Sundown Crossing (7 page)

‘You will leave Stenhaus, tonight. You will leave the Valley…
forever.
I…’ Carl rubbed his eyes, and then continued, ‘it gives me no pleasure but I disown you as my son and I’ll have my solicitor draw up a new will to that effect. From tonight on, I only have one son,’ he looked at Rolfe for a long time then his gaze dropped to the desk blotter, ‘and his name is Kurt.’

‘Papa, you can’t be serious.’ Rolfe was shocked beyond words. But in his heart he knew his father was serious, that he would stand by his
decision. The family’s good name was all important to Papa. There had never been the whiff of a scandal against the name of Stenmark and his father intended that to continue.

‘Papa,’ Rolfe begged for mercy. ‘I don’t care about your will, don’t leave me a single pound. The only thing I have ever wanted from you is your love and your respect. I will go away, to Europe, for several years until all this…’ his calloused hand waved about vaguely, ‘has settled, is forgotten. Don’t, I beg you, cut me off from the family, from you and Greta and Lisel.’

Papa shook his head. ‘I must. What you did was unforgivable and Kurt has his pride. There is no longer a place for you in the Stenmark family.’ His hands came down hard on the top of the desk, a gesture he often made when a discussion was coming to an end. ‘That is all I have to say. Go. Go now.’

Somehow, he didn’t recall how he managed it, Rolfe stumbled from the room and headed for the haven of his bedroom. It was a bad dream, no, a nightmare of gigantic proportions.
All because a silly young woman didn’t have the guts to tell the truth.
But the nightmare was real, and he knew his father. He did not make pronouncements lightly and once he had he could not be persuaded to change his mind. Later on, but not right now, he would think how unfair Papa was being, that he was taking Marta’s word over his own flesh and blood, and that he was prepared to cut his second son loose to appease his eldest son and
heir. All Rolfe could think now was that his life was a mess and that all sense of purpose, Marta, Krugerhoff, was gone.

Having little idea as to what he was going to do, moving like a robot, he took two suitcases from under his bed, plus a travelling bag, and began to fill them with clothes, books and the one trophy he had won in primary school—ironically, for winning the egg-and-spoon race. He glanced at the photograph of his mother and father. It had stood on his dresser for years. He wrapped a shirt around the photo and put it into the suitcase too.

There was a quiet knock on the door and a second or two later, Greta came into the room. She saw him packing and began to cry.

‘Oh, Rolfe. I can’t believe what Papa is doing. He is out of his mind with anger at you.’

‘I know.’ A smile was not possible as they hugged each other. ‘He didn’t believe me, neither did Kurt but,’ as Rolfe looked into her eyes, it occurred to him that it might be the last time he did so, ‘on Mutter’s grave, Greta, I didn’t seduce Marta. I love her and I thought,’ a growl of frustration preceded his next remark, ‘she loved me.’

Greta gave Rolfe a wan smile. ‘I believe you. Marta’s a cool one. That young woman knows where her bread’s buttered.’ She saw Rolfe’s questioning gaze and in her down-to-earth way, explained. ‘Why marry the second son when she can have the wealth and position the first son
will give her. Marta Gronow is no fool, but she doesn’t fool me.’

He didn’t want to think that Greta was right, so he made no comment. Later he would come to agree with her. Throwing his wallet, toiletries and the journal he had been writing his thoughts in, into the travelling bag he zipped it up and lifted it onto his shoulder.

‘What are you going to do, Rolfe?’

‘I don’t know. Go to Krugerhoff tonight, I guess.’

‘Papa will hunt you out of the Valley. He can be ruthless when he puts his mind to it; Kurt too. You should go to Adelaide, or Melbourne. Sell Krugerhoff and use the money to start afresh elsewhere. Somehow, you and I will contrive to keep in touch. Call me when you can.’ Her smile widened sympathetically, reminiscent of the way their Mutter used to smile. ‘I’ll want to know that you’re safe.’

He took note of what she’d said, and knew that she meant well. ‘I will not sell Krugerhoff. Perhaps one day, even if it takes twenty years, Papa will ask me to come back. I’ll have Otto and Ernst complete the vintage, secure all the buildings, and I’ll keep paying the rates and taxes.’ He thought for a few seconds though he knew that with all that had happened he wasn’t thinking straight. ‘Perhaps I’ll drive to Griffith, or on to Sydney. That’s a big city, and there’s always the Hunter Valley for vineyard work.’ He picked up the suitcases, and grunted at their weight.

‘Don’t try to see Marta, Rolfe,’ Greta warned, as if sensing that he might. ‘She’s made her decision as to where her affections lie, and Papa and Kurt will watch her like a hawk. You won’t get anywhere near her.’

‘Of course.’ He could write to her though. That was something he would do when he got settled, he made the promise to himself. ‘I’d better go…’

‘Yes, go before Kurt works himself into a rage and comes looking for you,’ Greta agreed. She kissed his cheeks and gave him another motherly hug. ‘I’m going to miss you…very much. So will John and little Luke.’

‘I’m going to miss them and
everyone.’
He dropped a case to wipe a sudden mistiness from his eyes. Greta opened the bedroom door for him. He stepped through the open doorway and walked away as fast as the burdensome suitcases allowed him to. Resolutely, he did not look back.

Sydney, December, 1963

Rolfe’s cases were packed, again, his travel documents were in order. He had grown bored with the job at Penfolds Wines. Marketing wines was not, from his point of view, as interesting as growing the grapes, harvesting them and blending them into fine wines. In two hours time he would board the Chandris Lines ship the RHMS
Ellinis,
bound for Europe and England. The boat’s fare was cheaper than flying to any
destination in Europe and he needed to be careful with what funds he had saved. He looked around his furnished, cramped bed-sitter with its small kitchen and barely adequate bathroom and his gaze fell on a stack of letters written to Marta over a period of almost two years. All had been returned unread. He believed he had come to terms with Marta’s perfidy over time and that it was pointless to take them with him. Refusing to feel sorry for himself, he dropped them in the kitchen’s rubbish bin.

Getting used to his new surname, Kruger, was hard for him but, all things considered, changing his name by deed poll when he’d settled in Sydney almost a year ago had been a smart move. The name of Stenmark, particularly, in the wine industry, was becoming well known—people asked too many questions—as he’d found out in Griffith and the Hunter Valley. After many talks with Greta he had become resigned to knowing that Papa was not and perhaps never would be in a mood to forgive. This helped him decide to make a new start in a country far away from Australia.

He stopped writing in the journal because he couldn’t see properly. Rolfe rubbed his eyes until he had clear vision again. The next words were hard to put down on paper but tightening his lips he wrote them:

It was almost inconceivable to believe that Kurt and Marta were dead. Greta had phoned him with the news a week ago. In all truth, that
his brother and Marta had died in a car accident had come as no surprise. Marta loved speed and Kurt always pushed his vehicles to the limit. The police said the Mercedes sports had spun out around a curve in Murray Street, flipped over several times, killing not only Marta and Kurt instantly but the three-months-old foetus Marta was carrying. A very sad day for the Stenmark family.

Papa was inconsolable, according to Greta. Stricken with grief but also with anger too…towards him, though that made little sense. He seemed to believe that in some way
he
was to blame for what had happened to Marta and Kurt! Such accusations were illogical, beyond common sense but that meant little to Papa. He was the kind of man who had to apportion blame and, instead of blaming Kurt’s bad driving habits, he chose to blame Rolfe!

He was glad to be leaving Australia. With Kurt and Marta gone and Papa still unforgiving there could and probably never would be anything there for him…ever. It was best that he go far away, try to forget and put the events of the last two years behind him…

Misty-eyed, Carla looked up from her father’s journal. All the pieces of the puzzle—the story of her father’s early years—had fallen into place. She knew what Rolfe had done, why he had left Australia and never returned. It was so sad to be cut adrift like that at such a young age.
No family, no friends, going to live in a foreign country. In fact, doing the reverse of what his forebears had done when they’d migrated from the Rhine to the Barossa. Was it little wonder that he’d become the quiet, serious man she remembered? She turned a couple more pages. They were blank. Then, on the last page of the journal was a final, four line entry.

Spring, Italy, 1965

He was learning to speak Italian and could manage simple conversations with most Italians these days. Yesterday he had met a man, a winemaker, Guido Bardolino, in a taverna, and they had shared a few glasses of wine. Guido offered him a season’s work at his vineyard at Vicenza, near Venice.

Rolfe decided to take the job because he was tired of travelling—sleeping in musty rooms and living out of a suitcase—besides, he needed the money. And, Guido said that he had four beautiful daughters—Lucia, Francesca, Gina and Giuseppina.

He must remember to write to Greta and give her his new address.

The index finger of Carla’s right hand traced her mother’s name and she smiled. She sighed as she closed the journal. Her father had been happy for a while, in Italy and for several years after they’d come to New Zealand. Remembering the happy
times, her smile widened then slowly faded. Resting her head back in her father’s chair she closed her eyes. So much to absorb. The personal writings in the journal had described a very different man to her. Young, passionate and…wronged. If only he had confided in her when he’d been alive but at least it was good, if late, to know and understand what she now did.

Suddenly restless because she had been sitting practically since daybreak, she got up and walked to the window to look out at the vines. Along one of the rows of vines a long thin stick with a red piece of tape fluttering in the breeze stood out above the vines. That’s where Peter Cruzio had found her father. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she turned away to stare around the room and, as her gaze moved from one piece of furniture to another, she made a decision.

School holidays would be upon her in less than two weeks, which would give her time to settle most of her father’s affairs and…book flights to Adelaide in South Australia. Three tickets: for herself, Sam and Angie. They were going to go to the Barossa to check out Krugerhoff…
and…
establish links with the relatives she knew she had. She was doing that for her son, not herself. With her mother and cousins living so far away, Sam deserved to be part of a loving family and now her intention was to provide him with one.

O
ver thirty years several things had changed in the Stenmark home, but one had not. Everyone was still expected to dine together on Saturday nights, however, they no longer ate in Stenhaus’s formal dining room. Instead, the family dined in a glassed-in atrium which had been built off the kitchen whose view overlooked the paved patio and the swimming pool. Beyond the pool, which was screened by a two-metre hedge, stood a long garage that could house six cars and a home gym, mostly for Lisel’s and Luke’s use. This building had replaced the original winery and stables that had been built by Carl’s grandfather, Fritz Stenmark.

Luke Michaels, standing close to the window with an aperitif in his hand, gazed outwards, not at the pool but beyond, to the vines that stretched as far as could be seen in the twilight. Red and gold and brown leaves dotted the overall green as autumn took a firmer hold on
the vines. By the end of May most of the leaves would have dropped off. Luke liked this time of year. The harvest was in, the fermentation stages had begun, there was time to breathe more easily now, and to attend to matters that had been set aside for quieter times.

Luke turned away from the window as he heard someone come into the room. He knew by the sound of her footsteps, high heels on the tiled floor, that it was Aunt Lisel. Not that he called her aunt these days—there was only seven years difference in their ages and she’d insisted when he’d become a teenager that he call her by her first name.

Lisel Stenmark was a very different woman to his mother, Greta, in every possible way. Tall, still almost model slim at forty-something, dark where his mother was fair, glamorous and sophisticated where his mother was not, spirited and highly strung where Greta Michaels was calm and congenial.

‘Lisel,’ his smile was welcoming. ‘May I get you something?’

‘I’ll have what you’re having, darling.’

He lifted his glass in a salute then went to the well-stocked bar in a corner of the room and poured her one. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven o’clock, and as if on cue, other members of the Stenmark family entered the room. Dinner always began promptly at seven. Greta and John Michaels, Luke’s parents, were first, and behind his grandfather trotted a
scrubbed-up Josh Aldrich, in a suit. The solidly built, blond-haired man had unremarkable, even features and brown eyes that almost continually darted about, watching, judging, calculating.

Luke was not overly fond of Rhein Schloss’s operations manager but he admitted that the man knew his stuff and successfully oversaw the production of the company’s entire harvest to bottling stage. Josh was a special guest tonight because Grandfather had invited him, presumably to talk business during and after dinner. ‘Shop talk’ was something his mother abhorred at Saturday night dinners, but over the years because it was the one time when they were together, it was inevitable for such talk to occur.

The glass-topped table was set for dinner with half a dozen place mats and the accompanying silver cutlery and glassware. Out of respect, everyone waited until Carl Stenmark sat at the head of the table before taking their respective seats, Luke on Carl’s right and Josh on his left side. Margit, the cook, after peeking through the kitchen doorway and seeing that everyone was seated, pushed a kitchen traymobile into the atrium. The crockery rattled with the first course, a green salad with slices of smoked salmon.

Luke, out of the corner of his eye, watched his grandfather stare at his plate. He kept his features expressionless because he knew what was coming.

‘Salad, again. It’s autumn, Greta.’ Carl’s tone was as much of a complaint as his words. ‘Time
for warming soups, isn’t it? Anything other than this green stuff.’

‘Next week, Papa,’ Greta said patiently, her answer to a question the same as it had been for years. ‘Next week we will have your favourite soup, leek and asparagus.’

‘Harruumph. Good.’

Luke picked up his fork and began to eat, knowing that Grandfather or Lisel would instigate the conversation. His aunt had never lost her penchant for chatter, for bringing gossip about what was happening in the Valley to the dinner table, whether Grandfather appreciated it or not. Luke was like his father, content to listen and contribute occasionally when questions were directed to him.

‘I heard that Pieter Schmidt, foreman at the Riverside Winery near Angaston, has been asked to leave,’ Lisel got the ball rolling.

‘The man’s a fool,’ Josh, who knew everyone of importance in the Valley, commented with a snide smile. ‘Pieter was caught red-handed knocking off several cases of cabernet sauvignon, the vintage Riverside won a gold medal for last year. The theft might have been overlooked if it hadn’t been the gold medal wine. Riverside have been guarding that strenuously for export.’

‘He was unlucky,’ Carl rasped, stabbing the air with his fork. ‘Staff pilfering goes on at quite a few wineries, as in all kinds of businesses. It’s a fact of life owners have to accept.’

Margit came in with a tray to clear the plates
and cutlery. Greta rose to help and supervise the serving of the main course.

‘The owner of Riverside should have Schmidt charged,’ Lisel, her mouth thinning vindictively, stated. ‘It would be an object lesson for others in the Valley.’

‘Wouldn’t stop the thefts, my dear. Such practices are endemic,’ Carl’s reply was matter of fact. Then, tiring of the subject, he changed it. ‘Onto other matters. Young Luke,’ Carl’s blue eyes speared into his grandson’s, ‘what news of Krugerhoff?’

‘I received a polite refusal, faxed yesterday,’ Luke told him. ‘I’m considering flying to New Zealand to make an offer personally.’

‘No.’ Carl shook his mass of snow-white hair at his grandson. At eighty-two he could have passed for being more than ten years younger than his real age. His skin was healthy and tanned from spending many hours outdoors, and he had a reputation for being as healthy as a man almost half his age. ‘Not smart tactics to show that much interest. The woman, if she has half a brain in her head, will conclude that the land’s worth more than you’re offering for it.’

‘It is, Papa,’ Greta said. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘She
might not,’ Carl replied, his features settling into cunning lines. ‘I suggest you wait a week and up your offer by ten thousand dollars. From what you’ve told me, Krugerhoff is the only worthwhile inheritance she received, and
that her…father’s,’ he struggled over the word, ‘New Zealand vineyard is in debt.’

‘According to my sources,’ Luke confirmed.

‘Then unless she’s a fool, she will accept your offer.’

‘Better get in quick,’ Josh Aldrich suggested, his eagerness to be included in the conversation obvious. ‘Other realty offices in town will no doubt relay offers to her because of Krugerhoff’s prime location.’

Carl’s hand landed with a thud on the table, making the cutlery clunk noisily.
‘I want that land.’
His tone deepened, like the distant, ominous roll of thunder. ‘It belonged to Stenmark more than thirty years ago and there is no longer an…“impediment” to it becoming ours again.’

‘Yes, Grandfather. I am sure she’ll come round to the sense of selling it.’ Luke acceded to the head of the family’s demands.

Lisel, sitting diagonally opposite Luke, smiled reassuringly at him. ‘Don’t fuss so, Papa, Luke will be successful.’ She reached across to pat her nephew’s hand. ‘We know he’s very good at what he does, whether it’s working for Rhein Schloss or using Michaels Realty to buy up more land for cultivation.’

It was good to have his aunt on his side and Luke’s smile said so. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lisel.’

This time it was his father who changed the topic of conversation, bringing up matters of
business. Luke let the talk flow around him, only half-listening to what was being said, his thoughts wandering elsewhere. It was clear that his grandfather, even after so long, couldn’t bear to mention his younger son’s name out loud, even though he’d died. When informed of Rolfe’s death he had shown scant interest in knowing anything about Rolfe or his descendants—a granddaughter named Carla Hunter, and a great-grandson. He was and had for years been obsessed by the idea of getting Krugerhoff back as if, in some strange way, that would bring a sense of balance to the past.

His mother’s reaction had been different. She had wanted to know everything he had gleaned from his New Zealand source about her brother’s family. Contact between Rolfe and herself had dwindled and petered out when Rolfe migrated to New Zealand. All she knew was that he’d married and had a daughter. That was the last contact she’d had, leaving her to assume that he had settled down and was happy. Rolfe had been his mother’s favourite brother, and Luke had heard the story of how and why Rolfe had been disinherited many times. So foolish, really, by today’s less strict standards. That his grandfather had antiquated ideas on morality and correct behaviour was obvious. Today, should such a situation occur, he was sure it would be handled differently.

As the main course was placed in front of him, Luke’s thoughts moved back through his
childhood, focusing on what he knew about Krugerhoff. A kind of mystique had developed around Krugerhoff. Rolfe had left the Valley so quickly, disappearing virtually without a trace, several older kids—second graders—had, when Luke was in kindergarten at the local primary school, theorised that Rolfe had been killed by Kurt or Carl in a rage and that his body lay buried somewhere on Krugerhoff. Being five and too young to think it through logically, with the older boys, he had made several expeditions onto Krugerhoff land.

The boys had tried, unsuccessfully, to get into the buildings and find Rolfe’s grave and even now, so many years on he could recall the eerie feeling of exploring what was, in the Stenmark household, forbidden territory. On their last sortie Otto, an old man who’d once worked for Rolfe, and the vineyard’s unofficial caretaker, had discovered them and scared the living daylights out of all of them. After that his interest in Krugerhoff had done an about-turn and he’d not gone back. It wasn’t until his teen years that Greta had assured him that Rolfe wasn’t dead, and that he was living in New Zealand, dispelling once and for all the murder theory. His mother had had a good chuckle when he’d confessed what he and the other boys had done years before.

Now Rolfe Stenmark-Kruger was dead. That advice had been received from a real estate agent in Marlborough on New Zealand’s South Island—he’d had the man on a retainer to advise him
of any ‘movements’ concerning the Valley View Winery. With Rolfe’s death the final chapter in the love story that had caused the family so much grief had been written. He sneaked a glance at Carl who was distracted by something Lisel was saying. Perhaps now Grandfather could put the past behind him and move on emotionally, but, he suspected, not until Krugerhoff was reunited with Stenmark’s vast holdings.

‘Enough talk of expanding markets and promotions,’ Carl said grumpily after listening patiently for five minutes while Lisel explained some promotion strategy. He turned towards Josh Aldrich. ‘I’ve heard there’s bunch rot at that new vineyard north of the Valley, Jackson’s Landing. What do you know about it?’

‘It’s true, Mr Stenmark,’ Josh said respectfully. ‘They’ll have big trouble in spring if they don’t get it under control.’

‘Our vines?’ Carl shot the question at Josh.

‘They’re fine, sir, every last one of them.’ Josh grinned with relief when Carl nodded that he was pleased by that information.

‘It’s a nasty disease that bunch rot,’ Carl said with a shake of his head. ‘And John, what’s this I hear about de Bortoli expanding into Victoria?’

‘That’s been confirmed,’ John Michaels said. ‘They won’t be the only ones doing it either.’

‘The Barossa’s still the best place for growing grapes,’ Carl defended the Valley staunchly. He saw it as the finest area in the world for vine cultivation.

‘Yes, Grandfather,’ Luke agreed, ‘but other vineyards are diversifying because Australian palates have become more attuned to the many different wines available now. More than they were twenty to thirty years ago.’

Carl chuckled. ‘You’re right about that. When I took over Rhein Schloss, most Australian men and women drank beer or soft-drinks. There was almost a national distrust of wine. It was foreign, something migrants drank. Nowadays, what with migrants coming in from more countries than you can shake a stick at, the Anglo-Australian has been educated to the value and taste of good wine. Business is booming.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Lisel chipped in with and raised her glass to everyone.

‘And you’re doing good work in promotions, Lisel,’ Carl admitted, if grudgingly.

Because Carl Stenmark gave compliments rarely, to do with Rhein Schloss, Lisel’s cheeks tinted pink. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Luke agreed. He knew it had taken a long time for Lisel to find her niche at Rhein Schloss after her two failed marriages. One of the reasons she enjoyed promoting their products was because doing so gave her the opportunity to travel overseas on a regular basis. This suited everyone because, Lisel, in a bad mood or depressed, as she sometimes became, had a venomous tongue that made her hard to live with especially when compared to his mother who was a gentle, caring woman.

Lisel was a chameleon and a cunning one at that. Many people, like staff at work or at home, had experienced the lash of her sharpness but others, like his father and grandfather, were treated to a very different Lisel. To them she was almost perfect. Capable and vivacious, she refrained from showing them the other side of her personality. He had never been on the wrong side of her temper personally but his mother and others had been less fortunate. Still, it was hard not to like Lisel. She showed such interest in him and had done so since he’d worn short pants. Played with him when he was young, helped him to study, encouraged him through university and later, to diversify and open the realty office in Nuriootpa. She had even paraded a host of young women through the house in the hope that he’d find a suitable mate though he hadn’t so far. Her continuing interest made him believe that his aunt looked upon him as her surrogate child, the one she had never had, despite her marriages.