Free Dark to Mortal Eyes by Eric Wilson

sketched out an agenda. Finally, with the boardroom powwow ten minutes from starting, he turned to the black tie. Time to don the proper attire. His thumb traced the checkered motif, and he lifted the J. Dunlary over his head. Then paused. The bewilderment he’d been squelching now threatened once more, and he fought a reluctance to noose the silk around his neck.
    I don’t trust the darn thing. How crazy does that sound?
    The mystery remained. What had gone on at their bedroom window? Kara’s rounded eyes … his hands … the knotted cloth. Figments of imagination? No. The tie was tangible, silken and smooth. Given the proper facts, he was sure he could sort this matter out, but sharpness of dress was less vital than sharpness of mind, and with the latter in jeopardy, he considered ditching the article in the laundry hamper to let Rosie deal with it.
    As if a good dry cleaning could exorcise it? Wait, this is ridiculous. This thing’s not going to get the best of me
.
    He hoisted the material again, worked it into a tapered Windsor knot. Then, as he started to cinch it, the feeling of horror returned, and Marsh cast off the tie for good.

    “You’re loosening up, I see.”
    “Come again?”
    “Dress shirt and slacks, but”—the wiry winemaker tapped Marsh’s collarbone—”no tie. How long’ve I been trying to convince you it was unnecessary?”
    “It’s only temporary.”
    “And so are the protocols of business fashion. Take a deep breath, Marshall. Taste the winds of freedom.” In the corridor, Henri Esprit spread his hands, closed his eyes, and inflated his barrel lungs as though partaking in reverent ritual.
    Marsh hid a smile. “You’ve been sampling the late harvest grapes again.”
    “Sampling, yes. Imbibing, no.”
    “For work purposes?”
    “Naturally, and of course.” Esprit produced a hand-corked bottle, a reserve of their best Pinot Noir. He decanted and proffered a glass. “Try some yourself. You’ll be impressed.”
    About to protest, Marsh found himself wooed by the wine’s bouquet. One sip, and the velvet fruitiness gave way to a waltz of tannins upon his tongue. “Wow. Double wow.” Forget the pretentious blather; this was religious release.
    “Winds of freedom.” Esprit’s eyes sparkled. “They only add to the delectation.”
    Although his tenure dated back to Virginia Addison’s days at the helm, Henri Esprit continued to bring unique expression to his position. He revered the vineyard’s winemaking techniques, and despite a palate sensitive to the fruit’s complexities, he never overindulged—a man in unity with his abilities and the results. Although Marsh held him in high regard, he’d avoided Esprit during his own formative years. With Virginia’s fancying Esprit as something of a male role model for her son, Marsh had resisted.
    Time was eroding that barrier. He was turning to Esprit more and more.
    Marsh glanced at his watch, a sapphire-faced Bulgari. “Let’s get in there.”
    “What’s on the agenda?”
    “A number of items: vineyard purchase options, minimum wage increases, overseas tariff hikes. With my trip to Europe on Saturday, I might need a bit of coaching for the scheduled negotiations.”
    “Or I could simply go along.”
    “Oh, you wish.”
    “My language skills are more polished than yours. You know it’s true. My French alone could save you tens of thousands of francs.”
    “But this place wouldn’t survive a day without you, Esprit.”
    “I’ll keep asking. You know that I will. May as well invite me along.”
    “Come on. We’re late to a meeting.”
    “All in good time. You mustn’t let work drag you through life by the throat.”
    The throat?
Marsh steadied himself against a barrage of images.
    “Thank you, O wise one. I’ll keep that in mind.” He started toward double oak doors inscribed with the initials ARV woven among curled autumn leaves. Without a tie, he felt naked for a boardroom skirmish. “Glad to have you