Dynasties: The Ashtons. Maureen Child

used a heavy hand with his sons. He was big, burly and domineering—the kind who liked to say, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Dora was sure neither Spencer nor his brother, David, had been in danger of being spoiled.

      Francis struck the opening chord of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” Here comes the bride…

      At the back of the church, Sally Barnett pressed a hand to her unhappy stomach. The satin wedding gown felt cold and slippery.

      “Butterflies, sweetheart?” her father said.

      More like nausea. But Daddy looked so anxious…surely Mama was right. Spencer would settle down once the babies came. She summoned a smile. “I’m nervous,” she whispered.

      He patted her hand. “You’re supposed to be. This is our cue, honey.”

      Together they stepped out in the stately slow march that would carry them up the aisle to where Spencer waited. Sally’s skirts swished over the carpet and her heart pounded and pounded. She clutched her bouquet so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t squeeze it right in two.

      Spencer looked so wonderful in his tux. So what if they’d had to rent it? She’d told him over and over that didn’t matter…except that it did. To him. He was hungry for things, for the trappings of success. But she understood why. He’d grown up hearing his mother whine about how little they had, how much better things would have been if his father had sold the farm years ago. He’d come to believe that happiness came from things, not people.

      She’d show him differently, she promised herself as her father released her and stepped back. She’d be such a good wife to him that he’d never regret this day.

      Her heart turned over when Spencer took her hand, just as it always had for him. He didn’t love her. Not in the deep, aching way she loved him. But she’d be patient. She’d teach him how to love.

      Nausea forgotten, Sally’s face shone as she listened to the preacher repeat the familiar words. Her young groom stood tall and straight beside her.

      Spencer glanced at Sally. Look at the stupid bitch smile, he thought. Thinks she has me trapped, doesn’t she? The selfish cow had gone crying to her daddy when she found out she was pregnant, and he’d tattled to the old man…A trickle of cold sweat ran down Spencer’s spine.

      “Do you, Spencer Winston Ashton, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?” the preacher said. “To have and to hold…”

      Frederick Ashton was the one person in the world Spencer feared. And however much lip service Frederick paid to the Bible, his real god was his standing in the community. He’d made it clear that Spencer wouldn’t be allowed to tarnish that.

      “…for richer, for poorer…”

      Maybe Sally had won for now, but not for long, he promised himself. He was destined for great things. He’d always known that.

      “…and in health, until death do you part?”

      “I do,” Spencer said solemnly. Someway, somehow, he’d find a way out of this dead-end town, out into the wide world waiting for him.

       Chapter One

       Napa Valley, California. Forty-three years later.

      Dixie turned off the highway with “Cowboys from Hell” blasting away on the stereo—her notion of motivational music. Who could succumb to nerves with Pantera singing about cowboys from way down under coming to take the town?

      Her palms were damp on the steering wheel.

      She’d missed the light the most, she thought as she pointed the nose of her Toyota down the little county road. Seasons took sharp turns in New York. She’d enjoyed that, jazzed by the way winter hit with a howl and a slap, knocking autumn flat on its face. California’s seasons jostled for position more politely, one blending into the next in a watercolor wash rather than the charcoal ultimatums of the North.

      But the light…January light in the Valley didn’t bounce around with the flat, frenetic energy of summer, but smoothed itself around tree trunks and buildings, settling on roads and earth with a visual hum.

      She was looking forward to painting that light. And that’s why she was here, she reminded herself as she slowed. She had a job to do. If she could settle a few ghosts while she was at it, well and good. The silly things had started tugging on her sleeve after she returned to California. It was time to look them in their pale, wispy little faces and get on with her life.

      The arch over the entry was tall and wide, a graceful cast-iron curve with replicas of the property’s namesake vines twining up its sides.

      She was here. Dixie took a deep breath and turned onto the driveway leading up to The Vines.

      The house lay directly ahead. She took the curve to the left, heading for the winery, offices and tasting room, housed together in a large, two-story building with a roof that made her think of a Chinese peasant’s peaked hat. She pulled into the parking lot in a car crowded with ghosts, shut off the ignition and sat there a moment, absorbing the changes…and the things that had remained the same.

      Then she retrieved her hat and her purse, checked on Hulk and opened the car door.

      The air smelled of earth and grapes. The scents slithered past her conscious mind and plopped into the swampy goo of the unconscious, splattering her with memories.

      Not sad memories, though. Loud, laughing, sometimes angry, but not sad. That’s what made this so hard. She took a deep breath and let the ghosts slide through her, then stepped forward.

      “Dixie!” A slim young woman in a cream-colored suit stepped out on the porch. Her hair had undoubtedly started the day in a sleek knot at her nape. The sleek was long gone, but most of the knot remained. She hurried down the steps. “You’re late. Was the traffic bad? What did you forget? Where’s your cat?”

      Laughing, Dixie caught her friend up in a hug. “Traffic sucked, I won’t know what I forgot until I can’t find it and Hulk is asleep in his carrier. God, you look great!” She stepped back, looking Mercedes over. “Skinny as ever—they’d adore you in New York—and I love the wispies.” She flicked one of the curls frantically escaping bondage. “But that is one boring outfit.”

      “We can’t all dress like artistes.” Mercedes’ mouth tucked down and she shook her head. “Not that I could pull off an outfit like that, anyway.”

      “You like it? I call it my Beach Blanket Bimbo look.” Dixie had changed her mind and her outfit five times this morning, finally deciding on a what-the-hell combination of yellow vintage capris and matching halter top with a Hawaiian shirt in lieu of a jacket. The oversize sunglasses and straw hat were more sixties than fifties, but Dixie wasn’t a purist.

      Mercedes laughed and started for the building. “But that’s just it. You look very retro chic, not like a bimbo at all.”

      “Well, this is the wrong era for you,” Dixie said, falling into step beside Mercedes. “I’m the one with a body straight out of the forties or fifties. You’d look great in flapper clothes—long, lean and sophisticated.”

      “I am so not the flapper type.”

      “You’re wearing a button-down oxford shirt with that suit, Merry. You need help.”

      Mercedes held a hand up, half laughing, half alarmed. “Oh, no, you don’t. Do not help me. I’m not up to it right now.”

      “Hmm.” Dixie stepped up on the porch and looked around. Eleven years ago this had been a smaller, less stylish building. “Someone does good work. The expansion is invisible—it looks like it was always this way. Now show me your lair.”

      “If you mean the tasting room, it’s through here.