Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (38 page)

Rosa looked from one eager sister-in-law to the other before it dawned on her what they were thinking, and she had to laugh. “If you’ve been waiting for a big announcement of a blessed event, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“I told you so,” said Mabel, swatting Francesca lightly with a dish towel. “It was just the heat after all.”

Rosa nodded, relieved that they had found their own explanation. As Mabel teased her sister-in-law and Francesca protested that her first guess had been perfectly reasonable, Rosa smiled, but her amusement swiftly faded. She and Lars had had two children together, but they hadn’t welcomed news of either pregnancy with joy. Such beautiful, beloved daughters had deserved a happier welcome to the world than they had received. Rosa’s only consolation was that they didn’t know, and that she had done all she could to make it up to them every day thereafter.

Even with Dante gone and friends suffering hardship, the
work of the vineyard went on. The grapevines had flourished green and lush beneath the torrid skies of June in Santa Rosa, and the time had come to position the shoots so that the vines would concentrate their flavors in a select few, perfect bunches. Rosa, Lars, and the eldest Cacchione children walked the trellis rows, arranging the vines by hand so that the leaves would receive full sun exposure and not shade the growing clusters of small, green fruit and slow their ripening. The Cacchiones were satisfied only when a grapevine was in balance, which Rosa quickly learned meant that the vine supported a sufficient but not excessive canopy of leaves, enough to support the growing clusters and bring the fruit to perfect ripeness.

Positioning the shoots was a time-consuming, laborious process, and they completed only a third of the vines before it was time to prepare supper. The men continued to work in the vineyard while the women went to the kitchen and prepared a tasty meal of gnocchi, sausage, tomato and mozzarella salad, and crusty bread. Giuditta returned home just as they were setting the table and pouring the wine. She looked pensive, but she assured them that Sal was on the mend and Bea was bearing up well, although she remained terribly worried about her husband. Before they could press her for more details, Giuditta went back outside to call the men in for supper.

Giuditta waited until the children had finished eating and had run off to play before she shared the rest of the news from the Vanelli ranch. According to the doctor, Sal had suffered a mild heart attack brought on by stress, and it was essential for him to reduce his workload and rest until he had fully recovered. “The doctor didn’t seem to understand that if Sal spends less time in the vineyard, the work won’t get done, and his stress will only increase.”

“Mr. Vanelli should visit Dr. Reynolds and get a second opinion,” said Dominic.

“He absolutely should,” declared Rosa, although she had never met Sal’s doctor and had no reason to question his diagnosis. “Dr. Reynolds is a miracle worker.”

“The Vanellis could use a miracle or two right about now,” said Giuditta ruefully. “They’ve decided to sell their vineyard.”

“But they’ve farmed that land for almost forty years,” cried Francesca. “And his father before him. Mr. Vanelli swore he’d never give it up. Jack London offered him a fortune for it, and Mr. Vanelli turned him down again and again, remember? That’s one of his favorite stories, how he bested the famous writer and daring adventurer Jack London.”

“I know, dear, but their circumstances have changed,” said Giuditta. “Now the Vanellis are asking far less than Mr. London ever offered. They’re getting on in years, and they have no children to take over the vineyard after them. If the uncertainty of farming is taking its toll on their health, it’s quite sensible for them to retire.”

“
Nonno
and
Nonna
didn’t leave their land when they stopped working,” Francesca said.

“They had your father and me,” Giuditta reminded her, and then she smiled fondly, wistfully. “And they never really stopped working, did they?”

“The Vanellis have Daniel Kuo.”

Giuditta laughed. “Yes, and he’s a wonderful foreman. No one grows a grape to perfection quite the way he can. But he’s not their son, and they don’t expect him to care for them in their old age.”

“I bet he would, if they asked,” said Vince. “He’s a real stand-up guy.”

“They have too much pride to ask,” said Dominic.

Giuditta sighed. “I admit I’m torn. For their sakes I hope they’ll find a buyer who can match their asking price, but I’ll miss them so much that I’m tempted to steal their ‘for sale’ sign before anyone else sees it.”

Rosa and Lars exchanged a look. Was this their cue, Rosa wondered, or was this the worst possible time to announce that they too intended to move away soon? Lars shook his head slightly, and she gave him the barest of nods in return to show she understood. It would be unnecessarily hurtful to mention their own impending departure at such a time, especially since they still had not settled on a plan.

“I’d like to visit the Vanellis tomorrow,” said Francesca.

Mabel’s eyebrows rose. “Your mother was only joking about pulling up the sign. It wasn’t a hint.”

“I know that.”

“Nor should you try to talk them out of it,” said Giuditta.

Francesca looked deflated. “Oh.”

“But it would be lovely if you’d stop by for a chat and to help around the house a bit,” said Giuditta. “The Vanellis have always doted on you children, and I think a visit would cheer them up.”

“I’d like to go too,” said Rosa, on an impulse. “If I can be spared for a few hours, and if Francesca doesn’t mind the company.”

Francesca and Giuditta both assured her she was welcome to go along, so the next morning, Rosa and Francesca set out in the car with another basketful of bread, prunes, preserves, and wine, and a packet of handmade get well cards from the younger children. Rosa drove and Francesca directed her south, in the opposite direction of Santa Rosa, past vineyards and
farms to Glen Ellen, a small village in a forested valley just north of the town of Sonoma. They took a side road that wound uphill through a leafy wood, and just as they rounded a steep bend, Francesca pointed out a modest, hand-painted sign that marked the turnoff to Vanelli Vineyards and Orchard. If they had continued on a few miles past the turnoff, Francesca added, they would have come to Jack London’s famed Beauty Ranch, where his widow, Charmian, resided in a home called the House of Happy Walls, built a few years after Jack’s death. Elsewhere on their vast acreage stood the renovated mid-nineteenth-century winery where Charmian and Jack had lived together and where he had written several of his renowned books as well as papers on his innovative farming methods. Also remaining were the ruins of Wolf House, Jack’s magnificent dream home, which had taken three years to build and had mysteriously burned to the ground in 1913, just before the Londons intended to move in.

“Arson?” asked Rosa, intrigued.

“Who knows?” Francesca said. “Could be. Before you ask, I’m sure Mr. Vanelli had absolutely nothing to do with it, despite their ongoing feud.”

Rosa laughed. “It didn’t occur to me that he might have, until you suggested it.”

About an eighth of a mile farther along, the car emerged from the hilly woods into the vineyard proper, rows upon rows of trellises covered in lush grapevines. In contrast to the Cacchiones’ land, vast acres of relatively flat, level land framed by gently rolling hills, the secluded Vanelli ranch resembled a stream-cut valley surrounded by thickly forested slopes. A high, towering peak disappeared into a bank of low clouds to the northwest. “That’s Sonoma Mountain,” Francesca said, just as
the road abruptly ended in a broad circle of gravel. “Park here. We have to walk the rest of the way, but it’s not far.”

Rosa carried the basket as Francesca led the way down a cobblestone footpath that wound through the trees to a stone bridge spanning a wide, rushing creek. From the opposite bank Rosa spied a white Victorian farmhouse with gingerbread molding in a clearing up ahead, but as they drew closer, she saw that it was not one structure but two, one smaller and cozy, the other L-shaped and twice the size of the first. Together the two buildings formed a horseshoe with a garden courtyard between the wings. Partially hidden amid the surrounding trees were various outbuildings, and through the foliage Rosa glimpsed more even, horizontal rows of trellises climbing the steep hillsides. The stunning views of the sun-dappled hills with Sonoma Mountain rising just beyond them took her breath away. Birdsong and the burbling of the creek filled the air with the music of nature, and the breeze carried the scent of grass and fresh berries. It was as lovely and thriving as any farm Rosa had ever seen, and she could not imagine how the Vanellis could bear to leave it.

They found Sal reclining on a daybed on the deep front porch, a green-and-gold Sunflower quilt draped over him despite the warmth of the day. A stack of
Life
and
National
Geographic
magazines and a glass of iced tea, dewy with condensation, sat on a white wicker end table to his right, but he paid no attention to them, his gaze fixed instead on a yellow birdhouse on a post in the front yard. At the sight of Francesca and Rosa approaching, he smiled, pushed the quilt aside, and began to rise, but they quickened their pace and called out that he shouldn’t get up on their account. He nodded and waved, seeming relieved as he adjusted his pillow and settled back against it. His face was
drawn and haggard, and although his silver-gray hair was neatly combed, he evidently had not shaved for at least two days. He seemed to Rosa to have aged a decade in the few weeks since she had last seen him, and the naked worry on Francesca’s face told her the young woman shared her shock and concern.

“Now, girls, don’t look at me like that,” he said gruffly as they climbed the porch stairs. “You’ll make me feel like a sick old man.”

“We know you’re not that.” Francesca patted him on the shoulder and pulled a rocking chair up to his side. “How are you feeling, though, really?”

“Bored. Tired.” Sal frowned unhappily. “I want to be out in my vineyards, not dozing the day away on the porch. This might be my last summer on the vineyard and I’m missing my favorite season.”

“Mr. Vanelli,” exclaimed Francesca.

Sal’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “I called it my last summer here because we’re selling the place, sweetheart, not because I plan to be pushing up daisies this time next year.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Listen, girls.” Sal lowered his voice, glanced toward the front door, and motioned for them to draw closer. “Bea’s been waiting on me hand and foot for days. She needs to get out of this house for a breath of fresh air before she makes herself sick, hovering over me and waiting for me to collapse again. Would you persuade her to take a walk or sit in the garden for a little while? Anything to give her a little break.”

“We can certainly try,” said Francesca. “She could take Rosa on a tour of the vineyard.”

“I’d enjoy that very much,” said Rosa. “How long should I keep her occupied?”

“Until she smiles at least twice and laughs at least once,” said Sal decisively. “Then I’ll know my old girl’s back.”

“Consider it done.”

“She’s going to miss this place,” said Sal wistfully as he took in the view from the daybed. “I hope the new owners won’t mind if I bring her around to visit from time to time. She’d probably tend the flower garden for free if they’d let her. It’s too bad she can’t take her roses and daisies with her. She and Luther Burbank go way back.”

“He’s a famous horticulturist,” Francesca added for Rosa’s benefit. “He developed the Shasta daisy and lots of other flowers and plants.”

“Some of the flowers in the courtyard grew from seeds and cuttings from Luther’s own garden in Santa Rosa,” Sal said proudly. “Bea can show you which ones.”

Rosa set the basket of food on the porch floor and leaned back against the railing. “You’ve made up your minds to leave, then?”

“We have.” Sal frowned and shook his head. “That raid on your folks’ place, Frannie, was the last straw. Bea’s been after me to retire for years now, and the day I left the hospital, she told me she was terrified that this vineyard might make her a widow. Well, the vineyard isn’t the problem. Prohibition is, the law and the crime and all that goes with it. For six years, I convinced myself that I could outlast it and someday get back to doing what I love—making excellent wines.” He patted his chest ruefully. “Then my ticker told me I probably couldn’t.”

“Oh, Sal,” said Rosa, shaking her head. She had liked Sal and Bea since they first met at the Cacchiones’ harvest dance,
and it saddened her to see them so worn out from strife and worry. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“So am I.” He gazed off toward Sonoma Mountain. “I’ll miss watching the sun set behind that peak, but the view I’ll miss most is sunrise over the Mayacamas—that’s the mountain range to the east, Rose. Walking the vineyard early in the morning while the fog still clings to the ground, watching the eastern sky brighten with the coming of dawn, all rose and pink and gold—” He paused and cleared his throat. “Well. I’ve seen it thousands of times. I wouldn’t need to see it again to remember it forever, wherever I go.”

“Where will you go?” asked Rosa, thinking of her own ill-formed plans. “Have you decided?”

“Yes, we have, and I’m glad to say it’s not far.”

“Not at all, only a little more than thirty miles away,” Bea chimed in as she pushed open the screen door and joined them on the porch. “My brother and his wife own a resort near Cloverdale in the Alexander Valley—twenty-four of the coziest little redwood bungalows you’ll ever see, right on the Russian River. We’re going to help them run it.”

“You can’t count on the weather or the wine,” said Sal, “but you can always count on tourists from San Francisco.”

Francesca brightened. “Cloverdale—you’ll be close enough to come back to visit.”

“Now and then,” agreed Bea, smiling. “And you can visit us. We’ll show you the most beautiful places in the Russian River Valley—just as soon as we learn what they are.”