Proof

"Faith is an island in the setting sun. Proof is the bottom line for everyone." Paul Simon, Proof.

**********

"They're about to surrender."

"I was just about to say that. About to, but not yet. It'll be another ten days or so. That's my estimate. I don't think we should try harvesting both at the same time. If we do, the Pedro Ximénez might fall off the vine."

"You're right. It'll certainly be different this year. Benito always thought it would. I wasn't sure I agreed with him before, but now I do. Ezequiel now thinks the same, too. It'll be the Pedro Ximénez first, and then the Palomino. The esparto is ready and waiting. While the Palomino surrenders, the other dries."

"You know, I've learned over the years to never disagree with Benito when it comes to the vines."

"I should have learned that lesson too. That man's accuracy is like sorcery. Our dear Benito. But you know how stubborn I am. I can't agree with anybody's opinion until I've consulted my own senses. I need proof."

As they had this conversation, the two women walked arm-in-arm between the vines. They were strikingly alike. Of similar height, with similar build and with the same dark coloring. The differences were that one's face had the fine wrinkles of experience. The black braid falling down her back was woven through with silver strands.

The other woman's braid had no silver. Her face was unlined, its elfin quality giving her the impression of being even younger than her 28 years. Like the older woman, she wore a sombrero. The sun was bright but the early-September midday heat of Jerez de la Frontera hadn't yet set in. It was early morning.

The women walked on. Over them, the winds blew; the westerly poniente wind that was a marker of a fine winegrowing district. Around them, the leaves of the vines were vibrant green. The vines were heavy with Palomino grapes. The crop was about to surrender—the leaves would darken further, the grapes would become deliciously sweet, and it would be the perfect moment for harvest.

At this vineyard, all the cutting was done by hand. The old-fashioned way. The way the old masters had done it before the twentieth century had come with its mechanization. Technology was good when it came to things like computers and birth control, but not altogether good when it came to winemaking. Here, they all knew that. Here, the vineyard would teem with hand harvesters, carriers, foremen, bodega staff and local drivers, working together to make the harvest as efficient as possible.

The grapes would be taken to the pressing machines in record time, and then the solera would begin. A fifteen-year process. The dry base would be made from the Palomino grapes, fermented by yeast that would die seven years later. A little Pedro Ximénez would be added and for another eight years, the wine would grow dark and complex as it oxidized.

Only then would the amber-colored medium-dry amontillado with its notes of almond, caramel, brine and oak, be bottled and the gold label of 'Casa Torrejón' placed on it. Then it would go out to the international market.

One vineyard, one winery. Casa Torrejón. A proud heritage dating from 1896.

And may it continue forever, the younger woman thought. Her eyes were on the vines. A smile was on her lips. May it continue even after I've gone.

As though the older woman had read the younger's thoughts, she said, "It's a shame you're going. Will you come to see the next harvest, do you think? Or will you be too busy with your new husband and family to even remember the vines?"

The younger woman gave a long-suffering sigh. "Mama..." she began.

The older woman smiled and held up her free hand. "Yes, yes. I understand. There's no need to defend yourself like you've done a thousand times. I only wanted to needle you. I know you love our heritage as much as I do. As much as your brother does. As much as Benito and Ezequiel. The vines are in your blood, too."

"You still wish I wouldn't go."

"That's not true. What I wish is that you live your own life. If leaving here is a part of that, then so be it. Go and be happy."

"But?" the younger woman prompted, knowing there was more.

"But be sure of what you're doing. You've only known this man for one year. Is a year enough? Me, I can't say. I didn't rush into any of my marriages. I knew Florentin San Roman for three years before we got married. It was the same when I married your father. As for Ezequiel, he courted me for five years before I agreed to marry him. If I were sure that you'll be happy there in the United States, I'll smile as I wave you off. But I can't smile when I keep having these doubts that it's for the best. You know very well that my heart is tough. It takes much to break it. But your unhappiness would surely break it."

"He's a good man, Mama."

"I never said he wasn't. But two good people in love can still be unhappy together. Saint Valentine, he can be a fickle one. He goes away as easily as he comes. A marriage needs more than love to be happy. And when a marriage is unhappy, what happens then? Quarrels. Loneliness. Could the loneliness push you into another man's arms? It might. Then what? Then things grow even worse."

"That won't happen. He's a good man. I wish you'd stop thinking the worst and having these doubts. I know I don't."

The older woman said no more. She only nodded slowly.

For the next few moments, they walked in silence through the ripening vines. The estate lands stretched out as far as the eye could see; made up of the 527-hectare vineyard, the bodegas, workers' quarters, the chapel which had been unused since 1921, the equipment sheds, stables, and other outbuildings.

Of course, there was the cortijo itself. The main house. The only home she'd ever known.

The younger woman looked southwards, her gaze spanning far under the glittering sunshine. The cortijo stood at the other side of the 527-hectare expanse of vines. The great house was built in the style of a Roman villa, with stone walls and multi-storeyed wings spilling out from a central courtyard. A fortress. A home. It stood at the southernmost point of the estate, backed by the orchard and the oak grove, with hazy mountains as a more distant backdrop.

The older woman followed the younger woman's gaze. As one, they regarded their home.

Then, slowing her steps, the older woman touched a vibrant green leaf of the grapevine near her. There weren't many leaves on the vines. Several weeks ago, with the onset of summer when ripening had first begun, the leaves had been thinned. It was crucial that excess leaves weren't left on the vine when summer began. Thinning the leaves exposed the grapes to the sun and made room for airflow to dry each morning's dew. That way, the fruit ripened evenly and there was less chance of disease.

Now, these almost-fully-ripe grapes were pristine.

The older woman smiled as she rubbed the leaf between her fingers. It was a shrewd, cool smile. "I'm stubborn," she said. "And to be honest with you, your prediction of your happiness doesn't hold any more weight with me than our dear little sorcerer's prediction about these vines. When I see you happy, then I'll believe all your assertions. I know you'll marry him and leave. But come back home for the next harvest and let me see you happy."

The younger woman returned the smile. Her smile was softer and warmer. "I'll try to make it home, but I can't promise anything."

They were still arm-in-arm. The older woman grasped the younger's arm tighter. "Come home for the next harvest," she said again. "And let me see you happy. Give me proof, not promises."

After a short consideration, the younger woman nodded. "Alright. I will."

*****

Three years later

*

"Jared. I know it's hard to hear. I know it's got to kill. I know. I debated even saying anything at all. In the end I came to the conclusion that I had to. I hate being the messenger for something like this and you know I'm fond of her, but I just had to say something. I couldn't keep quiet knowing she's doing this to you. And I'd hope you'd do the same for me if the situation was reversed."

Jared Kendrick sat looking at Jonathan. Jonathan Kendrick was his cousin, closest friend and long-time business partner.

Although what Jonathan had just told him was far from amusing, there was a little smile on Jared's face. That little smile of disbelief. That little smile a person had while listening to something they knew was ludicrous and impossible. That little smile a person had when they didn't know how else to react.

Jared shook his head. "You've got it wrong."

Jonathan also shook his head. Once. Decisively. "No. I haven't got it wrong. If I wasn't dead certain, nothing would have made me say a word."

Again, Jared shook his head. That little smile was frozen on his face. "Jonathan," he said, pronouncing his cousin's name with emphasis. "You've got it wrong. Somehow, you've gotten things mixed up. You think you're sure but you're not. I know Raquel. She wouldn't do this. Not to anyone. Especially not to me. You're going to come in here and accuse her of something as dirty as this?"

"I know Raquel's wonderful. Hell, I'm half in love with her myself. We all thought she was perfect for you from the day you brought her to meet us. That's exactly why I'm sure of what I'm saying. I wouldn't accuse her of something like this if I thought there was even the slightest possibility I was wrong. You both mean more to me than that."

In the face of such avowed certainty, Jared could only stare hard at Jonathan. His frozen smile thawed and disappeared. In place of the disbelief that he'd felt since Jonathan had come to his office for a private word five minutes ago, Jared now felt the first hints of unease.

No. No. It wasn't unease. He was not uneasy. He was only annoyed. There was nothing to be uneasy about. Raquel, his perfect wife, wasn't having an affair.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said.

It was Jonathan's turn to smile a little. "Have I ever been wrong about something as serious as this?"

"I said you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Jared. We're practically brothers. To me, we are. I asked you—have I ever been wrong about something this serious? Have I? Would I? Ask yourself if I would take the chance of harming our relationship over something that might be nothing."

It was Jonathan's mentioning that they were practically brothers that made Jared able to kick away the anger biting at his heels.

Yes, he and Jonathan were practically brothers. To Jared, they were brothers. Jared let the anger go. Jonathan meant well and was only mistaken. He shouldn't be hanged, drawn and quartered just for being mistaken.

Because Jonathan was mistaken. He just was. There was no way Raquel was having an affair. His Raquel. No. There was no way.

Jared knocked back the last mouthful of whiskey in his glass. "Whatever it is you think you saw, you misunderstood it."

"Curse at me if you like. Take a swing at me if it'll make you feel better. But don't insult my intelligence. I wasn't hallucinating. My head and my eyes work perfectly fine. I saw her. I damn well saw her. They were in the hotel lobby. She was kissing the guy, whoever the hell he is. I saw how close together they were standing. The slimy bastard was whispering into her ear. They were laughing, both of them. He was holding her by the waist. I could tell how familiar they were. It was obvious."

Jared turned his empty glass over in his hand, staring hard at the rainbows trapped within the crystal. He didn't doubt that Jonathan had seen all this, but there were other possible explanations for it. Explanations that weren't an affair. He could think of several off the top of his head even now.

"It's possible the man with her was an old friend. Or a distant relative. And they ran into each other by accident at the hotel."

"Then why wouldn't she have mentioned it to you herself? It happened last Tuesday. A solid ten days ago."

"She didn't think anything of it."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "She didn't think anything of running into such a good old friend or a relative? And in the first place, what was she doing at a nearby hotel without you?"

Jared set his glass down on the table. Hard enough to make Jonathan start. Not hard enough to send shards of crystal flying around the office. "Look, Jonathan, leave it. You wanted to tell me and you've told me. I'll ask her myself after we get back tonight and she'll give me the simple explanation. I know there's one."

Jonathan sat back, looking at Jared for some time. At last, he nodded. "Okay. Fair enough. I won't push. But I'll say one last thing. If she denies the affair, come back to me and I'll give you proof. I'd hoped to convince you without needing to slap you in the face by showing you something so nasty, but I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that you're not deceived."

Proof?

Despite himself, that word inspired reluctant curiosity in Jared. The word sprang to his tongue. Just as he was on the cusp of speaking it aloud, he caught himself and didn't. There was no need to ask about this alleged proof. No doubt it was circumstantial. Easily dismissed. Unworthy of any curiosity it could inspire.

Jared made no answer. He and Jonathan stared each other down, neither balking. This was only one of the traits the cousins had in common. Pride. It had been a factor in the disputes they'd had over the years.

They argued, but the arguments were relatively minor and often about the company. For 39 years, there'd never been a severe breach between them. There had never been betrayal. Come hell or high water, they were always on the same side.

Jared and Jonathan stared each other down for moments more, then Jonathan pushed his chair back and stood. "We'd better end this conversation here." His tone was degrees cooler. "No good can come of it right now. I'll see you later this evening. I'm assuming everything is still on for tonight as we planned? We're all still meeting in the Octagon Room?"

"Yes," Jared replied, as coolly. "I'd rather you didn't let on to anyone that you think something's wrong. I plan to ask Raquel about this after we get back. Not before. I don't intend for something like this to spoil tonight for her. She's been looking forward to it for months."

Jonathan nodded. The action was stiff and with just a lick of sarcasm. He crossed the office to the door, opened it, passed through and was gone.

The door closed behind Jonathan with a significant little click, and Jared was alone in his office.

He remained in his chair behind the desk awhile, then got up. He went to the whiskey decanter and poured himself another couple of fingers—it was already after six p.m. He added a splash of water to the whiskey and glass in hand, he crossed to the window that dominated one of his office's four walls.

A large silkscreen print dominated another wall. It was something his wife had given as a gift to him. She'd bought it from one of her artist friends. It was a quality print but Raquel had bought it primarily to support the artist. She had plenty of bohemian friends whose works she promoted. Painters, poets, writers, dancers and musicians. She collected them like some people collected stamps, and she helped them without wanting anything back in return. His wife was a generous, sweet soul. A good person. In this world, truly good people were rare.

The idea that Raquel was cheating on him? Engaging in a sleazy affair? Bullshit. She'd been his wife for less than three years. She was happy. She belonged to him. She was a good woman.

Good women who had been happily married for under three years did not cheat.

She would give him an innocent explanation for why she had been at the Dragonfly Hotel. She would tell him who the man was that had been with her. It would all mean nothing. Then when he had the facts, he'd rip Jonathan a new one for having slandered her. Slandered her and been willing to die on that hill. Jonathan had claimed he wouldn't chance straining their relationship, yet he'd just done exactly that.

Proof? Bullshit.

Jared swallowed half the whiskey, looking out the window to a waterfront view that had long become familiar. Lake Hewlett. Upstate.

Jared Kendrick had worked in this office for the past seven years. It was on the 33rd floor of KBC America headquarters, the highest inhabited floor. The only floors above were equipment storage and the elevator-access.

Seven years ago, with three divorces, three daughters and no sons under his belt, Leo Kendrick had sent the two most promising of his five nephews across the pond. Out of Jared, Jonathan, Jacob, Jesse and Joshua, Leo had chosen Jared and Jonathan. Jared and Jonathan had been jointly given the titles of COO and sent from London to New York to head up the new branch of their uncle's company, KBC. The Kendrick Broadcasting Company. KBC owned four television channels; KBC News, KBC Entertainment, Channel 22 and HistoryToday.

Leo Kendrick had established the company in London some 35 years ago. He had poured his blood and brains into making something of it. He'd succeeded, but at the price of three failed marriages and three daughters who resented him to varying degrees. Leo was now 78 but still the patriarch. Patriarch of the family and CEO of the company. He was head honcho at the London global headquarters; marching around, giving orders and sitting at the throne.

In the years elapsed since Jared and Jonathan had established this offshoot of the company in New York, some members of their family had made their way across the pond. Including Joshua, who Leo eventually offered a job overseeing the NYC studio. Their whole family was now evenly split between London and New York, but major holidays were always spent in Berkshire. The rural county to the west of London. Deep down, Berkshire was still home.

Jared knew he'd retire to Berkshire. Eventually. Not for many, many years more. He would keep working until his bones ached. He would be in this office until at least eighty. That was, if he wasn't dead by then. If he was alive, he'd be standing here looking out over the lake as he was now.

Leo planned to retire at exactly 81 and Jared wouldn't let his uncle outdo him there. Not when he'd already outdone his uncle in one very important way—that his offspring didn't detest him.

Jared had a son. Travis. The result of one of the casual relationships Jared had had in his twenties. Travis had been a mistake, but he was the best damn mistake Jared had ever made. The only mistake he would make all over again, especially because of the way things had worked out. He'd first insisted on a paternity test to be sure Travis truly was his, then he'd pulled no punches when it came to getting sole custody. He'd used Alice's casual drug habit against her. Torn her to shreds in court and hadn't been sorry for it.

He still wasn't sorry for it, because he had a son he'd raised from infancy and who lived under his roof every day of the week. He wasn't sorry because even losing custody of her child hadn't been enough incentive to Alice to get clean. He'd been the one to identify her after her overdose. Travis had been three at the time and had known nothing about it. Which was the least that any toddler deserved. He was 12 now. A good kid.

Jared still stood looking out at the water, thinking of his son.

Another way he would do better than his uncle was in work-life balance. He had decided long ago that if he married and had a family, they wouldn't be sacrificed at the altar of KBC. His children wouldn't resent him. He wouldn't go through a senseless merry-go-round of marriages and divorces.

This marriage to Raquel had to stick. If it didn't, Jared doubted that any other could. Raquel was ideal in every way. Not least because her generosity extended to Travis. She loved the boy. Travis himself had always liked her. He'd been okay with the prospect of her as his stepmother.