Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (33 page)

She couldn’t ask John for a divorce without coming out of hiding and endangering them all, and Lars understandably didn’t want to be with someone else’s wife. He cared about Rosa, but he had fled with them because he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing Marta and Lupita again. He remained with them, pretending to be her husband and fulfilling the role of father for his children as well as John’s for the their sake, not hers.

It was a brutal, bitter truth, but she had to accept it. To deny it now, as she and Lars were growing closer, would be to confront inevitable heartache later.

A few days later, Rosa was in the vineyard helping Francesca train the last of the new vines when she glanced up at a sound from the road and saw a dark sedan approaching the residence. Giuditta was in the house caring for the baby while her exhausted daughter-in-law slept, so Rosa brushed debris from her hands and said to Francesca, “I’ll see to them. You got the last one.”

“Thanks. Don’t take any wooden nickels,” Francesca advised cheerfully.

Rosa laughed and hurried back through the rows of trellises, lush and green with new foliage. When she reached the yard, she spotted a black-suited man striding back and forth beside the dark sedan, a gray flannel hat on his head, his hands on his hips. When he removed his hat and mopped his brow with the back of his hand, she stopped short, taken aback by his resemblance to Lars. When the stranger glanced her way and nodded, she roused herself and went to welcome him. This surely was the man who had bought prunes from Francesca once before, and he did indeed look enough like Lars that he could have been a third Jorgensen brother.

“Welcome to Cacchione Vineyards,” she called breathlessly as she approached. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak with Giuditta Cacchione,” he replied, glancing past her toward the house. “Are you her?”

“No, I’m Rose. I work for Mrs. Cacchione.”

“Nice to meet you, Rose. I’m Dwight Crowell. Could you go fetch Mrs. Cacchione for me? There’s a particular purchase I’d like to make, and I hear she’s the one to ask for.”

“I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment.” Rosa gestured over her shoulder to the residence, smiling apologetically. “Her daughter-in-law had a baby girl a few weeks ago, and like any proud grandma, Mrs. Cacchione is always on call. But I’d be happy to help you if I can. Would you like some lunch, or perhaps some more prunes?”

Mr. Crowell’s eyebrows rose as if he had not expected Rosa to know that he had visited the vineyard before. Indeed, if not for his resemblance to Lars, Rosa wouldn’t have known, because Francesca wouldn’t have bothered to describe him. “I guess another half dozen prunes would be about right.”

Rosa smiled and beckoned him to follow her up to the front
porch, where she showed him to a comfortable redwood chair and told him she would be right back. She hurried inside to the kitchen, descended into the refreshing coolness of the root cellar, and carefully placed six perfect, sweet prunes into a paper sack. When she returned to the front porch, the chair was empty but the sedan was still parked in the yard. Rosa searched for Mr. Crowell and found him wandering by the winery, peering in through the windows and testing the double front doors. Uneasy, Rosa halted in the middle of the yard and called, “I’m afraid they’re locked.”

“So I found out myself,” he replied, grinning easily as he stopped tugging on the doors and came to join her. “I guess there’s not much use for this old building anymore.”

“On the contrary, the wine cellar’s full,” said Rosa. “The Cacchiones have a storage permit, but the wine’s out of reach behind a very strong padlock.”

Mr. Crowell planted his hands on his hips and turned slowly in place, squinting as he took in the winery, the residence, and the main outbuildings. “Seems like a waste to pay to store wine they can’t sell.”

“I’ve heard Mr. Cacchione say the same on more than one occasion.” Rosa found herself wishing that Dante would appear, or Dominic or even young Vince. Something about Mr. Crowell made her uncomfortable, something that had nothing to do with his superficial resemblance to Lars. “I think when he considers all the work his family put into the creation of those wines, he can’t bear to destroy them.”

Mr. Crowell nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the winery. The longer Rosa studied him, the more differences between him and Lars she noticed. Mr. Crowell had a thin white
scar running from his right earlobe to his jaw, and there was a look of arrogance in his eyes that would never appear in Lars’s. Rosa thrust the bag of prunes toward him and named her price. He took the bag, dug some coins out of his pocket, and placed them in her hand. As she thanked him, he said, “It’s a mighty hot day, Rose, and I’m parched. I don’t suppose I could refresh myself with a glass of wine before I hit the road?”

Rosa assumed a tragic expression. “I’m so sorry, but we aren’t allowed to sell wine anymore. Would you like some lemonade or iced tea instead?”

He fixed her with a piercing stare, but she did not flinch. “Lemonade, please.” She smiled, nodded, and hurried back into the kitchen. When she returned, he accepted the glass, sipped the sweet coolness, and leveled his gaze at the vineyard. “Mind if I have a look around?”

“Of course not,” said Rosa brightly, falling into step beside him as he headed off to the barn, although it was obvious that he had intended to go alone. As they walked, she recited a history of the vineyard and noteworthy facts about each building they passed, having memorized the standard tour she had overheard Giuditta deliver so many times.

Time and time again, Mr. Crowell’s gaze returned to the winery. “You say the Cacchiones can’t sell me any wine, but folks say they’re still making it.”

“Well, of course,” said Rosa innocently, wondering which folks he meant. “But no more than two hundred gallons for their own use. That’s the law. They can and do sell wine grapes, though. Would you be interested in a bushel?”

Mr. Crowell shook his head and handed her his empty lemonade glass. “No, thank you.” Frowning thinly, he strolled back
to his sedan, opened the door, and touched the brim of his hat to her. “Thank you for the refreshments, Rose, and the tour. What did you say your last name was?”

“I don’t think I did. It’s Ottesen.”

“Ottesen,” he repeated thoughtfully, and climbed in behind the wheel.

Disconcerted, Rosa nonetheless smiled and waved as he pulled away, but as soon as he drove out of sight, she let all pretense of hospitality drop. Mr. Crowell resembled Lars, but he reminded Rosa of John. Both men shared an almost tangible determination to get whatever they wanted.

When Rosa next saw Giuditta later that afternoon, she took her aside and told her about Mr. Crowell’s return visit to the vineyard, how he had wanted to speak to Giuditta personally, and how he had wanted to buy wine. “Did you sell him any?” Giuditta asked.

“Why, no,” said Rosa, taken aback. As far as she knew, except for a few jugs the family kept in the cellar of the residence to drink with meals, all of the Cacchiones’ wine was locked away in the winery and the old wine cellar. If Rosa wouldn’t dare serve glasses of wine to jolly picnickers, Giuditta ought to know she wouldn’t sell an entire barrel to a lone stranger. “He bought another half dozen prunes and looked around a bit. I gave him the usual vineyard history and a glass of lemonade.”

“Why didn’t you come find me so I could unlock the old wine cellar?” Giuditta asked cheerfully. “Was Dante watching? If that’s the case, good girl and well done.”

“No, that wasn’t it.” Giuditta’s apparent lack of concern bewildered Rosa. “I didn’t want him to know you sell wine. He said that he heard that you did, but he didn’t bother to name the person
who had told him, so I insisted that you sell only wine grapes. Something about him bothered me. He was too…curious.”

For a moment Giuditta’s expression grew troubled. “Did you take him past the old wine cellar on your tour?”

“Of course not,” said Rosa. “He barely glanced that way, thank goodness. I don’t think he even saw the footpath.” If he had, Rosa didn’t know what she could have done to prevent him—grabbed his arm and pointed out interesting sights in the opposite direction? Pretended to sprain her ankle so he would have to help her hobble back to the house? “It really wasn’t much of a tour. I just followed him as he wandered around. Giuditta, do you suppose he could have been a Prohibition agent?”

Giuditta frowned, mulling it over. “I doubt it. They’re much more aggressive. They love to flash their badges and order people around. If he were an agent, he could have commanded you to go get me, forced me to unlock the winery, and poked around to his heart’s content instead of rattling locked doors and peering through windows.”

“I suppose,” said Rosa, dubious.

Giuditta patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. “Please don’t worry. He asked for me, not Dante, and I bet a Prohibition agent would ask for the man of the house. Most likely, Mr. Crowell got my name from a satisfied customer and all he wanted was to take some good wine home to his wife. He probably hoped that if he wandered around long enough, he’d find me or someone else willing to sell him a barrel since you wouldn’t. But just in case, I’ll have Dominic and Vince move some brush to hide the foot of the trail. I doubt he’ll return, but if he does, I’ll take care of him myself.”

“If he comes back, I don’t think you should sell him any wine.”

Giuditta smiled. “Because you don’t want to be caught in a lie?”

“Because I don’t like him,” Rosa countered. “It’s only one barrel of wine. Can’t you let this one customer go, just in case he isn’t really a customer?”

“Only one barrel of wine, you say, but one barrel of wine well appreciated might lead to another, and sales add up.” Giuditta sighed, her gaze traveling the length of the vineyard from the rows where they stood to the road. In the distance, the sun in its decline nearly touched the tops of the mountains sheltering the valley. “But it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. If Mr. Crowell returns, and I doubt he will, I’ll try to find out where he heard that we have wine for sale. If he can’t name our mutual friend, I won’t sell him a drop. Will that satisfy you?”

“Not entirely, but it’ll do,” said Rosa, and Giuditta laughed, throwing Rosa a smile that was both fond and teasing. She thought Rosa worried too much, and perhaps she did. From time to time, and almost always in jest, Giuditta made distinctions between the passionate, headstrong nature of the Italian Cacchiones, and the more cautious, stoic temperament of the Norwegian Ottesens, no matter how often Rosa reminded her that she was of Spanish heritage. Unfortunately, Rosa’s mistrust of Mr. Crowell fit too well into Giuditta’s assumptions about Norwegian reserve to be entirely credible.

By the middle of May, tiny buds resembling miniature clusters of grapes appeared within the lush, green foliage throughout the vineyard, and Dante announced that it was time to begin suckering the grapevines. Just as pruning the dead or extraneous
wood from the vines promoted better, stronger growth, so too did removing unnecessary leaves and shoots allow the strength and vigor of the plant generated from sunlight, earth, and water to flow into fewer, but healthier grapes with a superior taste.

Dante taught Rosa and Lars how to identify the most dominant shoots on the vine, those that had sprung from the prominent buds left behind during winter pruning. The dominant shoots would be left to grow into strong, vigorous clusters of grapes evenly spaced along the vine, while all others would be plucked away. Excess leaves should be removed as well, so that those remaining would be evenly exposed to the sunshine and dispersed enough to allow fresh breezes to circulate through them, helping to prevent the growth of fungus and mildew upon the clusters. As the grapes developed, they would gain better, more uniform exposure to the sun, enhancing their flavor and allowing them to ripen more evenly. At first Rosa and Lars worked under Dante’s watchful eye, but before long they gained his confidence and he allowed them to thin the shoots and leaves unsupervised. Knowing how much Dante treasured his vines, Rosa was proud to have earned his trust.

One beautiful Thursday afternoon, Rosa was in the vineyard thinning shoots alongside Giuditta and Francesca while others labored along more distant rows. Lars was off planting saplings in the burgeoning apricot orchard on the sunny northern hills, and Dante, Dominic, and Vince were off on their weekly delivery run to San Francisco. Chatting with the other women while they worked, Rosa kept one ear tuned to the walnut grove where Lupita, Miguel, and the other children too young to attend school played under the watchful gaze of Mabel,
who sat upon a faded quilt in the shade cuddling baby Sophia. Rosa glanced up at the sound of a car turning onto the gravel drive from the main road and spotted a dark sedan making its way up the hill.

“I’m off to earn my butter and egg money, or maybe my walnut and prune money,” Giuditta joked as she went to see what the visitors wanted. “Save some shoots for me.”

“We’ll be sure to,” Francesca promised. She and Rosa continued with their work and conversation, but not fifteen minutes later, the sound of automobiles speeding along the main road interrupted them. As they stood amid the trellises shading their eyes with their hands, they watched with rapidly increasing concern and bewilderment as two more dark sedans and a police wagon pulled off the main road onto the Cacchiones’ driveway and raced up to the residence.

“Oh, no,” Francesca breathed, dropping her pruning shears and running toward the house. “Papa and the boys. There must have been an accident.”

Her heart in her throat, Rosa quickly hurried after her.

“What is it?” Mabel called frantically as they passed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll find out and come right back,” Rosa promised breathlessly as she ran by. She caught up with Francesca just before they reached the back of the winery, and when they rounded the corner and approached the rear of the house, she spotted the two sedans parked in the yard alongside the one that had arrived earlier. The police wagon pulled to a halt nearby with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust. A few dark-suited men milled about as a pair of uniformed officers climbed down from the cab of the police wagon with weapons drawn. As Francesca came to an abrupt halt, Rosa too froze in place and watched in
horror as Mr. Crowell emerged from around the front of the residence propelling Giuditta before him, her wrists handcuffed behind her back. She threw them a look of utter desperation as she stumbled toward the police wagon.