Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (45 page)

When she reached the prune barn, she hesitated before throwing open the doors. Lucerno’s men had been working
hard since she had last stolen a glance inside. The still gleamed spotlessly as before, but many more tin milk cans were arranged in rows along the opposite wall, and a pile of empty sugar sacks three feet tall sat in the corner. She and Lars had to make it look as if they had tried to put out the fire, as if they had tried to save Mr. Lucerno’s stores of grappa. With a wary glance toward the ceiling, Rosa steeled herself and entered the barn, the uneven floorboards creaking underfoot. She took hold of one of the milk cans and wrestled it outside, concealing it in the forest between the thick, spreading roots of a coastal redwood. She had dragged two more cans into the forest before Lars showed up with two jugs of kerosene. He understood immediately what she was doing and joined in, but when only five cans remained inside the barn, he put a hand on her arm as she took hold of one and shook his head. “Leave them,” he said. “We can’t make it look like it was too easy.”

She nodded and let go of the milk can. As they left the barn, Lars paused to grab a few pieces of equipment from the side of the still facing the door and carried them outside. “Stand back,” he said, and while she withdrew to the forest, she glimpsed him striding back and forth within the barn, spilling kerosene in his wake, careful not to splash any on his clothes.

Her heart pounded as she watched him kick over two of the milk cans to send streams of grappa cascading down the uneven floor. “Lars,” she called. “Get out of there.” Nodding, he paused in the doorway long enough to strike a match and throw it behind him, and then he ran to join her among the redwoods.

First the only flickering light came from the fallen match, so close to a stream of grappa that Rosa wondered if the liquid would extinguish it rather than burst into flame. Then, with a soft roar, the kerosene caught fire and a line of searing red and
orange and blue raced from one end of the barn to the other. And then suddenly it seemed the entire barn was ablaze, flames leaping up to lick the high beams, sparks popping and snapping and rising into the sky. Lars kept a wary eye on the nearest redwoods, and if an ember went aloft and floated lazily back down to earth too close to the trees, he was immediately upon it, stamping out the flames with his heavy boots. Rosa’s heart pounded as she watched some of the branches closest to the roof blacken and smolder, and she swallowed back the bitter, metallic taste of fear. If she had given her plan more thought, she would have abandoned it as too dangerous. Now it was too late, and she knew that if not for the heavy soaking rains the night before, the whole forest might have caught fire.

Lars stood a few yards away watching the blaze, but suddenly he strode toward the barn door. “What are you doing?” she shouted, but her voice was lost in the roaring of the flames. Crouching low, he darted into the barn and emerged a heartbeat later carrying two empty, smoldering crates marked with the Johnson’s Bakery insignia. He raced inside again and returned dragging two old wooden chairs that had been stationed on either side of the doors. Then Rosa understood. The milk cans full of grappa and the pieces of the still stashed among the redwoods were in pristine condition. The charred objects were their proof that they had attempted to put out the blaze and save what they could after the barn had become engulfed.

Eventually Lars retreated to the forest, coughing and red-eyed, his clothes and face blackened with soot, ashes in his hair. As he shrugged off his jacket and shook it roughly, Rosa pulled the sleeves of her coat down to cover her hands and brushed the soot and ashes from his face and hair. “I think that’ll do it,” Lars said hoarsely as the roof caved in.

Before long they heard the shriek of sirens coming up the road, and Rosa imagined the children being jolted awake and finding themselves alone. She reached for Lars’s hand, squeezed it, and hurried back to the house, directing the passing firefighters along the gravel road through the vineyard to the orchard. She found the children on the front porch, barefoot in their pajamas, their faces turned toward the orchard, wide-eyed and openmouthed in astonishment.

“Can we go see?” asked Ana, frightened and eager.

“No,” said Rosa firmly, putting her arms around them and steering them back into the house. “But you may watch from Miguel’s window.” They tore away from her and raced up the stairs.

Later she learned that Charmian London or one of her houseguests had spotted the smoke and called the fire department. Eventually they brought the blaze under control, but not before the prune barn and everything within it was utterly destroyed. Curious lumps of metal and twisted wires littered the smoking heaps of ash and cinder, but if the firemen thought they resembled anything other than farm or orchard equipment, they said nothing. Everyone there was aware of the thunderstorm that had passed through the Sonoma Valley that night, just as they knew how a lightning strike could bring down an old tinderbox of a building within hours. The fire chief remarked that the Ottesens were fortunate that they had lost only one little-used outbuilding and not their house or winery, and everyone for miles around was lucky that the forest had been only slightly singed. The caprice of nature could have devastated them all.

The ruins had not yet completely cooled when Mr. Lucerno showed up two days later to inspect the damage, driving a shiny new roadster instead of the bakery delivery truck. Rosa
and Lars showed him the grappa they had managed to save before the flames grew too intense and the few other charred, inconsequential items they had snatched up in their last, frantic moments before the heat and smoke forced them to retreat.

“You warned me this place was a deathtrap,” said Mr. Lucerno, nudging a smoldering cinder aside with the toe of an Italian leather shoe that probably cost more than Rosa’s entire wardrobe.

“Thank heavens no one was inside at the time,” Rosa said, with a shudder that was not at all feigned.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save more of your property,” said Lars, and offered to help load the milk cans of grappa into his roadster. Mr. Lucerno accepted, and when the task was done, he studied the ruins of the barn, frowning and shaking his head, muttering under his breath about the cost of doing business out in the sticks.

“We don’t think it’s right to keep your money for the weeks you can’t use the barn.” Rosa handed Mr. Lucerno three hundred dollars, a little more than half the month’s rent. “I hope your Mr. Johnson won’t be too upset about this.”

Mr. Lucerno peered at her curiously. “Mr. Johnson?”

“Your employer,” she said. “Johnson’s Bakery? I assumed that was his name.”

A faint smile appeared on his lips. “No, that’s not his name. He will be upset, but he’ll understand that this was an act of God. He won’t take it out on me.” He brandished the bundle of folded bills and tucked them into his breast pocket. “This’ll cheer him up a little, this and the grappa you saved. How soon could you rebuild?”

“Well, that all depends,” said Lars, taken aback. “We’ll have to clear the debris, and see how much it will cost—”

“We can help you there.”

“Much appreciated,” said Lars, “but I’d have to fit the work in between the winter pruning and cleanup of the vineyards and—”

“So you’re saying it’ll be a while.” Mr. Lucerno frowned, thinking. “We’ll need to find someplace to use in the meantime. Can you vouch for any of your neighbors? They’d have to be folks who know how to keep their mouths shut.”

Lars and Rosa exchanged a look and shook their heads. “We just moved in a few months ago,” said Rosa. “We haven’t even met Charmian London yet, and she’s our nearest neighbor.”

“I’ll tell you what.” From the look on his face, Rosa knew Mr. Lucerno was groping for some good news to take back to his employer. “Can we count on you to renew our lease, so to speak, after you rebuild the barn?”

“Absolutely,” said Lars. “The day the prune barn is rebuilt, you can move right in and set up shop.”

Mr. Lucerno nodded, satisfied. “Good. Good. I’ll tell my boss.” He climbed into his roadster, gave them one parting nod, and drove away. Watching the roadster rumble down the gravel driveway, Rosa reached for Lars’s hand, flooded by an immeasurable sense of relief.

She knew Lars would always manage to be far too busy to rebuild that old prune barn.

January and February were the months for pruning and cleaning up the vineyard. Lars and Daniel led the teams of workers, and just as on the Cacchione ranch, every member of the family, young and old, played a role. Miguel was old enough to help Rosa pull weeds around the stocks, and after the girls came home from school, they helped gather up the uprooted weeds
and fallen grapevine trimmings. Rosa wasn’t sure whether it was dark humor or pragmatism that prompted Lars to have the children pile up the debris on the ruins of the prune barn, but after the last trellis row was finished, he and Daniel lit the bonfire on the ashes that rain showers had not washed away. The smell of smoke drifting up into the night sky filled Rosa with anticipation for the coming of spring. Before long mustard growing among the trellises would dust the vineyard in gold, and soon thereafter the grapevines would leaf out, becoming green and lush once more. With the children healthy and thriving, John misled by his returned mail, and the men from Johnson’s Bakery gone for good, for the first time in ages Rosa looked to the future with something close to optimism.

The baby growing within her womb gave her even more reason to be full of joy and hope. Friends and family alike helped her prepare for the little one’s arrival. To make ready the nursery, Lars built a crib, refinished a secondhand rocking chair, and painted the walls of the smallest bedroom a warm, creamy yellow. Rosa sewed curtains, a dust ruffle, and a cozy Pinwheel Star crib quilt from cotton feed sacks and scraps. For their part, the children eagerly suggested names and argued over whether they should have a boy or a girl. On one sunny, breezy February day, Alegra Del Bene and her youngest son came over for lunch and playtime, bringing along a large carton full of baby clothes her children had outgrown.

“Are you sure you won’t need these again?” asked Rosa, lifting the lid and admiring the neatly folded garments, flannel blankets, and diapers.

Alegra smiled, but her eyes were weary and her skin seemed drained of its radiance. “If I do, I’ll borrow them back.”

As the boys ran off to play, Rosa took Alegra upstairs to
show her the baby’s room. Alegra admired the Pinwheel Star quilt and wished aloud that she knew how to make something so soft and comforting for her children. “I’ll teach you,” Rosa offered. “It’s easy, and quilting lessons will give us a good excuse to get together.” Alegra accepted so promptly that Rosa wondered whether she was very eager to learn, or just relieved to have a reason to avoid staying home alone. She didn’t need a reason. Rosa had given her a standing invitation to come over when she felt anxious or wanted to avoid an unwelcome visit from Dwight Crowell, but Alegra rarely took her up on the offer. Perhaps she didn’t want to admit she didn’t like to be home alone.

They took Rosa’s sewing basket out to the front porch where they could keep an eye on the boys as they played happily with the collie puppies in the courtyard garden, enclosed on three sides by the farmhouse and the adjacent building. After Rosa showed Alegra a few sample quilt blocks, they settled on a simple Nine-Patch for her first project. They were chatting and sorting scraps from Rosa’s basket when they heard the distant sound of wheels on gravel and the rumble of a car’s motor. They both instinctively glanced up, but from where they sat, a thick screen of redwoods blocked the view of the gravel circle where visitors parked. Seeing no one, Alegra returned her attention to her work, a piece of royal blue and red tartan fabric in one hand and Rosa’s best shears in the other, but Rosa recognized the sound of the motor and fixed her gaze on the footbridge. Within moments, Dwight Crowell appeared, striding purposefully toward the house.

“Rose,” began Alegra, holding up a scrap of red wool, “do you think this piece would be too rough, or—” Her words choked off as she caught sight of the agent. Stifling a gasp, she
dropped the shears, scrambled to her feet, and raced into the house. The door banged shut behind her.

Rosa stood and waited for their unwelcome visitor at the top of the porch stairs, smoothing her skirt and crossing her arms. “Agent Crowell,” she said flatly, “what can I do for you?”

He halted at the bottom of the stairs. “I’d like to speak to your cousin.”

“He isn’t here.”

“Then tell me where I can find him.”

“He doesn’t check in with me,” Rosa retorted. “I’m his cousin, not his mother.”

Crowell jerked his head in the direction of the gravel circle. “Whose car is parked back there?”

Rosa was surprised he didn’t know; he had recognized the Chevrolet she and Lars had bought from the Vanellis quickly enough. “It’s not my cousin’s,” she said, exasperated. “What’ll it be this time, Mr. Crowell? Do you want to see the winery, count the barrels again, knock on the walls in search of a secret room?”

His lips thinned. “I think I have time for all of that.”

“Miguel,” she called. “Stay in the garden with the dogs, hear me?”

“Okay, Mamá,” he shouted back, waving. Alegra’s son echoed him, shading his eyes with his hand and searching the porch for his mother. He spotted Crowell instead, and instantly his happy grin crumpled into a scowl of worry and dislike.

Over Rosa’s objections that such precautions were unnecessary and demeaning, Lars had heeded Mr. Lucerno’s warnings and had asked the hired hands to make sure she was never left alone with Crowell. As soon as Rosa and Crowell headed up the hill to the winery, a hand named Charlie who had been observing
them from the doorway of the barn left his post and fell in step behind them. Seething with impatience, Crowell stormed ahead as Rosa and Charlie discussed the improving health of a mare that had fallen a bit lame. As she watched him, it occurred to Rosa that in the year she had known Crowell, his arrogant self-righteousness had become an almost frenzied, malevolent zealotry. She wondered if that was because no matter how many winemakers he harassed and arrested, he could not dam up the river of alcohol flowing in Sonoma County—wine, grappa, distilled spirits smuggled in by ship from Canada and Mexico, the liquor kept coming. Many officials looked the other way when their neighbors broke the law, justifying their leniency by arguing that they were obliged to focus their attention and limited resources on the real villains—members of organized crime, opportunistic hardened criminals—rather than family men, farmers and ranchers they had known for years. Not so Crowell, who condemned such police officers and politicians as hypocritical and corrupt. To Crowell, Dante Cacchione was as much a criminal as a mob boss, Alegra Del Bene as deserving of suspicion as Albert Lucerno. There were no innocent civilians in his war, only lawbreakers and potential lawbreakers.