Sundown Crossing (21 page)

‘Well, it’s an interesting development,’ Angie conceded. She took a sip of coffee before adding, ‘I guess that only time will tell if he really means it.’

I
n the privacy of his luxuriously appointed office in the Rhein Schloss building, Carl Stenmark opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and withdrew a several weeks old copy of the community paper, the
Barossa and Light Herald.
He thumbed through to page four then put his glasses on and stared at the article; the page was dog-eared at the corners from being opened and closed so many times. He had read the article about Carla’s gold medal success so often that he practically knew the words off by heart.

His blue eyes narrowed, the wrinkles at the temples crinkling as he studied the coloured picture of the winemaker, Angie, and Carla. He blinked, looked away. So like Anna Louise. The resemblance to his long-dead wife was astonishing. The muscles in his throat tightened as memories of Anna Louise made him sink into a melancholy state, unable to turn his gaze away
from the picture. Grudgingly, he could see a little of Rolfe in her too—the straight nose and the strong jawline were definitely Stenmark traits. The index finger of his right hand traced his granddaughter’s features, his gaze focusing on her eyes. Like his, they were a clear blue and her full, smiling lips, well, he could probably attribute them to her Italian mother.

He had seen her only once, in the restaurant, but since then she had periodically haunted his dreams, as well as disturbed many of his waking hours and, try as he might not to, he found himself thinking about his granddaughter too often. His head of thick, white hair gave a little shake. She continued to confound and in her own way, confront him just by remaining in the Valley. He made a growling sound in his throat as he drummed his fingers on the desktop. There was no doubting her strength of character and her resolve, they showed in her features and had become doubly evident due to her determination to make a go of her father’s vineyard. He growled again. Carla’s stubbornness was so like his Anna Louise and his younger son, the son he tried, even now, not to think about.

Thoughts of Rolfe brought back the disappointment, the pain, of the loss of his favourite son. Ah, yes, he was old enough to admit if only to himself that Kurt had been the favoured one—the one expected to and groomed to succeed him. Anna Louise had often scolded him over his preference for his more
amenable elder son, that it wasn’t right or fair. Perhaps she had been correct. If he hadn’t been so one-eyed, things might have been different.

Ah,
if.
Such a little word, and how he hated it. If he’d treated both sons the same, if Rolfe had admitted his guilt over seducing Marta, if Kurt hadn’t been driving like a madman…pah! ‘If’ changed nothing. Angry with himself he closed the pages of the paper, folded it up and looked at the rubbish bin at the side of his desk but…somehow…he knew he couldn’t discard it. Not yet.

He forced his thoughts away from Carla and on to Luke. Thank goodness for his grandson. Luke was a worthy contender to one day run Rhein Schloss. Possibly in the not-too-distant future either. Carl was getting tired and arthritic, feeling his eighty-three years more with every passing day. Lisel was not suitable. With her flighty ways, her inability to hold a man and, being over forty, there was even little likelihood that she would provide him with more grandchildren. Occasionally he despaired over his youngest child. Her peculiar mother-hen possessiveness towards Luke, the growing antipathy between herself and Greta. He had spoiled her rotten since his wife’s death, and the result was a self-absorbed woman who cared only for herself and her own pleasures. Oh, yes, the family didn’t think he knew of her liaisons but he did. People talked and sometimes he overheard whisperings and intercepted looks of commiseration. He knew! But on the bright side,
one day Luke would marry and provide the all-important ongoing line of inheritance. Carl sighed, made content by that thought.

He glanced at the clock on the wall over the well-stocked cocktail bar. Almost 3.30 pm. Tired of looking at four walls, of reading and signing paperwork, he would get to the bottom of his intray then call Felix, his driver, to take him home.

The drive from Rhein Schloss’s head office to Stenhaus was not a long one but the route took the Mercedes and its occupants past a playing field where junior football teams were training after school. Normally Carl didn’t give the children in their jerseys and football boots a second glance but today he studied them closely, trying to find just one. He did. Sitting with two other boys on the grass, near the kerb, on the other side of the road, with his school backpack and another bag for his sporting gear, was Sam Hunter.

The Mercedes sped past and Carl’s head swivelled half around, his eyes glued to the ginger-haired boy. ‘Stop the car, Felix,’ he ordered, ‘and back up to the playing field.’

Felix obliged without hesitation and within seconds the powerful sedan came to a halt close to where the three boys sat. For perhaps two or three minutes, Carl stared at the boys, but he was only interested in one, his great-grandson.

An unaccustomed well of emotion invaded his body as he watched Sam. The boys, obviously waiting to be picked up, sat cross-legged on the grass, passing a football to each other. All at once
his mind took him back many years, to Kurt learning to play rugby as a young boy. He had been good, better than good. And then, before he realised what he was doing Carl was getting out of the car and walking across the road to the boys.

‘Hello,’ he said awkwardly to the three lads, aware that it had been a long time since he’d talked to young boys. Two regarded him warily; he couldn’t blame them for that, they didn’t know him from Adam. Not that he cared about them, he was only interested in Sam. ‘My son used to play football here, when he was young.’ He tried to break down their wariness. Then he addressed Sam. ‘Do you know who I am, Sam?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Sam’s reply was hesitant. For several seconds he squinted in the afternoon sun, staring up at the older man. ‘You…kind of remind me of someone I…used to know. My grandpa. He looked a lot like you but he had a beard.’

‘Oh. Was he a good grandpa?’ Carl noted that the other boys, bored with the conversation, had edged away to the side of the field to pass the football to each other.

‘He was the best,’ Sam’s reply was quick and honest. ‘B-but he, he, Mum told me he went to heaven.’

‘I see.’ Carl nodded. ‘That must make you very sad.’ He watched Sam’s small features settle into serious lines. ‘What would you say if I said that I knew your grandpa, a long time ago, when he was a young man?’ His gaze was fixed on Sam
and his ginger hair, the sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the curiosity in him. He was so much like Kurt and…Carla. The muscles in his throat tightened unexpectedly with emotion. This boy was his own flesh and blood, twice removed. He was or could be…the future. But, what, he asked himself, was he trying to achieve, talking to Carla’s son? Damn it, he didn’t know. It had been a compulsion to which he’d had to submit and, somehow, amazingly, he found the exercise energising.

Sam looked at the man in his business suit with something close to wonder in his eyes. ‘Did you? Really?’

‘Yes. What would you say if I said you looked a lot like your grandpa’s older brother. I knew him too, you know.’

‘Hey, Sam,’ one of the boys cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, ‘remember what we learned at school about stranger danger.’

Hearing that Sam took a couple of steps back from Carl. ‘Mister, I…I’ve got to go play now.’

Carl shook his head. Of course. How foolish of him. He was a stranger to the boy. Sadly, in today’s society, it was normal for children to be wary of strangers; no doubt his mother had drummed such an awareness into him. He saw a coach break away from the boys on the field and hurry towards them.

‘You okay, Sam?’ A tall, older man with grey hair asked. As he got closer, he recognised Carl. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Stenmark. I’m Verne Wakely,
anything I can do to help?’ He looked from Carl to Sam and back to Carl again. ‘Sam’s waiting for his mum or Angie to pick him up—his session finished a little early today.’

Carl waved off the coach’s concern. ‘It’s all right. Just having a chat with the boy, telling him that my son used to play rugby here.’

‘I remember Kurt, I’m a few years younger than he was. He was a fine player.’ Verne’s smile was sympathetic. ‘Young Sam shows promise too. He has good concentration and ball skills.’

‘What position do you play, Sam?’ Carl asked. Anything to prolong the possibility of being here a few minutes longer, learning a little more about the child.

‘Full-back.’ Sam’s gaze narrowed in on the older man. ‘Stenmark, your name is Stenmark? My grandpa’s…oh,’ his earnest features gave away the fact that he’d made the connection. ‘My grandpa’s name was Stenmark. You must be…’

‘Your great-grandfather, Sam, that’s who Mr Stenmark is,’ Verne informed him.

‘Cool.’ Sam, all innocence, grinned up at the man with the snowy white hair. ‘I guess that’s why you look like my grandpa.’

‘Here comes Angie to pick you up. On time, as usual,’ Verne noted, approval in his tone.

Carl held out his hand to his great-grandson. ‘Nice to meet you, Sam.’ Without hesitation, the boy’s small hand slipped into his.

‘Nice to meet you too, sir.’ A frown etched into his forehead. ’Gee, what should I call you? Not
Grandpa ‘cause you’re not my grandfather…?’ He fixed Carl with a quizzical look.

Inspired by the moment, Carl suggested, ‘When my grandfather was alive I called him Papa Fritz. What about Papa Carl? That’s easy to remember.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Angie Dupayne get out of the pick-up truck and come towards them, the blonde-haired woman’s features were tight with concern.

Hands on hips, she asked, ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s okay, Angie. Mr Stenmark stopped by to watch the boys practise football. It’s,’ Verne explained as he ruffled Sam’s hair, ‘cool.’

‘I meant no harm, Ms Dupayne,’ Carl assured her. ‘It was a spur of the moment thing.’

Angie’s expression showed that she wasn’t convinced. ‘Fine. Get your gear, Sam. We have to go.’

Affronted by the woman’s dismissiveness—Carl wasn’t accustomed to people, women included, speaking curtly—he watched in silence as, holding Sam’s hand, Angie led the boy to the pick-up truck, saw him safely inside and drove away.
Mein Gott,
what was he doing? He asked the question again as he got back into the Mercedes and instructed Felix to take him home. It had been a spontaneous decision to make visual and verbal contact with the boy. But why? Curiosity. Loneliness. The muscle in his square jaw jumped in uneven spasms. Need. He shook his head vigorously and thumped his right fist into his open left hand.
No. No.
It had been foolish. He
would not weaken and let Carla and her son into his heart. Rolfe had been the cause of all his pain and unhappiness, and he refused to allow anything similar to happen again.

As Angie watched Carla apply make-up in the bathroom’s mirror, she made sure that her features remained neutral, but still she couldn’t refrain from the comment, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘Doing? All I’m doing is having dinner with Luke Michaels. That’s it, period.’

‘Is he calling for you?’

‘No, I’m meeting him in Tanunda, at the restaurant we agreed on.’

‘So, it’s not really a date?’

Carla rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t see it as a date. Luke says he wants us to be friends and I’m prepared to meet him halfway. That’s only fair and,’ she paused before applying lip liner, ‘smart. If anyone can influence my grandfather to soften his attitude, logically, it could be Luke.’

‘Ah, so you have your own agenda?’

‘Well,’ Carla thought for a moment then answered honestly. ‘It’s not really an agenda as such. I’m just going with the flow and hopefully, something good will come out of it.’

‘I hope so. We’re close to getting our finances under control, now that Walt’s taken last year’s vintage to retail—he promised to send us a cheque next week after the bottles are delivered to a bulk liquor warehouse in Adelaide. Another
eight months, by the time the next vintage is due, and we should be in the black.’

‘I know. Luke and Grandfather must know it too so the ball’s in their court, as the saying goes. They either have to do something drastic to force us out or…accept that we’re staying.’ She paused to apply lipstick. ‘Assuming that Luke’s olive branch is genuine, I hope that he and others in the family are coming to accept that Sundown Crossing will be a small but viable part of the Barossa Valley.’

Angie smiled briefly but the expression in her eyes was sceptical. ‘I wish you luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Carla hoped she wouldn’t need it. She had agonised over accepting Luke’s dinner invitation, tried to dissect the negatives and the positives but deep down she was an optimist and she so wanted and needed Stenmark approval, not so much for herself, but for Sam. He’d been full of talk about meeting his great-grandfather the other day, bemused by his resemblance to her father and was now more curious about the Stenmarks. She wanted him to have more family than just herself and Angie. As she walked through the living room to pick her car keys off the dresser, she leant over Sam and kissed him goodnight. ‘See you later, my darling boy, and it’s into bed when Angie says so. Okay?’

Sam, his gaze fixed on a program on television, nodded agreeably. ‘’Night, Mum.’

Carla was first to arrive at The Park Restaurant in Murray Street. She was surprised that with the
German heritage of Tanunda, the restaurant hadn’t chosen a German name as others had. She imagined that once it had been a house, and was probably more than a hundred years old judging by the height of the ceiling and the thickness of the walls. The front rooms had been converted into the restaurant with the kitchen out the back. It was small and intimate, and half-full of diners, most of them tourists. A log fire burning in the hearth of the main room gave the room a wintry cosiness.

Carla appreciated that because the temperature outside was in the single digits though it was still not as cold as Christchurch in winter. She didn’t miss her home town’s chilly winters and, occasionally, when she took the time to think that New Zealand was where she’d spent a good percentage of her life she was surprised by how quickly she had acclimatised to the Barossa. Having a goal helped, she was sure of that, as did her job with Paul. He was out of the office more than he was in it because of the volume of work, and was giving her more responsibility for the drawings and handling clients. She missed him, and their talks, the laughter, his easygoing manner. She looked towards the restaurant’s front door and saw Luke divesting himself of his overcoat and scarf. He hung them on a row of wooden pegs on the wall near the door.