The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (30 page)

“Good morning, Mamma.”

“There is tea and sugar in the kitchen. I know you didn’t sleep.” From the look of Mamma’s eyes, she had not slept either.

Carina nodded. “Thank you, Mamma.” She went out to the kitchen where the kettle was held just below boiling and the strainer filled with tea leaves over a cup. Carina steeped the tea, poured in some fresh cream, and spooned sugar into the cup. She slowly stirred, noting the small way Mamma had shown her love. On a cloth-covered dish stood a miniature panettone, baked only for special occasions.

Breathing the wonderful candied fruit aroma, Carina carried it with her tea to the marble table and sat down. Closing her eyes, she blessed the food, then cut and took the first wonderful bite. Oh, how she wished Quillan were there to experience it with her. Her lip quivered, and she sniffed back tears that once again threatened. Would they love and pamper her into forgetting this man they would not accept?

Carefully she wrapped the round, sweet loaf in the cloth and fit it into her pocket. She finished her tea, then went out of the kitchen through the back door. She passed the conservatory, saw Mamma watching through the glass. She didn’t care. She would find Quillan and share the sweet.

But then she saw Papa. His pose and what he held stopped her. He stood at the edge of the vineyard, one entire grape stalk in his arms, its hairy roots dangling. Slowly she approached. “Papa?”

He turned.

“What is it, Papa?” But she saw the powdery yellow roots, knew already what he would say. “Phylloxera?”

He nodded. For over ten years the Sonoma vineyards had been plagued, whole fields destroyed by the parasitic insect that looked like sulfur powder on the roots of the vines. Papa had battled to keep his vines producing, trying one remedy after another. She looked at the rows of vines. Soon budbreak would begin, but the stalks looked sickly and weak. Could they even produce?

Papa sighed. “I think it’s time.”

“Time, Papa?”

He had resisted plowing the vines under, laying his fields to waste as so many others had been forced to do. “They will not survive another season. It’s no use.”

Carina’s spirit sagged. All their work, their heart, their care—for nothing. No wonder Papa had little patience for insults. She saw two of her brothers scattered among the vines, checking the wood with little pruning knives and shaking their heads. The financial loss would be substantial, the emotional loss far worse.

Growing grapes was not the same as growing wheat or corn. It required nurture and individual attention to each vine. Every pruning was gauged by the particular plant’s energy. How many canes were left and how many buds per cane would determine how that vine’s strength would be directed. The more wood that was removed, the fewer buds that vine would produce. Fewer grapes made deeper flavor, but less wine. It was a delicate balance.

Then there was weeding, suckering, and tying up the cordons, the care given to the fragile white blooms that came out in May and filled the fields with an intense sweet honey smell, turned pink, then brown, then fell to the ground like weightless snowflakes. The vines must make it through May without heavy rain or wind or the blooms would be lost.

Then the long, warm summer days would produce the fruit, appearing first beneath the leaves like tiny baby peas. At least a hundred days were needed from bloom to harvest for the fruit to swell. Sometimes in Sonoma they were blessed with more, even a month more in the best years. The vine grower must be patient and closely attuned.

And harvest. Harvest took the most toll on the emotions. The vine grower must guess the weather, eking every possible day from the season to give the grapes time. Only time on the vine allowed the grapes to sweeten. Her papa went out every day in August, walked among the vines, “bowing” to the grapes as he bent to see the developing fruit underneath the leaves. By taste he would determine the day, waiting for the last possible moment.

Then he would give the word, and suddenly the urgency to get the grapes in would sweep the family and what helpers they had amassed. Grapes would be grasped, sliced at the stem with a sharp curved blade, and dropped to the bins dragged along from vine to vine. Then the men would swoop up the filled bin atop their heads and, whooping and hollering, run to the wagon to unload. Even the thought filled Carina with fervor.

How could Papa bear it? If he was truly certain, all the roots would be yanked up and left flat on their sides in the dust, then gathered up and burned. They would have to start over with new root stock, hoping it would prove resistant. Even if it did, it was two years of tending the new vines before they would be allowed to fruit, and the wine from young vines was light and fragile, less complex, and unable to stand much oak from the barrels.

All this, she knew, was in her papa’s heart as he looked over his trellised field. She put a hand to his arm. “I’m sorry, Papa.” And as she said the words, she was sorrier still that she had wounded him, as well. If he felt defeated by his fields, how much more her insult must sting.

He turned only slightly. “It’s life,” he said.

She started to respond, but Angelo stalked up from the field with a face so self-righteous and belligerent she turned away. “Mamma needs you inside, Carina.”

“For what?” She bristled as he caught her arm.

“I’ll walk you in.”

She could have wiggled free, but not without making a scene. And that she would not do. Not with Papa standing so silently. She walked with her brother, then couldn’t resist asking, “How bad is it? Is Papa right that it’s all lost to the pest?”

“The vines could maybe struggle on, but for what? The roots are decayed. No fruit will flourish. It’ll only get worse.”

“Papa was so sure he’d find a remedy.”

“There is none.” Angelo’s face darkened as he stopped her at the door. “Leave Papa alone. He has enough to deal with.”

Carina opened her mouth, but Angelo had turned away. He wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say. He’d made up his mind. They all had.

Throughout the day as she helped Mamma and Tia Marta with the spring cleaning in the house, she caught one or another brother watching from outside. To keep her in? What did they think to accomplish?

Quillan felt every one of the days he’d slacked off work—the days in Crystal before they left and the days on the train. Now, having loaded and hauled stone a full eight hours, his muscles had the familiar, though exaggerated, ache of a day spent in labor. Mr. Marconi was thorough and insistent the work be done swiftly and well. The Italian workers were diligent and talkative, though not to him since they preferred their own language.

Some words he picked up as their jobs intersected, some more as they sat to their lunches, which he had neglected to secure for himself before heading out to the quarry. His stomach rumbled now as he left the team to the liveryman’s ministrations. But he was covered in rock dust, and before he could acquire vittles, he needed to wash. The sun was sinking in the sky when he finished scrubbing himself and had changed into a clean shirt, vest, and pantaloons.

Though there was a pub in the hotel, he went out to see what else the town offered. He had tucked several bills inside his vest pocket, but by the menus posted in the windows of the first two eateries he passed, the prices in Sonoma were lower than Crystal by plenty. Of course, the location and railroad made the transfer of goods more economical. He would grab a bite, then report to the store for his second shift of the day.

Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Carina. In the last of the sun’s rays, her hair hung like a rippling shawl over her shoulders. Her step was quick, her expression earnest, her waist impossibly small. His heart jumped inside him as he imagined clasping it between his hands and swinging her into the air. The feeling was so intense he could almost be falling in love with her for the first time again.

She caught sight of him, and her face lit as she hurried over. “I was hoping to find you!” She held a basket over one arm, while the other hand touched his. He hadn’t realized he’d held his out. It must have moved without any effort from his brain. But they got no closer than that.

“How’s your family?” He cracked a half smile.

She huffed. “
Impossibile
. Angelo watches me like a dog on point. He has all my brothers on guard. Papa will hardly talk to me, and Mamma—”

Carina looked away—“Mamma looks as though her heart is broken.”

Quillan felt a surge of protective anger. Couldn’t they be decent to her, at least?

Carina sighed. “Did we do the wrong thing?”

His heart clutched. Had they made her doubt already?

“Should we have stayed in Crystal?”

His chest eased. “We did the right thing. You needed to see them, and they needed to know, whether they like it or not.”

She dropped her chin. “They’re so—” her hands fisted at her sides— “old country! Don’t they know this is America? Everyone created equal? Papa thinks on two levels. Mamma shouldn’t. Didn’t Papa choose beneath him? Because he loved her!”

Quillan’s mouth quirked at her unintentional insult. “It only works one way.”

“What do you mean?” Carina’s face was fierce.

“It’s one thing for a young woman to better herself by marrying the famous dottore. It’s another altogether for her daughter to marry a scoundrel.”

Carina stamped her foot. “You’re not a scoundrel!”

Quillan cocked his head. “Your first impression was pirate. Is theirs so far off?”

“But you—”

“What? Cleaned up? You think that’s what they see?”

She threw out her hand. “What do they see?”

He took her hand and led her away from the plaza, behind the buildings clustered around it, into the fields beyond. He stopped and turned her chin up. “They see their dreams for you ruined.”

Her eyes showed him the truth of it. “What about
my
dreams?”

He cupped her cheek, feeling a poignant stab. What were her dreams? He didn’t even know. “The best I can do is earn their approval.”

Now it was doubt in her dark luminous eyes. She pressed his hand to her cheek. “We could leave. Go to Alaska.”

She had so little faith in him? “I’ve spent my life without family, Carina. You were eight months away and needing yours.”

She didn’t argue. “Why can’t I have both?”

He slid his hand to the nape of her neck beneath her luxurious veil. “I’m trying.” A wagon rumbled by on the road. It reminded him of the first time he’d taken her in his arms, when she’d told him about Berkley Beck’s ledger and he’d feigned an amorous relationship rather than let the driver suspect her complicity in Beck’s business. She looked up, anticipating his kiss, but he didn’t kiss her. It seemed wrong until . . . until he had the right? She was his wife under God, which no man could put asunder. But it didn’t feel that way. He let her go.

Tears glassed her eyes. “It’s not right.”

Maybe not. But that’s how it was. Quillan wished he had something he could say, something that could change it all. But to earn her family’s esteem, he could only work and prove himself.

She sniffed. “What now?”

“I go back to work.”

“Where are you working?” Her fingers were feathers on his sleeve.

“So far, the basalt quarry, hauling stone.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re working at the quarry?”

“During the day.”

“But they’ll all know. In a few days they’ll all know Flavio’s feelings about you. It won’t be safe.”

Quillan pictured the young virile men he’d worked with. They had been clannish naturally, but not pugnacious. Could Flavio provoke them against him? So far as Carina imagined? He was hoping to learn as much from them as he could just by watching and listening. And if he were honest, he hoped also to earn their esteem. Surely not every Italian in town could be under Flavio’s sway. Who was this beau of Carina’s anyway?

“Don’t worry about me. Now I have to eat something before I start my second job.”

“Second?”

“I’m working two jobs for Solomon Schocken. First at the quarry, then at his store.”

“But you’ll be exhausted.”

Quillan smiled. “I better be, or there’s no way I’ll stand it.” He deepened his gaze, roving with his eyes to her lips, then away quickly, the intensity of his desire too much. “But I went without lunch and—”

“Here. I brought you this.” Carina held out the basket.

He caught the aroma, lifted the cloth, and feasted his eyes on the browned chicken with a mushroom sauce wrapped in paper. There was a chunk of crusty bread and some sort of black-skinned squash, breaded and fried.

“And this.” From her pocket, Carina drew a cloth-wrapped ball. She opened it to reveal a small fruited loaf that smelled even better than the rest, if that were possible. She smiled. “Panettone.”

He looked into her face. “How’d you acquire all this contraband?”

She laughed. “I packed the basket with twice what Ti’Giuseppe could eat, left him his portion, and escaped through the barn.”

“With his knowledge?”

“Of course. He’s the only one with any sense.”

Quillan smiled. Why was it always the old men who accepted him? “What about your brothers?”

She waved her hand. “I always visit a while with Tio. They won’t miss me.”

“It’s a mile and a half back to the house.”

She shrugged.

Quillan could stand it no longer. He hunched down in the field and set the basket before him. With the fork Carina had thoughtfully included, he wolfed down the meal, too hungry to savor it as it deserved, though the panettone made an impression in spite of his haste. He wiped his mouth with the cloth and sighed.

Carina stood over him, smiling. “Where are you staying?”

“Union Hotel.” He stood up and handed the basket back.

She hung it over her arm. “I’ll try to get out every day.”

“Carina . . .”

“If I leave a note at the desk, can you meet me?”

“I’ll be at the quarry. Then I report to the store.”

She stepped closer. “But in between?”

He slid his fingers into her hair. His heart set up a clamor. “You don’t have to bring food. I can catch something in town.” Eating would take up too much of their time. If her brothers were truly keeping guard on her, their meetings would be brief. “Where can we meet?”