Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (31 page)

“We must accept the will of God,” John said stoically as they
drove home from the parish cemetery, clad in mourning black, their faces pale, their eyes red with tears, their minds and hearts numb from pain.

“God’s will?” echoed Ana from the backseat, bewildered. “Why does God want us to die?”

“He doesn’t,” Rosa said, her voice rising until it took on a note of hysteria. “Your brother’s death was not God’s will. God has blessed us with the means to purchase a car that can carry us to towns beyond the Arboles Valley, and he has blessed doctors in those towns with knowledge and skill that might help us if only—”

“Shut up, Rosa,” John barked.

Rosa knew if she spoke another word she would break down entirely, so she gazed out the window at the rolling hills and the farmers’ fields and tuned out John’s voice as he launched into an explanation of the problem of evil he probably recalled from his catechism days. The children listened dutifully, but they seemed unsatisfied.

John was responsible for the deaths of their children, Rosa thought as they drove home. John had refused to seek out a treatment that might have saved them. She didn’t blame God, or her sins, or evil let loose in the world. She blamed John.

That night he tried to seek comfort in her arms, but she rolled onto her side, her back to him. He placed his hand on her hip, but she brushed it off with a murmured “No.” He rolled onto his back and sighed heavily, but he left her alone, perhaps too surprised by the novelty of her demurral to protest. The next two nights he approached her again, and she again refused. After that he stopped trying. Rosa expected him to demand her submission, but to her astonishment, he did not argue or cajole or force himself upon her.

The relief and liberation she felt upon his tacit agreement to leave her alone startled her with its intensity, but she did not expect him to tolerate rejection forever. When he changed his mind, he would do so with a vengeance, but for the moment she had gained a small measure of peace, a respite from living a lie.

For two years Rosa and John lived in the same home, shared the same bed, ate together, ran the farm and the post office together, raised their children, spent nearly every minute of the day, waking and sleeping, within sight or earshot of each other. And yet with each passing day, the chasm dividing them grew until to Rosa it seemed as deep and as broad and as difficult to cross as the Salto Canyon. Like the place where her mother had perished, her marriage’s outward appearance of tranquil beauty concealed treacherous dangers.

But Rosa knew the enduring, strained peace between her and John could not last. For Lupita thrived. She grew and blossomed and bloomed with such inexhaustible, graceful vigor that Rosa was certain the mysterious illness that had tormented her siblings would never afflict her. And with each passing year, the moment when John would no longer be able to overlook that fact, that striking, unmistakable similarity to Marta, drew inexorably closer.

And now the dreaded day had come and gone, and Rosa would have faced it alone if not for Elizabeth Nelson. A newcomer to the Arboles Valley unencumbered by the longstanding fears and prejudices of her neighbors, she befriended Rosa when everyone else shunned her, denounced John’s brutality when everyone else looked away—and perhaps most significantly, though she had been unaware of their entangled pasts, she had warned Lars of Rosa’s ongoing unhappiness and had drawn him into her life again. He had resumed his visits to the Barclay
farm, he had met Lupita for the first time, and he had given Rosa hope and friendship and had asked for nothing in return. Rosa had even, at long last, kept her promise to him, and had come to the apricot harvest on the Jorgensen ranch. She and the children had enjoyed a picnic lunch with Lars in the shade of the orchard as if they were any other neighbors and not a family stalked by suspicion and death.

And then John had seized upon the truth and everything had come crashing down around them, but Elizabeth had been there too, to help Rosa make the final break from John and flee, and as a consequence, Elizabeth’s husband lay in a hospital bed recovering from a gunshot wound, and Lars had left his home and family behind, perhaps forever.

Elizabeth and Lars had both sacrificed much for the sake of her and her children, more than Rosa could ever ask of a friend, but the children were safe, and for that, she owed them everything.

Although Lars and Rosa had given their word not to betray the Cacchiones, Dante and Giuditta seemed no less apprehensive than before. Even so, when Christmas arrived a few days later, the two families celebrated together at the Cacchione residence. At first their holiday was strained and formal, with a thin veneer of merriment put on for the younger children’s sake, but before long the joy and peace of the season filled their hearts, and a sense of forgiveness and acceptance descended upon both households.

In the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, friends and acquaintances visited the Cacchiones daily, bringing gifts of sweets, bottles of olive oil, and the fruits of their own harvests. In return the Cacchiones gave their guests jugs of fine wine,
which they quickly nestled into the bottom of their baskets and covered with packages of dried figs, sugared almonds, and biscotti. On New Year’s Eve, the Cacchiones again swept the barn clean and invited their friends to a celebration Dante and Giuditta called La Festa di San Silvestro. The guests celebrated the waning hours of 1925 with music and dancing, laughter and jokes, and a delicious feast featuring many dishes made from lentils, which in the Italian tradition represented riches, abundance, and good fortune in the New Year. Spicy sausages, stuffed pork, pasta, gnocchi, and sweet cakes for dessert completed the menu. Rosa was not surprised to see that every course was accompanied by the Cacchiones’ renowned wines, as well as grappa, a strong brandy distilled from the pulpy, fermented residue of grapes pressed in the crush of winemaking.

Alegra Del Bene, her husband, Paulo, and their children were among the guests. Rosa was happy to see her friend again, but although Alegra embraced Rosa and smiled warmly when she arrived, it seemed to Rosa that she became somewhat tired and withdrawn after their sons ran off to play together. Concerned, Rosa asked her if she was unwell, but Alegra shook her head and said it was nothing, only that she would be glad to put the troubles of 1925 behind her. Rosa nodded sympathetically, surprised by the implication that the Del Benes too were struggling. She had assumed that their sacramental wine permit had spared them from the financial worries their neighbors had been forced to shoulder. She thought of the valises full of cash hidden in the wardrobe back in the cabin, and she wished she could offer enough of it to ease Alegra’s worries. But she glumly recalled Lars’s warnings and knew she couldn’t risk it, just as she could not have risked paying Henry’s bills at the Oxnard hospital for Elizabeth’s sake. She could not help feeling that she was putting
her own safety and comfort above her friends’, but her safety and comfort was also her children’s. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew she could not dispense gifts of cash to her friends in need without drawing the wrong sort of attention to her family. Someday, she vowed, it would not always be so.

Rosa soon learned that Alegra was not alone in her readiness to leave the old year and its many woes behind. During supper, Rosa and Lars sat at the end of one long trestle table with Salvatore and Beatrice Vanelli, the former winemakers from Glen Ellen who had switched from creating lush Zinfandels to growing table grapes and prunes. Salvatore acknowledged that although their new crops had earned them a modest profit over the past year, he missed the old days and prayed every night for Prohibition to end so they could resume winemaking, his passion and calling for more than thirty years and his father’s before him. But when Salvatore rose to refill his glass from the barrel in the corner of the barn, Beatrice nearly broke down in tears as she confessed that Salvatore was ever the optimist, and that as for her, she did not know how much longer she and Salvatore could hold on. “We’ve considered selling the land and starting over somewhere else,” she said, but then fell abruptly silent as her husband returned to his seat beside her.

Everywhere Rosa looked around the table, she saw hardworking men and women persevering in the face of ever worsening misfortune, refusing to abandon hope as they mourned their lost, beloved way of life. She wished with all her heart that the New Year would bring them all the prosperity and peace they deserved, but when she pondered all that the future might bring, she could not see an end to their troubles.

For most of January, the weather mirrored their uncertain, unfathomable future. A thick, impenetrable fog smothered the
valley, hoarfrost clung to tree limbs and fences and windows, and the temperature often dropped below freezing at night. Landslides closed roads through the mountains to the coast and the customary tasks of that time of year were postponed until the unusual brutality of the weather eased.

Later in the month, news spread through the Sonoma Valley of a fatal shootout between two policemen on a busy street in downtown San Francisco. As the policemen fired upon each other, mothers with children had fled the scene in terror and pedestrians had cowered behind parked automobiles to avoid the hailstorm of bullets. Miraculously, no bystanders were injured in the shocking gunfight. The policeman who died had accused his assailant of bootlegging, and their fatal duel was the culmination of years of accusation and mistrust between them, or so the surviving officer explained from the hospital bed where he was recovering from his wound.

For a while afterward, Giuditta forbade Vince to accompany Dante and Dominic on their delivery runs into the city, but eventually she relented, because they could not manage without him. Until then, Rosa had lived in dread that Lars would volunteer to take Vince’s place, but to her relief, he did not. She could not bear to think of him exposing himself to such dangers. Just as Dante could not get along without Vince, Rosa had discovered that she could not get along without Lars.

With each passing day that Rosa, Lars, and the children lived beneath the same roof, sharing meals and helping with homework and arguing and laughing together, they became more like a family, drawing closer like a wound knitting together, the pain of it easing as the scar formed. The girls had become so accustomed to calling Lars “Pa” in front of the Cacchiones that they no longer reverted to “Mr. Jorgensen” when they were alone.
Miguel went to Lars willingly now, and showed him more smiles and affection than he had ever offered his true father, who had too often frightened him. He had become an active, mischievous boy, eager to laugh at a pratfall or a silly song, reluctant to see the day end and go to bed at night, even to sleep beneath the colorful, scrappy Railroad Crossing quilt Rosa had made for him.

“Will you make mine next?” asked Lupita eagerly the night Rosa put the last stitch into the binding of her brother’s quilt. Lupita knew that as the next youngest, it was rightfully her turn.

“I’ll begin as soon as I mend these shirts for Pa,” Rosa promised, rising from her chair near the fireplace and brushing loose threads off the quilt, studying her handiwork with a critical eye.

Lupita thrust out her lower lip. “But I’ve been
patient
.”

“I know, but I’ll need you to be patient another few days.”

“And that’s just until Mamá can start it,” Ana pointed out. “You’ll need to be patient for weeks longer while she makes it.”

Rosa muffled a sigh, wishing that Ana didn’t always feel compelled to be sure everyone understood the whole truth.

Lupita’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “I want my quilt now.”

Rosa raised her eyebrows at her youngest daughter. “Lupita,
mija
, what has gotten into you?”

“The shirts can wait,” said Lars mildly from the sofa, regarding them over the Santa Rosa
Press Democrat.

“No, the shirts can’t wait,” said Rosa, with a warning frown for Lupita. She wished Lars hadn’t spoken. They could not reward Lupita’s willfulness. “You can’t wear them when they’re missing buttons and the cuffs are torn.”

“I can take care of Pa’s shirts,” offered Marta, rising from her seat on the floor near the hearth.

“Stop calling him that!” Lupita thrust her arms straight down by her sides and balled her hands into fists. “He’s
not
our
pa
!”

“Oh, he is too, Lupita,” snapped Marta. “Just shut up. He is too our father, yours and mine. Don’t be such a stupid little spoiled brat. Mamá will make your quilt as soon as she can.”

Lupita burst into angry tears and fled for the attic. Ana stared at her eldest sister, and then her gaze traveled from Rosa to Lars and back again, her mouth opening slightly in shock. Feeling faint from dismay, Rosa could only stare wordlessly at Marta until she felt a tug on her skirt. “Pa’s my pa too,” Miguel said anxiously. “He’s my pa too.”

Wordlessly, Rosa stroked his soft curls and threw Lars a helpless look, stricken. Lars cleared his throat, folded the newspaper, and set it aside. “How long have you known?” he asked Marta quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Rosa saw in her eyes that until that moment, Marta had only suspected. “I don’t know. A while. I figured it out. I mean, Lupita and I have never been sick, and Ana and Miguel and the others…” She shrugged and gestured, a quick wave of the hand, as if to say it had only been a matter of time, since she was nobody’s fool, and of course, she was absolutely right.

“Marta,
mija
,” Rosa began shakily, “there’s so much you’re not old enough to understand—”

“Can we not talk about it, please?” pleaded Marta, inching toward the attic stairs. “Not right now?”

Rosa nodded, and Marta bit her lip and darted off upstairs. A moment later Rosa heard her murmuring gentle apologies to her weeping sister. Ana dragged herself to her feet and, ducking her head to hide the tears in her eyes, she crossed the room to give Lars a quick hug before hurrying after her sisters.

“Mamá?” said Miguel, clinging to her leg.