“From the edge of this young vineyard, across that field and citrus orchard, up to the top of the hill there.” She pointed to the oak-capped hill. “This is the land Papa gives us.”
He stood in silence a long time, his eyes absorbing what his mind struggled to take in.
“It’s a gift, Quillan. He wants us to have it.”
“But I haven’t earned it.”
“You don’t have to.” She slipped her hand inside his free one. “It’s Papa’s gift, Quillan. Only accept it.”
He started slowly down between the vines, using the cane to balance.
“Can you manage on the soft ground?”
He nodded. “I can manage. I may never lose the limp, though.”
“Eh.” She waved her fingers. “What’s a pirate without a limp?”
He turned and smiled. “Or a poet?”
Surprised, she stepped up close. “Is that an announcement?”
He shrugged, shifting his weight on the cane. “It’s something I could do if . . . until this leg heals.”
She knew his concern, but she believed the Lord would and was healing Quillan’s leg. Only Papa could have put the bone together as well as he did. Now Quillan’s constitution and God’s mercy must do the rest.
“But it’s more than that.” Quillan shook his head. “Carina, since I was first able to connect letters into words, I’ve read the stories and poems other people have written. Sometimes it kept me sane. Always it gave me something. What if they had all kept their words to themselves? Hoarded them.”
She remembered Mr. Pierce’s admonition, that it was wrong for Quillan to keep his words to himself. Carina looked into her husband’s face. Had he so healed he could share his soul at last? If that were so, who was she to stop him? She rested her hand atop his on the cane head. “Mr. Pierce will burst like grapes shattering on the vine.”
“I think he’ll recover.” Quillan’s mouth torqued to one side.
It would be a strange alliance—fiercely private Quillan and unscrupulous Roderick Pierce. But she sensed a purpose in him, and a peace. “In the meantime, we must decide where to build our villa.”
Quillan looked back over the land. “Near the vineyard. I want to see it from every window.”
Carina laughed. “We’ll have to put it in the middle, then.”
He nodded. “Jesus said He’s the vine and I’m the branch. I thought it meant I could only have Him, that all else must be cut away. But look, Carina.” He pointed out over the field. “How every branch reaches across to another, so tangled I can’t say where one ends and the next begins.”
She wove her fingers between his. “The blooms of one vine bring fruit to another.” She touched her belly, almost tempted to increase his wonder. But she would wait, savoring the knowledge that like this field resisting the pestilence, the night they’d spent together in the midst of all the trouble would bear fruit. How had Ti’Giuseppe known? But she would save it for another moment, when there was room in Quillan for more. Ah, Signore, you work all things for our good, because we love you!