Midnight Harvest (36 page)

“Your instructions were very clear and there were only two delays on the road.” He extricated his hand.” This is a fine place you have here.”

“É tanto bene. It is well enough,” he said with required modesty belied by his stance. “But it will be better. I have bought a new plantation in Knights Valley, to the east of here, and another near Calistoga, in Napa County.” He pointed to the southeast. “My daughter Sophia and son-in-law, Ethan, live in Calistoga, and he is presently running that operation for me. So I have the best of the region—Sonoma and Napa Counties. In ten years, who knows what will be possible?” He bounced on his heels. “But enough of such matters. Let me welcome you to my house as if to your own; for without you, I would no longer have it.” He turned to Rowena. “And this is your ospide—your guest?” His smile found a way to broaden. “It is a real pleasure to welcome you, Signora Saxon, to my home. It is an honor to have you here. I am told you are a fine artist. I look forward to seeing your work and to the joy of your company.”

Rowena held out her hand to him, and had it kissed. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Pietragnelli.” She indicated her sketch pad. “I hope you won’t mind if I do a few studies of your marvelous home?”

“Why should I mind to have such a kindness done for me?” he asked the world at large. “You must sketch to your heart’s content, cara doña.”

“Thank you,” she said, a bit nonplussed by his relentless cordiality.

“Well, come inside. It is time for lunch, in any case, and my men will be taking their hour of rest” He stumped up the four broad steps onto the covered verandah and made for the front door. “Come in. Prego.”

The interior was cool and comfortably worn, nothing shabby, but everything having the unmistakable look of appreciative use. Most of the furniture was older, but the carpet in the entry hall looked newer than most of the furnishings. There were framed pictures on the wall, and a cluster of photographs on the Chickering cabinet grand piano in the parlor, which stood on the left side of the entry hall; the parlor had two sets of French doors leading to the terrace, but Pietragnelli led them straight ahead, past the broad staircase to the upper floor, and into a sunny dining room.

“This is a beautiful room, Mr. Pietragnelli,” said Rowena, setting her sketch pad down on the window seat and looking at the fine bay window that made everything so luminous. Fine lace curtains filtered the light, making the room seem slightly hazy, and softened the three place-settings in white stoneware and good glass that were laid at one end of the long dining table.

“It is the heart of a house, the dining room, don’t you think?” He went to hold a chair for her. “If you will be seated, I’ll bring you some wine in a moment. I have soup and bread and cheese for lunch. And, of course, wine. I hope you will join me for the meal.” After a short hesitation, he said, “My workers get soup, as well, and bread. On days like this, they are served in the field. When it is cold, I serve them in the winery.”

“That’s generous of you,” said Rowena. “In these times, many employers require their workers to bring their own lunches.” She had read the arguments in the newspapers about such demands, and tended to favor the workingmen’s positions, especially now when money was so hard to come by.

Pietragnelli shook his head vigorously. “I do not hold with such things. I was taught that if I hire men, I must feed them while they labor for me. And,” he added, “many of them cannot afford to feed their families unless I provide lunch for them. It is not an imposition for me. I have a large vegetable garden, and what I do not grow, my neighbor does; also, I trade wine for meat with my neighbors, so it is not difficult for me to offer good, simple meals.”

“An admirable tradition,” said Saint-Germain. “I applaud you for it.”

“I do not do it for applause,” Pietragnelli announced. He shot a questioning look at Saint-Germain. “Would you like to have me turn on the radio? Or show you to the piano and the sheet music? Our meal is almost ready. We’re going to eat, and if you—” He broke off and resumed in a slightly more conversational way, “Mr. Rogers informed me that you do not eat or drink in company. Can’t I persuade you to make an exception so that we can continue to become acquainted?”

“I mean no offense, Signor Pietragnelli, but I fear I must decline the food and drink,” said Saint-Germain. “But do not let my eccentricity keep you from having a proper meal. And if it will not trouble you, I would like to sit with you while you eat. If you don’t find my abstention awkward, I won’t, either, for I am accustomed to doing this. So, if this is acceptable to you, there is no need to offer me other entertainment. And I do agree with you that the room where you dine is the heart of any home.”

Pietragnelli sighed. “Very well.” He turned his attention to Rowena. “You will not refuse me, will you, signora?”

“I have been looking forward to a good lunch,” said Rowena promptly. “Soup, bread, cheese, and wine. What could be better?” She put her napkin in her lap.

“A woman of taste as well as art. Com’ è bella,” approved Pietragnelli. “If you will excuse me, I will ask the cook to bring our food and I will get a special bottle from my own cellar.” So saying, he bustled out of the dining room, calling as he went, “Mrs. Barringstone! Serve our meal, if you would!”

Saint-Germain sat down opposite Rowena, leaving the head of the table free for their host. “It seems that they are still harvesting grapes.”

“Apparently,” said Rowena. “Look at these soup-bowls! They must contain a quart at least. Does he serve as much to his workers, I wonder. They work hard, of course, and would need an ample meal. But—” She stopped speaking as Mrs. Barringstone came into the dining room carrying a large covered tureen; she was a raw-boned woman probably no more than thirty-five but with skin and hair and worry-lines that made her look ten years older. She said nothing as she put her burden down, wiping it carefully with a dish-towel. “Thank you,” Rowena told her.

“I’ll bring the rest in a minute,” Mrs. Barringstone said in a flat Oklahoma twang. She went back to the kitchen.

Rowena lifted the lid on the tureen and sniffed deeply. “She may not be forthcoming, but the soup smells delicious.” As soon as Mrs. Barringstone returned with a large loaf of bread in a basket, a tub of butter, and a round of cheese, Rowena complimented her on the soup.

“It’s Mr. Pietragnelli’s recipe. Thanks anyway.” She put the rest of the meal on the table and left them alone.

“The cheese is local, according to the impression on the rind,” Saint-Germain remarked. “All those dairy cattle must provide the milk.”

“There are probably goats, as well,” said Rowena. “Not that this is goat cheese.”

“Or sheep,” said Saint-Germain.

Pietragnelli came bustling back into the dining room, a wine-bottle in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. “This is eight years old, a blend of Cabernet Franc and Cotes Sauvage, for the wine, a good year, but—Eight years ago was a hard time for us. Prohibition was the law, and if I hadn’t had contracts with Saint Laurence’s and Saint Thomas More, I couldn’t have stayed in business, no matter what you did for us, Conte. The government would have shut us down, as they did so many others—those who didn’t go bankrupt.” He held up the bottle, a happy grin returning to his face. “Still, it was a good year for reds.”

Rowena tried to think of something to say as she watched Pietragnelli wield the corkscrew, and finally commented, “You must be proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”

“Proud?” He set down the corkscrew and twisted the cork off it, sniffing it critically before pouring a little out into his glass. “We shall see.”

“The color is intense,” said Saint-Germain.

“A pity you cannot have any of it,” said Pietragnelli as he swirled the wine in his glass, inhaling deeply.

“I must concur,” said Saint-Germain, watching Pietragnelli take a first, critical taste. “The smell is ambrosial.”

“It will do,” he decided. “But it will need about fifteen minutes to open up fully.” He filled Rowena’s glass and then his own. “It will go well with the soup. If the food is the verse, the wine is the music.” He remained standing as he reached for the ladle and filled Rowena’s soup-bowl, and then his own. “Alla tavola non s’invecchia,” he said as he finally sat down and reached for his wineglass.

“At the table, we never age,” Saint-Germain translated. “An excellent motto.”

Rowena shot him an intense look, then lifted her glass to endorse his sentiment. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Pietragnelli.”

Pietragnelli took the loaf of bread and tore off an end; he offered this to Rowena, then pulled another for himself. “You will pardon us, Conte, but we will eat now.”

Saint-Germain inclined his head. “Please; don’t let me stop you enjoying your lunch.”

“It is lamentable that you cannot join us,” said Pietragnelli as he buttered his bread. “I think you must miss a great pleasure in life.”

“Oh, I agree that taking nourishment is a very great pleasure,” Saint-Germain said, and saw Rowena almost choke on her first taste of soup.

“This is very good,” Rowena managed to say to Pietragnelli. “What is in it, besides chopped beef and onions?”

“Beef stock, of course. Then zucchini—as you say, Italian squash—two kinds of bell peppers, chopped spinach, mushrooms, string beans, oregano, thyme, summer savory, basil, garlic, lemon peel, a little ginger, black pepper, salt, and, of course, wine.” He reeled off the ingredients easily. “It is simmered for five hours, and that gives it body and a good flavor. I have often made it myself. But now I have Mrs. Barringstone to manage the kitchen during the day. Her husband runs the crusher and so is busy today, with the current—”

“The crusher? You don’t stamp the wine with your feet?” Rowena asked, oddly disappointed.

“No, signora, we do not. In the early days we did, but as soon as I could afford it, I bought a crusher. The crusher does the crushing better and faster than feet can, and the men don’t get as drunk on the fumes as they do if they tread on the grapes themselves. With as large a harvest as we have here, every one of the crew would be drunk if we had to crush by feet.” He picked up his glass and took a sip of his wine. “It is improving.”

“But surely, with the grapes just harvested, there would not be enough alcohol to cause drunkenness,” said Rowena.

“The fermentation begins at once. There is sugar in the grapes, and it starts to become intoxicating as soon as the skin is broken, but it is raw, very raw.” He smiled. “In time, and with proper care, the rawness goes away, and the wine is ready.”

Rowena tasted the wine and smiled. “The rawness is certainly gone from this. Very, very good, Mr. Pietragnelli.”

He beamed. “It thrills my heart to please you.” He drank a little more, then turned to Saint-Germain. “My children will be sorry they missed you. When you come again, it must be on a weekend, so you may meet them. They, too, want to thank you for preserving our business and our family.”

“I would be delighted to meet your family, but thanks aren’t necessary: believe this,” Saint-Germain said with conviction.

“I will have to disagree with you, Conte,” said Pietragnelli. “But not while I’m eating.” He pinched a bit of bread off his portion and dipped it into the soup. “Country manners, signora; I know. But we are in the country.”

Rowena laughed and did as her host had done. “This is very good bread. What’s in it?”

“It is pugliese, Italian country bread. Chopped ripe olives and pine nuts are kneaded into the dough.” Pietragnelli smiled at her. “I used to make this, too; before Mrs. Barringstone came. I still do occasionally, but my daughter Adrianna makes it for me when she and Enrico come on Sundays.”

“This doesn’t taste three days old,” Rowena observed.

“No; it was baked this morning, for this occasion.” He took some more of it and dipped it in his soup.

Lunch went along pleasantly enough, the conversation steered artfully away from politics and other vexing matters. By the time it was finished, both Pietragnelli and Rowena had eaten most of their soup and had had a second glass of his excellent wine and a good wedge of cheese. Pietragnelli had summoned Mrs. Barringstone from the kitchen and ordered coffee.

“It was a superb meal, Mr. Pietragnelli,” Rowena approved as she finally put her napkin on the table.

“I am glad you found it so,” Pietragnelli said, and looked over at Saint-Germain. “No coffee, either, I suppose?”

“No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain. He was so much at ease that Pietragnelli was convinced of his sincerity.

“Perhaps another time?” Pietragnelli suggested.

“It is kind of you to ask, but probably not,” said Saint-Germain.

Rowena drank the last of the wine in her glass. “This is so good.”

“I will provide you some to take home with you,” Pietragnelli exclaimed. “You will do me the honor of taking it with you.”

Trapped by her good manners as much as her liking of the wine, Rowena nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Pietragnelli. I will appreciate every drop of it”

“Well and good!” Pietragnelli said, pushing back from the table. “You must excuse me. There is a car coming—” He went off toward the front door.

Rowena was a bit startled. “Goodness. Do you think anything’s wrong?”

Saint-Germain shrugged but there was worry in his dark eyes. “I don’t know. He wasn’t expecting anyone, was he?”

“He didn’t mention anyone,” said Rowena cautiously.

“No.” Saint-Germain rose and went toward the entry-hall. He paused under the arch of the staircase and watched as a small Oriental man came in through the front door with Pietragnelli.

“—if you won’t go to the authorities,” Pietragnelli was saying.

“But they do nothing! Nothing!” the Oriental man insisted in disgust. He was wiry, shorter than Pietragnelli, and about forty. His clothes proclaimed him a fanner as much as his hard, chapped hands. His English was slightly accented; he had obviously spoken the language most of his life.

“If you keep at them, they will. I’ll come with you,” Pietragnelli said, going on forcefully, “They can’t ignore these thefts forever.”

The Oriental man laughed bitterly. “And why not? Why should they listen to a Japanese or an Italian? They don’t want us here in the first place.”