a college professor had once told her made her more credible than her smile.

                She told him how the partnership had convinced her they weren’t going to sell. She told him how they had an aggressive five-year growth plan that would create a challenge unlike any she’d taken on before. She told him how no expense was being spared, even an unplanned makeshift wine cave.

                She didn’t tell him she’d fallen in love with her boss or that Slade had a less-than-pristine history. She’d let Nana torture him with that news.

                “But, honey, are you sure?” Her father scratched the back of his neck. “You could be stuck here without a place to jump to if you don’t make a move now.”

                Her leg had long since stopped shaking. Instead of falling into a shouting match with her dad, they’d had a very mature discussion. It would go down in Alexander history as a day to remember. “They’re not lying to me. They’re not selling.”

                He rubbed a hand over his sun-streaked hair, his eyes clouded with worry. “How do you know, honey? How do you know?”

                Christine took a deep breath, knowing her smile wasn’t confident enough to convince her father. “Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.”

                * * *

                SLADE PULLED INTO his driveway and asked Takata, “Do you need me to come inside and make you some lunch?”

                “Don’t baby me,” Takata grumbled. “I’m a grown man. I’ll make my own lunch.”

                “You have leftover tuna casserole, don’t you?”

                “Dang straight. Thanks for the ride.”

                Slade walked Takata to his back door, promising to check up on him later, which got him another groused protest.

                Emotionally drained from his cemetery visit, Slade went into the house and sat in his father’s chair. It really wasn’t the right chair for someone his size. He wasn’t that much taller than his dad.

                Slade carried the chair out to the curb. If this was New York, that chair would be missing by morning, claimed by someone who’d appreciate it. As it was, Slade suspected the chair would be there a long time.

                The house was strangely silent. Slade washed out his travel mug, put away dishes, opened the refrigerator door, and looked at all the food he’d stocked up for the girls. There were Grace’s yogurts. There were Faith’s blueberries.