DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

the glass and metal of the cars in the parking lot. In the vineyard to her right, several groups of day laborers were cutting bunches of grapes from the vine, gathering the first pick of this year’s crop. In the next few weeks, she knew, the ranks of workers would swell until, in early October, the vineyard aisles would be full of crowded, stooped laborers.

One of the women working closest to the drive stopped picking for a moment to look up at her, and Penelope smiled, waving. The woman returned to her work without so much as a nod. Penelope hurried forward, embarrassed. Most of the laborers, she knew, were illegal aliens, many of them unable to speak English, their work overseen by exploitative day-contracted foremen whose only talent was that they could translate orders and requests. It was against the law to hire illegals, of course, but then Mother Margeaux had never been one to be deterred by such trifles as legality. She remembered once asking Mother Margeaux how much the laborers were paid per day. Her mother had replied curtly, “Enough.”

She doubted that. And she assumed that that was why many of the day workers seemed to dislike her so. She had never personally done anything to engender any ill will among the grape pickers, but no doubt they viewed her as a follower in her mothers’ footsteps.

The salaried employees, on the other hand, the winery workers, always treated her as though she were royalty, taking her much too seriously, behaving very deferentially toward her.

No one treated her like a normal person.

A gull swooped low over her head, a branch of half dried grapes in its mouth, and she followed its progress as it flew over the cars, over the buildings, toward the hills beyond, nesting finally in an anonymous tree in the heart of the woods.

The woods.

She felt a chill wash over her as she looked at the line of trees demarcating the rear boundary of their land, and she glanced quickly away, quickening her step toward the house.

She had always been allowed to go anywhere she wanted on their property, to roam the grounds, wander the vineyards, but ever since she’d been a small child she had been expressly forbidden to enter the woods. She had been told and retold, warned and rewarned, that the woods were dangerous, home to wild animals such as cougars and wolves, although she had never heard of a single animal attack occurring anywhere near the area. Up by Clear Lake a few years back, a hungry mountain lion had attacked and maimed a three-year-old girl, and near Lake Berryessa there had been isolated incidents of bears frightening away campers. But though she often saw weekend hikers trekking up one of several paths which led through the trees into the woods, she had never read or heard of a single attack on a human being in that area.

Her mothers had obviously instituted the rule because of her father.

Such a stern and seemingly arbitrary prohibition should have caused her to sneak into the woods at the first opportunity, and she knew that most of her friends would have done exactly that. But there was something about the woods which awakened within her a feeling of instinctive dread, a feeling that would have been there even if her mothers had said nothing at all to her about the area. Each time she looked through the barbed-wire fence at the back of the property toward the line of trees across the meadow, she felt the hairs tingle on the back of her neck, felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

The goosebumps were there now, and she pushed the thought out of her mind, running up the last stretch of drive, taking the porch steps two at a time, hurrying between the tall Doric columns which fronted the house. Pulling open the heavy double doors, she walked through the high-ceilinged foyer and past the stairway into the kitchen. “I’m home!” she announced. She dropped her books on the chopping block and opened the refrigerator, taking out a can of V8.

Mother Felice, looking tired and wan, the dark circles around her eyes more prominent than usual, emerged from the pantry, wiping her hands on her apron. “How was it?” she asked. “How was your first day?”

Penelope smiled. “It was fine, Mother.”

“Just fine? Not wonderfully spectacularly amazingly stupendous?”

“What did you expect? It was only the first day.”

“How are your teachers?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s hard to tell until the end of the first week.”

She looked out the window of the kitchen toward the twin buildings of the winery. “Where’s everyone else?”

Mother Felice shrugged. “Pressing time. You know. It’s a busy day.”

Penelope nodded, grateful that her other mothers had not been there to greet her. She had told her mothers she was a senior this year, almost an adult, had asked them not to make a big deal over school for once, and apparently they had gotten her hint.

“Did you make any new friends yet?” her mother asked, washing her hands in the sink.

“I saw Vella and Lianne and Jennifer.”

“I said any new friends.”

Penelope reddened. She finished her V8 and tossed the empty can into the garbage sack next to the stove. “I know what you’re hinting about, and, no, I have not met any guys yet. I will probably not have a date this week, okay? God, it’s only the first day. What do you expect?”

“I don’t mean to—”

Penelope sighed. “I know,” she said. “But don’t worry. Prom is eight months away.”

“It’s not that, it’s—”

“It’s what?”

Her mother tried to laugh lightly, but the effect seemed hollow and artificial. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it some other time.”

“Okay.” She looked again out the window, was glad to see no sign of other mothers. “If you need me,” she said, “I’ll be in the Garden.”

“Don’t you have any homework?”

“Mother, it’s the first day. How many times do I have to tell you? No one ever has homework the first day.