“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?”