Sweeter Than Wine (20 page)

She put down the final card inscribed with
Opa
's copperplate hope, and
bowed her head. Her lips moved in prayer, and Siegfried remembered the
antiphon:
And let perpetual light shine upon them.
He let the thought fly up
wherever such things go. He might have walked away from the Church, but he
could not give up his belief that the honored dead should receive their due.
May
they rest in peace. Amen.
He thought of
Opa
Roye's confidence in the
future, and his love for the family that would come after him.

Now Siegfried was responsible for that future.

He dared to look behind him. "I take back what I said about Bill. He left
Opa's
legacy to age unmolested."

Siegfried reverently took a dark green, dusty bottle from the case on the
opposite wall of the tunnel.
Montclair Estates Burgundy. Bottled by William
Winston Roye and grandson, 1912.
There was a wall-rack full of cases, and
none of them, as he well knew, were dedicated to any specific joyous event. He
had a terrible curiosity to know how this wine tasted.

"How many are there?" Alice whispered.

"One hundred thirty-two cases. An acre's worth of grapes."

"Oh, my!" Alice's eyes narrowed. "Will this be any good? It's been here longer
than--"

"But, in bottles. No air should have contaminated the wine. A good red can be
aged a very long time and only improve.
Opa
Roye's wines were
immediately drinkable, of course, but after seven years, they should be heavenly."
Siegfried passed the bottle before the kerosene flame, checking for sediment or
changes in coloration. The color had only deepened with age. Even surrounded by
heavy green glass, the wine had a ruby heart. "There is only one way to find
out."

He pulled out his knife, which, like that of all good vintners or soldiers, had its
own corkscrew, and proceeded to open the bottle. The cork was good and firm,
not brittle, not crumbly. It pulled loose from the neck with a soft pop. Siegfried held
it up to his nose and sniffed--no hint of mold or vinegar.

Excited, Siegfried handed the knife with embedded cork to Alice and dug into
his pocket for the clean glass. He poured carefully, swirling the glass to release
the rich bouquet: blackberry and vanilla, rounded and mellow with oak.

He gave the glass to Alice, hating to let it go, and got out the used glass,
wiping the last drops of the spoiled '15 away with his fingers. He poured for
himself, then cupped the curve of the bowl, slightly warming the wine before
raising his glass to Alice in a toast, "To Montclair's success!" He closed his eyes
as he drank.

The first sip filled his mouth with memories. The heat of Sonoma's summer
had brought the sugar in the fruit to its highest level, but the process of
fermentation and the years in bottle had burned all the sweetness away. Only the
ghosts of summer fruit remained: cherry, blackberry, plum, a hint of spice, and the
vanilla promised by its bouquet.

"Siegfried, this is wonderful!"

He opened his eyes as Alice swallowed with total concentration.

Her joy was headier by far than the wine. A brilliant smile revealed hidden
dimples in her cheeks, making her look suddenly younger and mischievous. He
wanted to clasp her waist and spin in a dance of triumph; he wanted to drink the
wine of her lips, besotted with her kisses.

"I think," he said gruffly, lowering the bottle to his side, "this will do for your
meeting. Yes?"

"Yes. This should do very well," she agreed warmly. "We can pack several
cases tomorrow before we drive to Santa Rosa. They'll fit nicely in the back of the
truck, too." She finished the remaining wine in the glass, and then picked up the
lantern. Light-footed with relief, they began the long walk back through the tunnels
to the house.

She paused after a few steps, and turned slightly toward him. In the lantern
light, her eyes were the translucent golden-brown of aged sherry. "Thank you,
Siegfried."

If she would only look at him like that again, he would give her the world, not
just some old wine in a glass.

* * *

Alice climbed into bed, her legs and back aching, her mind jumping and
sparking with possibilities. Bill's vintage was useless, but she had one hundred
thirty-two cases of William Roye's finest wine! She pulled her sheet up to her chin,
doing mental sums as she closed her eyes.
My luck has changed at last.
With the money from the sale, they
would
be all right until harvest.

She drifted downward into sleep. Just before she reached bottom, the memory
of Siegfried's kiss, imprinted on her mouth, soothed and disturbed at the same
time.

In her dreams,
a chaotic jumble of tunnels led to long-halled houses with
wine-red wallpaper whose doors did not fit tightly because the staves had warped
and shrunk. Alice ran through the gas-lit halls, fleeing from a monstrous gray Hun.
His bayonet had impaled a baby which cried, improbably, "Mama!"

But when she finally stopped running, and faced her pursuer, there was
only Siegfried, his eyes innocently closed as he drank his grandfather's wine, the
smooth muscles of his throat working, savoring a pleasure too overwhelming to
share. When he came close and kissed her, she kissed him back, his mouth
sweeter than wine. She drew him into one of the red-walled rooms off the corridor,
where her bare skin met crisply laundered sheets--

She woke up, shaking, holding the sheet away from her as if it were a
contaminating rag. Her cotton nightgown clung damply to her breasts and she felt
alive
in a hundred places she should not even think about.

Bill had been dead over a year now, and it had been even longer since she
had last kissed him, been a wife to him. He had come home in April 1917 for a
brief leave just before being sent to Europe. After that, there had been postcards
and the occasional letter, and then nothing until the government's telegram
arrived.

She had missed him, of course, but she thought she had gotten over this
wretched carnal
need
for him.

Alice got out of bed and leaned at the open window, wishing the pre-dawn
breeze, cool and scented with the countless perfumes of Montclair, would blow her
dream away. In the east, a layer of turquoise sky preceded dawn. No fog. Birds
began chirping haphazardly, and the county's roosters performed their appointed
duty.

As the light increased, the day's proper colors took their place: greens and
tawny gold, the black Ford truck, and splashes of red and yellow from the
rosebushes bordering the vineyard.

The utter beauty of the morning was not distraction enough to prevent her from
reliving the kiss she had shared with Siegfried. It had been so good to be held
again, to have the comfort of a strong shoulder, to feel a man's firm mouth against
her own. It had felt right, and it ought not to have. It was too soon to want anyone
but Bill.

And yet, she was tempted. She wanted Siegfried to repeat that tender
pressure against her mouth, the slow caress that sent a heavy pulse beating
between her thighs. If they'd been near a bed, she would have dragged Siegfried
to it. Then she would have woken up in his arms this morning, and seen his hair
shining and tousled in the morning light, his head denting Bill's pillow.

Her heart began to beat faster, and its unfaithful pulsing filled her with
remorse. She swallowed and turned away from the window. Bill's side of the bed
was empty, the pillow plump and round. She had not betrayed him, but snares of
the flesh and the Devil were all around her.

She had to keep her vigilance, keep her distance.

But why did it have to be so hard?

* * *

Dressed in her oldest shirtwaist, with a floppy straw hat to protect her
complexion from the sun, and thick gloves, Alice spent a cool morning hour in the
vegetable garden, hoping the scents of soil and herbs would restore her
tranquillity.

Except it wasn't working. Her thoughts kept straying into dangerous territory.
How
could
she have kissed Siegfried?

There was only one reason. Alice crossed herself, praying to the Blessed
Virgin for Her intercession, too ashamed of her likeness to her mother to ask God
directly for forgiveness. How could she be worthy of making His altar wines if she
was consumed by carnality?

She bent to her work, seeking escape from her emotions by yanking weeds
and slashing dead leaves from the herb and flower borders.

The wine she had tasted last night would have honored the Mass. Perhaps
she should send a few bottles to Archbishop Hanna in San Francisco. It had been
nearly three months, and he had not yet replied to her petition for a sacramental
wine license.

Bribery
, whispered her conscience. Alice ruthlessly uprooted long
tendrils of convolvulus that threatened to strangle a rosemary shrub.
It's not
bribery
, she protested to her inner critic.
Just a small reminder to jog his
memory.

Yes. She would do it. And when the Archbishop saw what Montclair could
produce...

Straightening up, Alice watched, enthralled, as a tiny ruby-throated
hummingbird darted among the fruit trees, hovering as he inspected the promise
of a generous harvest of apricots, peaches, pears, and plums. Finding no
blossoms to nourish him, the bird chittered furiously and streaked away. Alice
smiled in sympathy for his hunger. She wondered if Siegfried liked peach pie, and
remembered warm tears soaking her hair.

I won't think about Siegfried. It's disloyal to Bill. I mustn't forget to buy
Mason jars at Duhring's,
she told herself, focusing on the commonplace.

She had brought a large basket with her, into which she placed various herbs
for Maria's roast pork: spiky-leafed rosemary twigs, dusty green sage, and sweetly
fragrant basil. Tomatoes followed the herbs into the basket, and Alice bent to dig
the first carrots and a bulb of garlic from the soil.

He likes my cooking,
she thought with a self-indulgent smile.
He
likes to kiss me.

Her throat closed up as she realized what she was thinking in her weakness. If
she continued on this path, she would lose her chance for an annulment. She
would be stuck, married to a Hun!

She dug out half a rosemary plant before recognizing it wasn't a weed.

* * *

Mortified, Siegfried struggled out of sleep in the dark. He was kissing his
pillow, having dreamt it was Alice in his arms. In spite of the fragrance of linen and
feathers in his nose, he could still taste the salt of her tears, balanced against the
sweetness of her lips. He had wanted to go on kissing her in the wine cave, had
wanted to do much, much more than kiss her.

He flung the pillow away from him and struggled out of bed, unwilling to
indulge in wishful thinking. He had promised himself he would not force Alice, that
he would wait for her to welcome him, and he was a man of his word.

But he wanted her so badly now. His body had betrayed him, seeking its
mindless pleasure despite his good intentions. He would not let it rule him, he
vowed to himself as he washed and dressed. He would be the master.

Although he made it his inflexible habit to rise early, today he was ready to
start half an hour earlier than usual. His list of tasks was nearly endless, but he
thought he might achieve some peace of mind if he could study what was left of
Bill's last vintage, and the last gift of
Opa
Roye.

When he was done, inventory book in only slightly shaking hand, he returned
to the main buildings to join Peter for their regular dawn walk through the
vineyard.

The foreman emerged from the door of his cottage, yawned widely, and
greeted Siegfried. They headed towards the Pinot Noir section of the vineyard,
pushing their way through long, curling vine tendrils that waved in the soft breeze
and tumbled down in a fountain of tender green leaves.

They walked slowly up the hill, and Peter stopped to point out the progress of
the field workers. They were already beginning their day's labors, trimming the
excess leaves and shoots from the rows of vines in order to ensure maximum
sunlight for the developing grape clusters.

Siegfried had no comment until they reached the row end, and he saw that the
luxuriant growth had been raggedly cut short. "These plants have been over-
thinned," he observed unhappily.

Peter cursed in Italian, and snatched his hat off, striking it against his thigh in
anger.

"What?" Siegfried felt as if he had suddenly awakened fully from the dream of
the night.

"Tell Alice she needs to buy a bag of dried chili peppers the next time she's in
town." Peter examined a chewed-up grapevine tendril with disgust.

Siegfried raised his eyebrows.
Chili peppers
?

Peter let him stew a moment longer, then grinned lopsidedly. "Deer have been
at these vines. We grind the chili up and add it to the sulfur spray. The deer take
one mouthful and run for the reservoir. They're pests. Papa always called 'em
'hoofed rats.' Come hunting season, we'll have some great venison, fattened on a
diet of Montclair grapes and your wife's vegetables! Which reminds me--it's getting
close to breakfast." He gave Siegfried a jarring slap on the shoulder. "We'd better
finish up and get back to the house before Maria decides to serve us cold
eggs."

"Before we go, I have something about which we must talk." Siegfried knew
his grasp of English was slipping again, but he could not help it. He could not be
calm. "Peter, Alice and I went into the caves yesterday. None of the wine in the '15
barrels had been topped off."

Peter stiffened. "Sig, when the influenza killed Papa--" he began.

"No." Siegfried interrupted, coldly furious at Peter's attempt to deflect his
attention by a reiteration of his losses. "I measured the levels in those barrels.
They had not been topped off for
two
years, at least! Your father died only
last November. And you knew well enough what to do. It was simple maintenance!
And not only the wine, but the cooperage--all ruined!" He drew a deep breath, his
anger rising. "
Mein Gott
, Peter. More damage you could not have done if
you had tried!"