“Where are you off to, Sam?” Melissa was cutting roses in the garden the next day when Samuel came out of the house and climbed into his BMW convertible.

“Up the hill to talk to Daniel again. One more stab at getting him to sell.” He did want Daniel to sell the BeauView Winery to him, but that wasn’t why he was going up there. He’d been keyed up since the previous day. The garden party had been broken up with the news that the pastor’s sister, Susan Toliver, took an overdose of sleeping pills after she’d abruptly left the party. This had set off a buzz, but it was more of a guarded, never directly stated discussion of why that might have been than how she was doing. And the ones who seemed to be in the know were all women—and most had had those lavender-colored stationery envelopes peeking out of their purses.

Melissa had seemed a little rattled afterward, after everyone had gone home, but she refused to tell him why. He knew that Melissa and Susan Toliver had had a little tiff about something a week before, but he didn’t think that Melissa gave the old maid much of a thought.

Samuel didn’t feel he could lie about where he was going. There were too many chances that workers in the vineyards would see where his car went and Melissa would somehow hear of it. Besides, it would be difficult for her not to know that he nosed the car uphill at the gateposts rather than down, and the only thing above Marymount on the hill was BeauView. He admitted that was where he was going; he just wouldn’t be truthful about why he was going up there.

“He doesn’t seem to be tempted by money,” Melissa said, her voice distant like she was lost in thought.

“He’s getting old and arthritic. And he has no heirs,” Samuel said. “He’ll give in sometime. I’ve asked him to sell to me but to stay on and manage it as long as he wants.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Melissa said. “He scares me. He’s a Zulu of the old sort. I don’t feel safe around him.”

Yes, I know, Samuel thought. You prefer the young, virile Zulus—ones with big cocks. She was referring to the earlier days of native uprisings against Apartheid, of course. He’d told her that Daniel’s family had been protective of his in those years, but she either hadn’t believed him or didn’t want to. She saw Daniel Currie as a threat. Samuel knew a reason why she should, but he was equally sure that she had no inkling of what the reasoning might be.

“He and his family are part of the history here,” Samuel said. “I won’t be the one who runs him off.”

“But you wouldn’t mind if someone else did, would you?” Melissa fairly hissed. “You never care if someone else does your dirty work.”

At that, he slammed the door of the car, brutally turned the key in the ignition, and made Melissa step back to avoid being pelted with gravel thrown off by spinning tires.

He was still angry and driving faster than he should on the curves up to the top of the hill through the vineyards—his and Currie’s, divided by a chain-link fence, Currie’s vines looking a whole lot better to him than his own.

When he pulled the convertible to a stop, it was next to where Currie, well-muscled, but gnarled, once an extremely handsome man and still with a commanding presence, was standing next to a water pump in the yard beside his rambling shack and sluicing himself off. He was naked except for low-slung cargo shorts that had been doused with water and clung to his still-muscular legs. His manhood also was low-slung and was easily traced in the soaked basket of his shorts.

“You would be wasting your time, son,” he turned and said, as Samuel brought the BMW to a stop next to him.

“I won’t stop asking you to sell, Daniel,” Samuel said. “But that’s not what I came for. I can’t stay away.”

“Then you best come into the house,” Daniel said. “And walk away from me. These days I feel like there are eyes everywhere.”