He started for the Union Livery and Feed, where he’d left his wagon and team after removing them from Giuseppe’s care. The furniture remained covered with a tarp in the DiGratia’s barn. It was Carina’s, after all. But he had to stop thinking like that. It wasn’t his wagon and her furniture. It was all theirs. He couldn’t allow division in his thoughts or the division in their lives could take root.
The livery was right next to his hotel, and after calling for his team and wagon, he went up to his room, donned the buckskin coat to protect against stones kicked up by the horses, and his broad-brimmed hat for the sun. He felt like a freighter again, and the familiarity settled him. It may not be his final vocation, but for now it was one familiar thing among so much strange.
He met Solomon Schocken in front of the store. Schocken climbed up beside him. “Fine rig.”
Quillan nodded.
“Are the horses heavy shod? The stone in the quarry can be sharp and troublesome.”
Quillan hadn’t thought of that. They were shod for long hauls on rough roads, though. “I think they’ll do. I’ll check them over tonight.”
They shared small talk on their way to the quarry, Quillan revealing as little of his situation as possible, partly because he didn’t understand it himself. He had brought Carina home, but what did that mean for him?
Carina’s eyes ached from weeping, but she could pursue sleep no longer, so she forced them open. The morning was well advanced, but no one had wakened her. She sat up groggily, reminiscent of the effects of laudanum. This time it was only grief and worry that made her heavy and slow. She sighed.
Pulling herself up, she washed and dressed. The morning sun was muted as always by the haze that lingered on the valley though the sky was clear. Much of the rain for the season was past. Now the slow warming would begin, the awakening of the land, the waking of the vines. She twisted the front strands of her hair back over her ears and plaited them together, leaving the bulk of her hair hanging down her back.
She saw in the looking glass that she had lost weight. With her corset merely snug, the side seams of her dress were no longer tightly fitted. She put a hand to her flat belly. Was it possible she’d never bear a child? She vaguely recalled Mae asking Dr. Felden about that, and his nebulous reply. He had cautioned her again before she and Quillan left, cautioned that her kidneys might not support a pregnancy.
And anyway, with Quillan gone how would she conceive? She quickly shook the gloomy thought away. Quillan was not gone. He had promised to stay in town. She would make some excuse to find him there today. To see him, to touch him, to hear his voice.
She dropped to her knees. “Grazie, Signore, for this day. All things are in your hands. Melt my will to yours, but . . . per favore, give me back my husband.” That had to be God’s will. How could He will otherwise when He had given her Quillan before? Surely God did not give only to take away.
She might have believed that once—had believed it. But not anymore. The God she came to know on the mountains of Colorado was not a capricious God, playing with her heart. He was faithful and true. Goodness and grace. If she must suffer separation now, it was somehow for her good and Quillan’s. “But how, Signore? I don’t understand.”
And maybe she wasn’t meant to. Maybe she had only to trust. She stood up and smoothed her skirts. She might not be plump and soft, and her eyes were red and dry, but she would not sulk. Somehow she must make peace between her family and her husband. She went out.
Mamma was in the conservatory dribbling water over the newly sprouted tomato plants that would go into the garden after all chance of frost was past. Carina watched her with pride and fury. She’d always been proud of Mamma, so capable and lovely, so fiercely protective of her own. Was that it now? Did she feel threatened by Quillan?
Carina walked in, watched Mamma test the soil in the little clay pots with her finger, then drip water over the plants. She imagined the round red tomatoes that would make rich chunky sauces pungent with herbs and garlic. She looked over the other plants, squashes and eggplant and peppers, melons and beans, and then the herbs on shelves along the glass wall, tended all year. The conservatory carried their fragrance through deepest winter, which of course, was nothing to Crystal’s snow-covered freeze. Nonetheless, the greenhouse gave Mamma an advantage over other wives in the area.
Papa used herbs for his medicines, also. His area of the greenhouse had plants arranged and labeled according to phylum, order, and species. Carina remembered him teaching her how to recognize and use them. She wandered over. Buttercup for asthma, arnica for sprains, slippery elm, aloe, chamomile, and clover for burns. Colds called for mullein plant made into candy. Coughs: onion syrup, unless they were severe, then Papa used paregoric, which he made from opium and camphor. She knew so many of his remedies, had applied them herself.
Thinking of Papa made her heart ache afresh. How could he have been so cruel, so cold and unyielding? That was not the Papa she knew. Yes, she had hurt him, but . . . Again she sighed.
Mamma looked up, watched her a long moment, their eyes holding each other with mingled hurt and love. Then Mamma said, “Good morning, Carina.”
“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.”