Shirley, Goodness and Mercy

One




Greg Bennett had always hated Christmas.

He’d never believed in “goodwill toward men” and all that other sentimental garbage. Christmas in the city—any city—was the epitome of commercialism, and San Francisco was no exception. Here it was, barely December, and department-store windows had been filled with automated elves and tinsel-hung Christmas trees since before Thanksgiving!

Most annoying, in Greg’s opinion, was the hustle and bustle of holiday shoppers, all of whom seemed to be unnaturally cheerful. That only made his own mood worse.

He wouldn’t be in the city at all if he wasn’t desperately in need of a bank loan. Without it, he’d be forced to lay off what remained of his crew by the end of the year. He’d have to close the winery’s doors. His vines—and literally decades of work—had been wiped out by fan leaf disease, devastating the future of his vineyard and crippling him financially.

He’d spent the morning visiting one financial institution after another. Like a number of other growers, he’d applied at the small-town banks in the Napa Valley and been unsuccessful. His wasn’t the only vineyard destroyed by the disease—although, for reasons no one really understood, certain vineyards had been spared the blight. For a while there’d been talk of low-interest loans from the federal government, but they hadn’t materialized. Apparently the ruin hadn’t been thorough enough to warrant financial assistance. For Greg that news definitely fell into the category of cold comfort.

It left him in a dilemma. No loan—no replanted vines. Without the vines there would be no grapes, without the grapes, no wine, and without the winery, no Gregory Bennett.

What he needed after a morning such as this, he decided, was a good stiff drink and the company of a charming female companion, someone who could help him forget his current troubles. He walked into the St. Francis, the elegant San Francisco hotel, and found himself facing a twenty-foot Christmas tree decorated with huge gold balls and plush red velvet bows. Disgusted, he looked away and hurried toward the bar.

The bartender seemed to sense his urgency. “What can I get you?” he asked promptly. He wore a name tag that identified him as Don.

Greg sat down on a stool. “Get me a martini,” he said. If it hadn’t been so early in the day, he would have asked for a double, but it was barely noon and he still had to drive home. He didn’t feel any compelling reason to return. The house, along with everything else in his life, was empty. Oh, the furniture was all there—Tess hadn’t taken that—but he was alone, more alone than he could ever remember being.

Tess, his third and greediest wife, had left him six months earlier. The attorneys were fighting out the details of their divorce, and at three hundred dollars an hour, neither lawyer had much incentive to rush into court.

Nevertheless, Tess was gone. He silently toasted eliminating her from his life and vowed not to make the mistake of marrying again. Three wives was surely sufficient evidence that he wasn’t the stay-married kind.

Yet he missed Tess, he mused with some regret—and surprise. Well, maybe not Tess exactly, but a warm body in his bed. By his side. Even at the time, he’d known it was foolish to marry her. He certainly should have known, after the messy end of his second marriage. His first had lasted ten years, and he’d split with Jacquie over… Hell if he could remember. Something stupid. It’d always been something stupid.

“You out shopping?” Don the bartender asked as he delivered a bowl of peanuts.

Greg snorted. “Not on your life.”

The younger man smiled knowingly. “Ah, you’re one of those.”

“You mean someone who’s got common sense. What is it with people and Christmas? Normal, sane human beings become sentimental idiots.” A year ago, when he and Tess had been married less than eighteen months, she’d made it clear she expected diamonds for Christmas. Lots of them. She’d wanted him to make her the envy of her friends. That was what he got for marrying a woman nineteen years his junior. A pretty blonde with a figure that could stop traffic. Next time around he’d simply move the woman into his house and send her packing when he grew bored with her. No more marriages—not for him. He didn’t need any more legal entanglements.

Just then a blond beauty entered the bar, and Greg did a double take. For half a heartbeat, he thought it was Tess. Thankfully he was wrong. Blond, beautiful and probably a bitch. The last part didn’t bother him, though—especially now, when he could use a little distraction. He’d be sixty-one his next birthday, but he was trim and fit, and still had all his hair—gone mostly gray, what people called “distinguished.” In fact, he could easily pass for ten years younger. His good looks had taken him a long way in this world, and he’d worked hard to maintain a youthful appearance.