Vivien nodded. “I know what you mean.”
“Yes, I see you in the library. The way you love the books.”
“How did you land in Napa, California?” Vivien asked him, feeling a genuine tug of interest.
“You see, my father, he was a soldier for the king. But when there was no more king, he had no work. He tried farming, but he was not a good farmer. I learned, though. About soil and crops, the rain and the seasons. How to nurture things.”
“So you came here,” Vivien said.
“My sisters came to America first and they got jobs in New Jersey, in the factories. But I didn’t want to be inside all day. I couldn’t be. My friend Michele, he told me they were looking for workers for vineyards in California. He went to work for Gallo, and he sent for me. And here I am now.”
Despite herself, she felt her heart softening toward him. It was grief making her so vulnerable, she thought. The news of Pamela’s death, what waited for her at the end of this trip.
Sebastian reached across the seat and took her hand in his rough, callused one.
“I nurture you,” he said.
It was the wrong word, Vivien knew. But she didn’t pull her hand away. She let it rest there, in his.
Sebastian kept his eyes on the road ahead as the sky turned from violet to lavender, lightening with the sun.
When the truck passed under the arch with the words Simone Vineyards carved into it, Vivien reminded herself why she was back here instead of at the ferry terminal boarding her train to Denver. Pamela is dead. She repeated the words, as if by saying them over and over they might make sense. But as Sebastian parked and Pamela didn’t appear to greet Vivien, the words made even less sense. Pamela dead? The little girl’s tanned face, with her bright blue eyes and tangle of blond curls floated in front of Vivien, alive and vibrant.
Her eyes darted to the house. White crepe streamers and violets hung on the door. Lights blazed in every room. The shadows of people moving about the kitchen were silhouetted in the windows.
“I don’t want to go in,” Vivien said.
Sebastian, who had already opened his door to get out, closed it quietly.
“Then we sit until you are ready,” he said.
Didn’t he understand? She would never be ready. Her friend was in there crazy with grief. Vivien, so familiar with the landscape of death, for once did not know what to do or say.
“As long as I’m out here,” Vivien said after a moment, “then nothing has happened. Once I step inside that house, Pamela will really be dead.”
“Vivien,” Sebastian said softly. “Pamela really is dead. I saw her myself. The dottore, he came, but it was too late. The influenza is not as strong this time, but it still can kill. The lungs fill up—”
“Stop!” she said harshly. “Shut up.”
“I stop,” he said.
Vivien tried to sort out what he had told her. Pamela had influenza. The strain was less virulent this time around, yet it had turned to pneumonia anyway and killed her.
“You saw her,” Vivien said.
“I did.”
The kitchen door opened and a man and a woman stepped outside. It was light enough now to see that they were the couple from the neighboring vineyard, the ones who raised goats and made the cheese. The woman looked dazed, her face creased from crying. The man kept his head down, until they neared the truck. Then he looked up and, recognizing Vivien, stopped at her window.
She rolled it down, reaching her arms out toward him.
“She’s been asking for you,” he said, grasping her hands.
His wife’s eyes were wild. “Pamela’s dead,” she said, and there was awe in her voice. “Dead,” she repeated.
Sebastian got out of the truck and came around to the passenger side.
“Sebastian,” the man said. “I know they’ll be grateful you found Miss Lowe and brought her here safely.”
He let go of Vivien’s hands to reach into his coat pocket.
“I’m sure they intend to compensate you, but they’re not themselves. You understand.” He took out a fat roll of bills and began counting them.
But Sebastian stopped him. “I will not take money for helping,” he said.
“I insist,” the man said.
“It is my honor to do this for them,” Sebastian said. “For Pamela.”
But the man kept thrusting the bills at him.
“He said he doesn’t want to be paid for this,” Vivien said sharply.
At the sound of Vivien’s words, the man shoved the money back in his pocket, mumbling an apology.
Sebastian put his arm around Vivien protectively. She turned her face away from what the woman was saying and into his scratchy wool coat. She could hear his heart beating beneath it, and smell his sweat.
“Thank you,” Sebastian said. “I take her inside now.”
He steered her away from the couple, his grip on Vivien strong and steady.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said.
“Stupid people,” he muttered.
The kitchen door loomed in front of them. Vivien had to pull herself together before she saw Lotte.