Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (22 page)

As Vince disappeared around the corner, Lars offered Rosa his arm. “Let’s go meet our new employers and get to work.” Rosa hesitated a moment before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. They were supposed to be married. They couldn’t very well meet their new employers separated by the careful distance of strangers.

Together they crossed the yard to the barn, but they stopped short in the doorway. Within, all was bedlam—children of all ages running and shouting, women in calico work dresses laughing and scolding as they swept the broad plank floor and raised clouds of dust and showers of hay, men grunting as they hefted long trestle tables and benches into rows at one end of the vast space. Lars caught a young, dark-haired boy by the shoulder as he darted past and asked him where Mr. Cacchione could be found. “Pa’s over there,” the boy replied, pointing to a group of men wrestling an enormous oak barrel into the far corner.

Overwhelmed, Rosa hung back, but Lars folded his calloused hand around hers and led her through the throng. They reached the corner just as the men finished setting the barrel in
place and began congratulating one another in a cheerful mixture of English and Italian. “Mr. Cacchione?” Lars broke in, raising his voice to be heard above their laughter.

A short, powerfully built man with salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed goatee broke off his conversation and turned toward them. “I’m Dante Cacchione.”

Lars reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Nils Ottesen and this is my wife, Rose.” He placed his other hand on Rosa’s back, and she stepped forward and managed a smile, though the alias fell like a heavy yoke upon her shoulders. “Thank you for taking us on. We’re grateful for the work. You won’t be sorry.”

“I’m glad you could join us on such short notice.” Dante Cacchione’s voice was deep and rich, and he shook Lars’s hand heartily, and then Rosa’s, as the other men drifted off to other tasks. “When Dr. Reynolds said you needed work and a place to stay—well, he’s not a man I can say no to with a clear conscience.”

A woman came up alongside him then, tucked her hand beneath his arm, and rested her other hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Reynolds saw our entire family through the influenza epidemic. We’d do anything for him.”

Rosa surmised that the woman must be Mrs. Cacchione; the fondness in her eyes as she exchanged a smile with Mr. Cacchione was unmistakable. Like her husband, she looked to be in her mid-fifties, her eyes merry, her face and hands browned from the sun. She wore her hair, so dark it was nearly black except for a patch of white at the crown, pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and the lines around her mouth and eyes gave evidence to a ready smile. She was a good three inches taller than her husband, with a solid, sturdy frame that conveyed strength and comfort. Rosa liked her immediately.

“Vince was supposed to take you by the cabin,” Mrs. Cacchione continued. “Did you have a chance to settle in?”

“We dropped off our things and took a quick look around,” said Rosa. “But we wanted to get right to work.”

“Oh, very good. We always welcome diligent workers around here! I hope you and your children will be comfortable in the cabin. I always found it cozy, if a bit small.” She glanced around as if hoping to pick out the new arrivals from among the throng of boys and girls, but she soon smiled and shook her head, giving up. “You’ll have to introduce me later.”

“Of course, Mrs. Cacchione. I’d be happy to, and I look forward to meeting your children as well. The others, I mean. We’ve already met Vince.”

“Oh, goodness, please call me Giuditta.” She patted her husband on the shoulder. “Perhaps you can find something for Nils to do while I put Rose to work?”

Dante agreed, and Rosa and Lars had time for a quick, parting glance before Giuditta whisked her away, found an idle broom, and set her to helping the other women sweep the floor. They were curious and friendly, having heard only that the Cacchiones had been expecting friends from San Francisco just in time for the party. Rosa felt inexplicably warmed and happy to hear herself named a friend by a woman she had not even met at the time the claim of friendship had been made, perhaps because Rosa had so few friends. As they tidied the barn, there was a flurry of names exchanged and histories shared and familial ties recounted, and Rosa tried in vain to catch and hold them all. Some of the women made their homes at neighboring farms and others on vineyards scattered around the Sonoma Valley, and all had been invited to the Cacchiones’ home for their annual harvest celebration, the most anticipated event of
the autumn aside from the crush and far more relaxing than that.

The most difficult preparations had already been completed before Rosa’s arrival, and soon the barn was swept clean and aired out, the tables and benches and chairs arranged. Most of the other women hurried off then to freshen up and change into party clothes, but Rosa was obliged to make do with a surreptitious visit to the powder room in the big house, where she inspected herself in the mirror, smoothed the wrinkles from her traveling dress with her hands, ran her fingers through her new bob, and pinched her cheeks to bring some color to them, hoping that would suffice. She was among the first of the women to return to the barn, but before long her new acquaintances appeared in pretty dresses and lipstick, and soon other guests from near and far began to arrive, and a band comprised of neighbors and friends set up their instruments. By twilight the party was well underway. The barn had been transformed by music and revelry into a dance hall that, as one guest observed, for fun alone rivaled any of the fancy resorts along the Russian River. The band played popular tunes and old favorites, polkas and foxtrots and the occasional Italian folk song, to which many of the guests sang along. Enough of the words were similar to the Spanish spoken in her childhood home that Rosa was able to grasp the meaning of the heartfelt lyrics, stories of love of family and sweethearts and home.

When Rosa wasn’t checking in on her children, who were perfectly happy among their new friends and neither wanted nor needed her hovering nearby, she was helping Giuditta or meeting her new neighbors. She chatted at length with Salvatore and Beatrice Vanelli, a gentle, childless couple in their early sixties who for nearly four decades had grown acres of lush Zinfandel
grapes that produced excellent wines celebrated for their anise, blackberry, and pepper notes, although the couple had been obliged in recent years to tear out most of their vines and replant table grape varietals and prune trees. Sal and Bea owned forty-five acres in a small town called Glen Ellen between Santa Rosa and Sonoma, right next to the Beauty Ranch, where Jack London’s widow, Charmian, still lived. Sal had once been good friends with the famous writer and adventurer, but they had had a falling-out over Jack London’s repeated offers to buy Sal’s land and Sal’s adamant refusals.

When Miguel found a playmate in the two-year-old son of Alegra Del Bene, the strikingly beautiful, Italian-born second wife of a widowed vintner, she and Rosa struck up a quick and cheerful friendship as they chased their children around the party in a valiant attempt to keep them out of trouble. Alegra’s husband, Paulo, a longtime Santa Rosa vintner who had been fortunate enough to secure a sacramental wine permit soon after Prohibition began, was more than twice her age. When they were first introduced, Rosa assumed Paulo was Alegra’s father, but the couple were so amused by her mistake—which apparently was not uncommon—that Rosa was not embarrassed, and she listened with interest as they took turns telling the story of how they had met. After his first wife died, Paulo had mourned her deeply, but after a time he had written to family back in his native Italy and asked them to find him a new bride, someone hardworking and pleasant who would be a good mother to his four children. His sister-in-law made it her mission to find a suitable woman, and a few months later, Alegra arrived on one of the so-called “macaroni boats,” speaking no English and wearing a ribbon tied around her neck from which dangled a cardboard sign with the words “Paulo Del Bene—San Francisco”
printed on it. “Imagine my delight,” Paulo told Rosa as Alegra smiled and blushed, “when this beauty descended the gangplank!” It was love at first sight, and seven years and three children later, it was obvious that they adored each other still.

It was Alegra who insisted Rosa sample a glass of wine from the barrel in the corner. “The Cacchiones, they make the most marvelous vintages,” she pronounced, linking elbows with Rosa and steering her around the dance floor to the other side of the barn. Rosa was unprepared for the richness and flavor of the Cacchiones’ wine, which Alegra explained was a Burgundy. “You will learn to taste all the flavors in a wine,” she promised, pleased by the obvious pleasure Rosa took from her first drink.

Her head felt pleasantly light when Giuditta summoned her to help serve the harvest feast. Nearly all the wives joined in the procession from the residence’s grand kitchen to the barn, carrying enormous bowls of steaming hot pasta topped with luscious red tomato sauce fragrant with herbs; crocks of rich, savory meat stews; crusty loaves of bread; platters heaped with sausages and salami; bowls of pungent pickled cucumbers and asparagus, both sweet and sour; dishes of sugared almonds; and huge platters of a cornmeal, cheese, and butter dish Beatrice told her was called polenta, perfectly delicious and perfectly safe for Ana and Miguel to eat. Desserts followed—peach cobblers and a variety of pies: apple, blackberry, and strawberry—topped with as much thick, rich cream as anyone could desire. Keeping a watchful eye upon Ana’s and Miguel’s plates, Rosa ate until she was satiated, but then found she had room enough to accept another glass of wine from Dante himself.

When everyone had eaten their fill, empty dishes were
cleared away and what few desserts remained were arranged on a table pushed up against the wall for anyone who might work up an appetite dancing. Without waiting for Giuditta to ask, Rosa found an apron in the Cacchiones’ enormous kitchen and dove into washing dishes alongside a charming and chatty dark-haired young woman who turned out to be the Cacchiones’ eldest daughter, Francesca. When Rosa mentioned her hopes to enroll Marta, Ana, and Lupita in school as soon as possible, Francesca assured her that the grammar schools in Sonoma County were as modern and instructive as any to be found in San Francisco. Rosa was pleased to learn that the bus picked up Francesca’s younger brothers and sisters at the foot of the hill where their driveway met the main road, so Rosa’s girls would not have far to walk, nor would they have to wait at the bus stop alone.

It was nearly midnight when the last dishes were washed and dried and put away. Reinvigorated by the sounds of music and laughter, Rosa and Francesca left the house together, crossed the starlit yard, and returned to the barn, where they parted company, Rosa to join her family, Francesca to seek out her friends. Many of the children had found their way up the ladder to the hayloft and had fallen asleep in a bed of scattered, golden straw, and Rosa found Lupita, Ana, and Miguel among them, her son nestled close to Alegra’s. Smiling, Rosa descended the stairs and watched the dancers, her toes tapping in time to the music, and spotted Marta beaming with pure delight as Vince whirled her about.

“He’s four years older than she is,” Lars said in her ear, coming upon her so suddenly she was unaware of him until he spoke.

“They’re only dancing,” Rosa replied. “He’s just being friendly.”

“Of course he is,” Lars scoffed. “I’m going to keep my eye on that one.”

Rosa laughed, charmed by how easily he stepped into the role of the protective father and yet wistfully aware of how long he had been denied the privilege. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He’ll be fine as long as I’m watching him.” As the band struck up the first familiar notes of “I’ll See You in My Dreams,” Lars held out his hand to her. “Care to dance? Don’t tell me your feet are too tired, because I know for a fact you haven’t danced a single step.”

She hadn’t, but she had been on her feet all night serving and clearing away and washing dishes and chasing children, and yet she would not let sore feet keep her from dancing now that he had finally asked. She nodded, gave him her hand, and muffled a sigh of contentment as he put his arms around her. They circled the dance floor without speaking until the last notes of the song faded. Lars did not release her, nor did she pull away, so when the band began another tune, they resumed dancing. It took Rosa a moment to recognize the melody, but when she did, she let out a rueful laugh.

Lars recognized it too. “The one I love,” he said conversationally in time with the music, “belongs to someone else.”

“Yes,” she replied, “that’s the name of the song, all right.”

His eyebrows rose. “You don’t care for the melody?”

“I don’t care for the title. It doesn’t suit me.”

“I don’t like it much myself.”

He drew her closer to him, and after a fleeting moment of hesitation, she relaxed and let her cheek rest against his chest. He smelled of hay and salt, earth and fresh air.

It was after midnight when the party began to draw to a close. Rosa offered to stay and help tidy up, but Giuditta assured
her she had already done more than her share and the rest could wait until morning. After Rosa and Lars gathered up the children, Dante offered them lanterns and directed them to a shortcut back to the cabin, a quarter-mile walk that wound past the old winery and through the vineyard, a much shorter journey than the route they had taken in the wagon earlier that day.

“That was the best birthday party ever,” Lupita mumbled drowsily as Lars picked her up and carried her from the barn. She clasped her slender arms around his neck and promptly fell asleep on his shoulder.

Rosa laughed softly, nuzzling Miguel’s soft curls with her lips as he dozed in her arms. Cool mists had rolled in from the distant ocean, blotting out the stars, so they made their way back to the cabin carefully along the well-worn path. Marta and Ana led them, clutchings lanterns and reliving the evening in quiet voices, their heads close together. Lars carried the third lantern, and Rosa stayed close to his side so she could remain within the circle of light it cast.