Sundown Crossing (4 page)

Their rhythmic steps on the dance floor took Lisel and Rolfe close to Kurt and Marta.

A smiling Kurt saw them and gravitated towards them. ‘Let’s swap partners,’ he said. Before Rolfe could object—as if he would—Kurt relinquished his hold on Marta and moved towards Lisel.

W
ithin seconds Marta was in Rolfe’s arms. Praying that his palms wouldn’t sweat, that he wouldn’t step on her toes or lose the rhythm of the music they moved and pirouetted around the floor.

‘You are enjoying yourself, Marta?’ ‘Yes. It is
wunderbar.
Everyone is so nice…’ Idiot! He’d asked a stupid question. It was her engagement party so why wouldn’t she be enjoying herself? Guests had brought presents, she and Kurt were the centre of attention
and
she looked unbelievably happy, which, of course, she was. He made a decision: if he couldn’t talk sensibly to her, he wouldn’t say anything. He would be the strong, silent type. Some women liked that. God, what was he thinking? Was it important that she liked him? It was preferable, he decided, especially as they were going to be in-laws.

He tried very hard not to think of how marvellous it felt to have her in his arms, to be so
close that he could smell her perfume, something subtle that reminded him of spring flowers, and see tiny gold flecks in her slate-coloured eyes. She danced divinely. To distract his thoughts, Rolfe noted Papa and several grape growers standing in a huddle. No doubt they were discussing the coming harvest’s price for grapes. His blue-eyed gaze, so similar to Papa’s, roamed about the back lawn that had been mowed and was dotted with flowerbeds to the edge of vineyards which were grape-laden and ripening. People were swimming in the pool. The house—his father’s pride and joy, built to showcase the wealth of the Stenmarks to those in the Valley—was carnival-like with the coloured lights and the dance floor.

For several moments his gaze followed Kurt and Lisel, watching them dance around the outer edge of the dance floor. Kurt lifted his sister off the ground as they twirled, and their faces showed their mutual enjoyment. Surreptitiously, his glance slid back to Marta, she was studying the members of the band as they played a new Beatles song,
Love Me Do.
Kurt and Marta would be married soon and in a few years, start their own family, thus assuring the continuance of the Stenmark line in the Barossa Valley. Family continuity was important to his father. He knew it was so because he had listened to many a lecture as he’d grown up on the fact that his great-grandfather, Fritz, who’d started Rhein Schloss, and his grandfather, Wilfred, had impressed the importance of family upon Papa at an early age.

For a moment his gaze locked with Papa’s, then broke away as he twirled Marta to the other side of the dance floor. He knew that his streak of independence was proving a challenge to Papa’s patience. Papa had not agreed with Mutter bequeathing those acres to him, nor the money to develop them. She had done so because she’d received a healthy inheritance from Germany and had insisted on making her own decision as to the disposition of that inheritance, willing each of their children solid bequests, instead of investing the bulk in Rhein Schloss, as Papa had wanted her to do.

Rolfe believed he was a lot like Mutter. Determined, independent, wanting to prove himself. Which is what he intended to do with Krugerhoff, despite the knowledge that Papa did not approve. Papa had often professed the belief that all family members should remain within the family business. Even Greta’s husband, John Michaels, had come on board recently as the winery’s company secretary. Papa didn’t like the fact that Rolfe had diluted family solidarity, and at a time when many vineyards were starting to expand and buy up smaller vineyards that had become unviable financially.

‘I am getting dizzy from all the twirling around, Rolfe,’ Marta said, leaning against his arm as they pirouetted towards the side of the dance floor. ‘I think I need more champagne.’

Rolfe’s thoughts about his future place in the Valley were distracted by her smile. ‘Of course.
Come…’ With his hand at the small of her back he escorted her from the dance floor and in the direction of one of the several drink waiters.

‘Breakfast’s ready, Carla. Better come quick, before Sam eats all the pancakes.’

Angie’s call interrupted Carla’s concentration but something, a name her father had mentioned in his journal, jogged a memory. John…
Michaels.
She got up and closed the journal, then went to the sideboard to look through the papers Tom had left with her. She found the letter from South Australia—Michaels Realty, with Luke Michaels’s signature scrawled at the bottom. It surely had to be the same Luke mentioned as a small child in her father’s journal. He would now be in his early thirties, she guessed.

The aroma of cooked pancakes tempted her nostrils and her empty stomach made a gurgling sound. She put the letter back in the folder and moved towards the kitchen, thinking as she walked. Through Luke Michaels, her cousin, the Stenmarks were showing interest in buying Krugerhoff, a vineyard that had remained dormant for over thirty years. Interesting? Yes, indeed.

Angie said she had to do some grocery shopping so, after breakfast, she took Sam into town with her, which allowed Carla to continue with her father’s journal. Though she had felt hungry at the time, she hadn’t eaten much. Her appetite, with what was going on inside her
head, and with her roller-coaster emotions, was not its usual healthy one.

Work at Krugerhoff made Rolfe hungry and he had sneaked down to the kitchen to make a sandwich for a night-time snack. He looked up as Kurt bounded into the room.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Rolfie boy.’

Rolfe stopped making the sandwich with its Bratwurst sausage, pickles and cheese filling. Lately, whenever Kurt sought him out it invariably ended up with him being conned into doing something for him. His older brother was a master at coaxing people into doing things they didn’t want to do. A glance at the kitchen clock told him the hour was late and that he should be in bed. ‘We begin the harvest at Krugerhoff tomorrow, starting at sunrise. It’s expected to take the better part of the week to pick the ripened grapes.’ He waited for Kurt to speak; he didn’t have to wait long.

‘I need a favour, brother of mine,’ Kurt began, couching the request with an engaging smile.

Rolfe raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Another one?’ Last week, and at Kurt’s request to take Marta out, he had taken her for a run in Kurt’s Mercedes through the Valley to the village of Hahndorf in the Adelaide foothills. She had loved the old sandstone buildings, the sense of a little of Germany having been transported to Australia, for the village had been originally settled by German migrants. As a reward for his labours he had received a scolding from Kurt
who’d thought Hahndorf might have made Marta homesick. Rolfe hadn’t seen any evidence of that; she had had a marvellous time and, in all honesty, so had he.

Marta Gronow was a joy to be with and every time he was with her he reluctantly acknowledged that he was falling deeper under her spell. Other men would have been smart and run from the situation—the likelihood of falling in love with their brother’s fiancée was not smart. The reason he didn’t was that he believed Marta’s feelings were wholeheartedly involved with Kurt and Rolfe was content to adore her from afar. No one would ever know. Not Kurt or Marta, or his strait-laced Papa.

Kurt’s expression turned reproachful, then his youthful arrogance came to the fore.
‘Mein Gott,
you can be a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. I was going to ask you to escort Marta to the Seppelts wine-tasting on Friday evening. It’ll only take two hours of your time. It’s invitation only and most of the better known growers in the Valley will be there.’

‘Why can’t you take her?’ Rolfe asked as he munched on his sandwich.

‘Papa, John and I are doing some long forecast budgeting at Rhein Schloss. If I know Papa, we’ll be at the office half the night.’

‘The weather conditions are perfect and the grapes are ready,’ Rolfe reminded Kurt again. ‘I’ll be harvesting this week, you know. So will many other wineries.’

‘But your crop will be small. You don’t have fruit on all the vines so you should be finished by Friday. Won’t you?’

‘Only about half the acreage is planted and some of the vines are less than three years old so, yes, I damned well hope the picking will be done by Friday, but then there’s the crushing. You know the procedure. Otto and Ernst are experienced but because I’m the owner and unable to afford the services of a professional winemaker, I have to be there to supervise.’

‘Of course,’ Kurt’s quick response betrayed his impatience. ‘And good luck with your first vintage—that must be exciting for you.’ Kurt scratched his chin, his features tightening as he thought. ‘Don’t worry about Marta, I’ll ask Rudi Farber to take her.’

‘That blockhead. Rudi will bore her to death in half an hour.’

Kurt shrugged, then grinned as he thought of something. ‘Which will make Marta appreciate my company all the more.’

Rolfe’s resistance collapsed as his brother knew it would. ‘All right. I’ll take her.’ He couldn’t bear the idea of Marta being escorted by the dull Rudi Farber, whose father part-owned one of the larger wineries in the Valley. Besides, he knew he really could spare a couple of hours away from Krugerhoff, do his brotherly duty, then go back to check on the crushing. ‘What time?’

Kurt’s grin widened in triumph. ‘It’s formal. 6.30, on the dot.’ Watching Rolfe eat his
sandwich, Kurt licked his lips in anticipation. ‘I might have one of those.’

The younger brother’s glance at Kurt was shrewd. He knew that he was angling for Rolfe to make the sandwich for him. Not tonight. He grinned benignly. ‘Be my guest,’ and pushed the various plates towards him. ‘And when you’ve finished don’t forget to put the leftovers in the fridge, otherwise Lilly will give all of us the rounds of the kitchen.’ So saying, and still enjoying his sandwich, Rolfe strode from the kitchen towards the staircase that led to the seven bedrooms on the first floor.

Tired wasn’t the right word. Rolfe was exhausted, no, beyond exhaustion, if that were possible. The harvesting had taken longer than expected with just Otto and Ernst and himself doing the work. They hadn’t finished till midday on Friday, and had straightaway moved on to the next step, placing a percentage of the harvest in the crusher-stemmer which, with its rotating paddles—like an old roller wringer—would remove most stems and any large debris.

He had just enough time for a lightning-fast shower before shrugging, regretfully—because outside the temperature, remained a smouldering 78°F—into a two-piece dark-grey lounge suit. Once dressed he was content to wait for Marta in Stenhaus’s wide, tiled foyer with its centrepiece table adorned with fresh flowers. He smiled to himself because they were going to the
ritziest wine-tasting at, for the present, the largest winery in the Valley.

Greta came bustling down the staircase, holding Luke’s hand because his small legs were a little unsteady on the wide, long staircase. She smiled at Rolfe as she and her son moved towards the back of the house. ‘Don’t you look something, Rolfe? Marta is almost ready, another couple of minutes, she said to tell you,’ she advised as she and Luke continued on their way to the kitchen.

He knew Marta would look magnificent, he had tried to prepare himself for that, but he was not prepared for precisely how lovely she was as she glided elegantly down the staircase in her gold high-heeled sandals, wearing some concoction in bright red. It was filmy and seemed to float about her, with its full skirt under which lay several layers of stiffened satin and a low-cut, scooped bodice held up by pencil-thin straps. Around her neck rested a gold chain with a single, large pearl encased in gold, which was matched by pearl drop earrings. She had left her hair loose and it shimmered and swayed with each step she took.

Something tightened in his chest—there was a peculiar squeezing sensation around his heart until he could hardly breathe. His heart began to hammer, faster and faster, and its increased drumming travelled throughout his body, into his head and eardrums. He felt his fingers twitch with the near overwhelming urge to touch her so he thrust them into his trouser pockets. Suddenly
tongue-tied, all he could do was smile. She gave him a radiant smile back.

‘Sorry I’m late. Forgive me?’

In a half-strangled tone Marta didn’t seem to notice, Rolfe answered, ‘Of course. Kurt’s car is out front, but it’s still pretty hot outside. I put the top on so we can enjoy the air-conditioning.’ Inside his body he could feel everything heating up. The blood was pumping faster through his veins, making him hot and bothered and negating the recent cooling effects of the shower. Marta linked her arm through his and gave it a little squeeze.

‘Then let’s go, shall we? Kurt says wine-tastings are fun, that they don’t do them very often in the valley.’

‘They are growing in popularity, I believe. Promise you won’t get tipsy on me. I don’t think Kurt would approve of that.’ Rolfe chuckled to soften the words but he had noticed during her time at Stenhaus that Marta had a fondness for red wines, which were slightly more potent than the whites.

Marta wasn’t offended. She laughed at his concern. ‘Dear Rolfe. So stern, so in control, like Papa Carl. You should relax more.’

‘I suppose Kurt said I was uptight?’

‘No, it is something I have noticed by myself. You think too much and,’ she added intuitively, ‘probably you hate parties. Yes?’

‘Some parties. Wine-tastings are okay because they’re not exactly parties, not in the true sense of the word.’

Was that how she and others saw him? As someone who didn’t know how to enjoy himself, someone who took life too seriously. Perhaps he did and wasn’t aware of it. He knew that he wasn’t as outgoing and friendly as Kurt, Greta or Lisel. The next instant he came to a decision. He didn’t want Marta to think of him as being stern, controlled, like his father. For reasons he chose not to delve into too deeply, he wanted her to see him as attractive, entertaining, likeable. Tonight, he made a silent vow, she would see a different Rolfe—a charming, interesting man, something more than just her future brother-in-law.

The wine-tasting was in full swing by the time Rolfe parked the sports car and he and Marta walked to the open cellar doors. There were almost eighty people inside with a bevy of waiters waiting on them, carrying trays of white and red wine, and hors d’oeuvres aplenty. In the far corner of the cellar a band, dressed in traditional costume, played German folk music.