“ ‘As to your previous claims, my wife has informed me that she believes your story and has legitimate reason for doing so.’ ” Now her eyes shot to the bottom of the page, and she gasped. “Quillan, it’s from your grandfather. He’s an officer of the railroad?”
Tabor had mentioned that, but Quillan had forgotten. He might not have been so eager to save the train if he’d remembered. “So it appears.”
“But this is remarkable. What fortunate serendipity. He says, ‘At some time in the near future, I would like to discuss the matter further with you. Yours very sincerely, William Wallace DeMornay III.’ ” Carina looked up. “Quillan, he knows. He acknowledges you.”
“He knew before.”
“You know the railroad barons are criticized and envied. He had to be cautious. It wasn’t because of you that he acted as he did. How did he say it?” She perused up the letter. “Men of his position are ‘targets of unscrupulousness.’ That explains his behavior.”
“Does it?” Quillan was not so sure.
Carina flicked her fingers across the page. “He wants to discuss your relationship.”
Quillan jerked his chin toward the wall, resisting her words. Here she was again, explaining matters of the heart. But it still stung that William DeMornay had accused him of wanting money instead of listening to his intentions.
She turned his face back, caught it between her palms. “Quillan, your grandfather made a mistake. He admits as much. But that doesn’t change the relationship any more than his denial changed the truth.”
Quillan sighed and looked down at the last paper in the packet.
Another letter in a genteel if spidery hand. My dear Quillan. It was from his grandmother. You must know how deeply we regret our error. Perhaps it will not be easy for you to forgive, but I pray you will not find it impossible. You have your mother’s nature.
Quillan glanced up at Carina. He suddenly missed his mother’s locket with a piercing ache. He wanted to see, once again, that sweet face.
I can only beg you understand my hesitance. After so many years of wondering, longing, weeping, and finding at last some thin peace, to resurrect the pain was not easy. For William it was harder yet. He blamed himself for his daughter’s ruin. Because he knew the man’s reputation, he refused to countenance their courtship request, but Rose was snared by the scoundrel’s iniquity. William would have forgiven her, I believe, if given the chance. It broke his heart when she disappeared.
Quillan wrinkled his brow. William DeMornay seemed too cold and stiff for broken hearts. But maybe, like himself, his grandfather built walls to protect against the pain.
Think kindly on him, Quillan. As you have loved your mother, so William loved her first. Never were two so inseparable. Joy died in him the day she left.
A sharp pang lodged in his chest at those words. He’d spent most of his life hating his mother because he misunderstood. How could he blame William for coping as poorly?
Carina cupped his chin and turned his face up. “Are you all right?”
How did she see inside him? His throat tightened painfully. “What am I supposed to do?”
“What does she say?”
He looked back down. “ ‘Would you permit us to visit? William also extends this request. I pray you will consider it. Yours humbly and sincerely, Annelise DeMornay.’ ”
“Annelise! Rose was named for her mamma.”
Quillan folded the letter.
“And she wants to come visit. Write her back, Quillan. Tell them to come, of course to come.”
Quillan sagged. How could he see them now, with his pathetic arms, his crippled leg? He had gone to them strong and independent, and they had called him a thief. How would they look at him now? With pity?
“Quillan.” Carina reached into her pocket, then caught his hand and placed her closed fist inside it. When she opened her fingers, something heavy and round rested there. She drew her hand away.
His mother’s locket, the front different and the catch, but he knew the weight and shape of it. He looked up, questioning.
“It was damaged in the accident. I had it repaired.”
He pushed the release that opened the new front and saw his mother’s face. The photo bore one scratch, but the rest was unmarred. He stared into his mother’s eyes, remembering their aqua brilliance. The same color as Annelise DeMornay’s.
Carina folded both hands behind his neck. “They’re Rose’s parents, Quillan. And they need you.”
He looked from the locket to his wife’s face. Did she always have to be right? “So I should let them come.”
“You should welcome them.”
His mouth pulled sideways. “With something more than grim acceptance.”
“Exuberant joy.”
He laughed. “Being not overly endowed with exuberance, I’ll leave that to you.” But he felt suddenly light. Not only had God given him Carina’s family, but it seemed he meant to extend it once again. Grandparents. He took a moment to savor the thought. The Lord’s abundance amazed him. He had gone from being totally alone to winning Carina, being accepted by her family—though that was still a mixed blessing with her brothers—to having the DeMornays acknowledge him.
He lowered his forehead to Carina’s. “Do you suppose he’d foot me a loan for a new wagon?”
Carina punched his chest.
“Ow. I’ve had my reflex training, thank you.” He caught her face and kissed her, then hung the locket around her neck.
“What are you doing?” She pressed the locket to her breast.
“I want you to have it.” He stroked back her curtain of hair. “I have nothing else to give you these days.”
She caught his face between her hands. “You have yourself.” She kissed him back. He had thought she might.
Still warm inside from the meal they had all shared around the table, Carina helped Quillan down from the small grape wagon. Ah, what a wonderful time it had been, all gathered together at the long table for Quillan’s first meal with the family. They had all been there, her brothers and their wives, Divina and Nicolo, Tia Marta and Gelsomina and Ti’Giuseppe, beaming his bare gums in delight. Quillan had swallowed Mamma’s lasagne like a ravening wolf, then held up his goblet when Papa and the others raised theirs.
Papa’s voice was strong and sincere. “This wine was made from grapes grown and ripened before phylloxera weakened a single vine on our land. With God’s help, we will all grow this strong, mellow this deeply, and warm this well.” He had raised the goblet an inch higher to Quillan, sitting alongside her at the table. “Welcome to the family.”
Though his arms were stronger now, almost what they’d been, Carina had noticed the shake of Quillan’s goblet as he drank. Now, as she helped him, his muscles tightened and bunched as he eased his weight onto the cane and stepped down. The foot of the cane sank into the soft ground at the edge of the vineyard, the one she had discovered in bud, now burgeoning with green leaves and trailing tendrils. Quillan breathed deeply as he looked out at the scene.
“Do you like it?”
He nodded silently, his larynx working up and down.