Sweeter Than Wine (21 page)

Peter flinched guiltily.

Siegfried's sudden comprehension churned his stomach. "
Did
you...try?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." The foreman started to turn away, but
Siegfried reached out and gripped his forearm. Peter stayed passive for a
moment, then shook free.

Siegfried said, "I thought I knew what kind of man you were, Peter! How can
you sleep at night?"

"Bill laid down that vintage before he went away," Peter wiped his palms
nervously down the legs of his jeans. "It was no good to begin with."

"I cannot believe that your father, as a vintner, would ever allow a vintage to be
ruined." Yet he had tasted mercaptan-tainted burgundy...

"If he'd had any say in it," Peter said bitterly. "Which he didn't, when Bill was in
charge. Bill's wine was worthless, so Papa earned nothing for years. When we
heard that Bill wasn't coming back, that he--he
liked
being a soldier-boy, oh,
Papa was so mad! He told everyone that Bill had abandoned him, and left a city
girl in charge."

Siegfried remembered Attilio Verdacchia, who had been a fierce old man even
in Siegfried's youth, very much in command of the winery and his frail, much-
younger wife. "I fail to see how this justifies the victimization of an innocent
widow!"

Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably. "My father came to America with a
dream." He kicked at a tuft of dry wild mustard growing between the vines. "All he
ever wanted was his own land, his own house, with a vineyard and some olive
trees. And Papa thought, since Hugh should have inherited Montclair in the first
place, that--"

"You would let the winery crumble around Alice's ears to bring down the price,"
Siegfried finished, biting off each word. "I see."

"Hugh promised Papa a commission on the sale price of Montclair," Peter
said, flatly. "Papa had his property all picked out. There was a place for sale in
west Santa Rosa, near the Martini vineyards. He only needed a couple hundred
dollars more. It was losing his down payment that killed him!" Peter's face was
ugly, molded by grief and bitterness.

"What happened?" Siegfried murmured.

The foreman made a throwaway gesture. "When the influenza came, and
Mario got so sick, we spent a fortune on that quack Dr. Waxler. Waxler
said
he had a cure! But he didn't. He took our money and left town. Papa--he gave us
everything he had, and when Mario--when Mario--" Peter coughed and spat. "It
broke Papa's heart. Within a week, he was gone, too. And then we had to pay for
the goddamn funerals."

A surge of sympathy washed through Siegfried, but he resisted its effect, using
the same tactic that had worked with men under his military command. "And now?
Are you still working for Hugh?"

"I've done my best to keep things running around here since Bill left. Sig, look
around you," Peter swept his arm wide, taking in the hundreds of trellised rows
draped over the hills like a man-made quilt. "I defy you to tell me I've let a particle
of harm come to these vines. We're going to have a great harvest. I know I don't
have a vintner's touch--not like Papa, or your grandfather, or even you. We both
know Bill never did. He would have lost this place sooner or later, anyway."

"How can I trust you, Peter?"

"You don't have much of a choice," Peter said in a hard voice, all traces of his
apologetic demeanor vanished. "You could fire me, but I'd take my crew with me.
The other vineyard workers have already hired out, and I know Alice doesn't have
the money to lure them here with higher wages." Peter hooked a thumb in his
jeans pocket. "Sig, just continue the terms of Bill's agreement with me, and I'll work
for you, fair and square. After all, you know what you're doing around here."

"What terms?" Siegfried asked, anger and relief warring in him. He needed
Peter and his workers through crush.

Peter must have caught something of Siegfried's reaction because he stepped
back hastily. "I get ten percent of the year's profits. So, the harder I work, the more
money I get. Your grandfather originally made that deal with Papa. Old Mr. Roye
was no fool."

"No, a fool he was not. I will continue the agreement," Siegfried capitulated
through clenched teeth. How Peter had changed from his boyhood! "But I expect
you to be loyal to me."

"Look, you or Hugh--either way, a Roye is in charge of Montclair again. I just
want a chance to have my own place someday, where Maria and I can grow old,
and watch our kids grow up," Peter stopped at the mention of children. He took a
deep breath, then continued in a different tone: "Papa died without getting his own
land. You, of all people, ought to know what that's like, what it can drive a man to
do." He stuck out his hand.

Siegfried took it automatically, guilt stinging him. He had married Alice for her
land, hadn't he?
But I'm helping her keep it.
"What about the cooperage?"
he asked, his voice sounding plaintive even to his own ears.

"Ah, Sig. It was mostly old and ruined by too much sulfur anyway. We need all
new. I know a cooper down in Monterey..."

Peter continued to talk while they returned to the house, and his rough chatter
was no different than any morning. It was plain that the foreman felt the matter
was resolved.

Well, and if it was, Siegfried need not trouble Alice with revelations of old
disasters. She had enough to worry her already--and if she became too unhappy,
she might never kiss him again.

She
must
kiss him again. Nothing else in his future was certain, but this
he knew, bone deep. He would
make
it happen.

Montclair

Wednesday, June 25

After breakfast, Siegfried found a hand cart in a shed behind the winery, and
wheeled it into the caves. He lit the lantern, the dancing flame reminding him of
Alice. Yesterday evening she had been so sweet, so trusting. This morning, she
had been unapproachable, hiding out in the garden after grabbing a piece of
toast.

He remembered the softness of her lips. Imagining kissing her again led to
wondering how that soft white skin would feel, bare against him...

He pushed the handcart blindly through the tunnel, propelled by a wave of lust.
He longed to make love to her and intoxicate them both with kisses. What bliss it
would be to spend his days laboring in Montclair's winery and vineyards, and then
sleep in her arms!

Siegfried reached the racks, and brought himself down to earth with a thump.
He found empty cases stacked in a corner, then turned to the rows of racked
bottles and made his selections, cleaning the dusty bottles before inserting them
into their slots. When the wooden boxes were full, he rolled the unwieldy cart
outside to Alice's truck, mindful of any unevenness in the ground that could jar the
wine. As he bent and lifted the heavy cases, he rejoiced at how easy and supple
his muscles had become. Even his scarred leg was less painful.

Covering the cases of wine in the Model-T with a heavy canvas tarp, Siegfried
returned to the house to wash up and change clothes.

His face and neck damp from shaving, he opened the wardrobe, and
suppressed a sigh. He only had Opa Roye's dark suit to wear for formal occasions.
Black wool was unsuitable for summer, but he must make do with what he
had.

He adjusted his stiff collar in the small mirror and put on his vest and coat.
They were less loose than they had been, and likely to shrink more with Maria's
delicious cooking. How wonderful not to be hungry all the time!

He combed back his hair and smoothed down a cowlick on the crown of his
head with the palm of his hand. He had almost forgotten it was there. It was only
noticeable now because his hair had grown out of its military cut. He was growing
accustomed to being a civilian again. Safe. Sound. Working for Montclair's
future.

Unbidden, Peter's words attacked like sniper fire.
Papa died without getting
his own land. You, of all people, ought to know what that's like, what it can drive a
man to do.

He shook out the lapels of the coat, deliberately recalling the flavor of Alice's
lips. So sweet. Her kiss had felt so right.

A last glance in the mirror to check his appearance, but he could not look
himself in the eye. He would love her even if she did not own Montclair. Wouldn't
he?

* * *

As she descended the porch stairs and came down the walk to the graveled
driveway, Alice saw Siegfried, formally dressed and looking severely handsome,
as he opened the gleaming Model T's door and stood holding it for her.

He was frowning.

Her heart gave an odd lurch, a double-thump of awareness that he had a right
to be upset with her. She ought to have told him about the meeting before now;
but she had been so anxious, so--she had to admit it to herself--afraid of the
reaction to her unconventional wedding from the members of the Association.

She dreaded the coming hours. There would be sideways glances, and
perhaps some men, less than gentlemen, might make rude comments. She didn't
really believe anyone knew her background, would throw it in her face; but she
feared most what was least likely.

And what if anyone asked where Siegfried had spent the War?

She had not been able to face these possibilities ahead of time.

And she was not yet ready to face Siegfried. Not when the mere sight of him
could make her pulse flutter. Not when his presence, in a fine old suit, gave her a
chill as she came too close, trying to get past him to climb into the truck. Not when
the gaze from his dark blue eyes was so serious and direct. Bill would have
laughed and passed off the tension of the moment with some pointless joke.

Alice felt breathless as she caught Siegfried's direct gaze again. She couldn't
think straight, but she forced a laugh, remembering how Bill could charm his way
out of any uncomfortable situation. "Penny for your thoughts?"

He smiled, a little shyly, a faint red flush staining the fair skin above his
celluloid collar, and Alice knew immediately it was the worst possible question to
have asked.

"I was thinking," Siegfried said softly, "that I should very much like to kiss you
again, Alice."

Somehow she was trapped between the truck and the door, and Siegfried was
leaning, close, and his fingertips were brushing her chin, lightly tilting her face up.
She did not resist him. She was entranced, suspended in a state of waiting.

He bent to kiss her, tentatively at first, and the spell was broken in a flash like
lightning. She leaned into the softness and heat of his mouth. His hunger for her
was a flame that warmed her, and his slow possession of her mouth kindled a
deeper need in her. Siegfried's kisses were sinful. They made her want to
abandon her respectability. His large hands cupped her face, and with shocking
suddenness she longed to feel those callused palms against her breasts.

Alice stepped back, pushing herself away from him with a gasp that was
almost a sob, hitting the side of the truck with enough force to make it rock.

"Ah-lees?" His accent made a caress of her very ordinary name.

She felt a stab of guilt for bruising his feelings. In the next moment, she hated
him, hated herself for the searing rush of desire he had ignited in her. How easily
he could make her forget every scrap of propriety she had painfully learned! Her
hard-won serenity in tatters, she wiped her mouth convulsively with the back of her
hand.

"We'd better go," she said, in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. "We'll
be late for the meeting." She slid into the driver's seat.

Alice stewed during the interminable drive up to Santa Rosa, bouncing the
Ford vengefully through potholes and over ridged ruts with a grim disregard for the
cases of wine sloshing around in the truck bed.

He doesn't really want
me
, she told herself, over and over again. He
wouldn't care who he kissed, as long as she owned Montclair.

* * *

Siegfried's jaw muscles unclenched as they neared the white Santa Rosa
courthouse with its grand cupola and huge clock. The square in front of the
courthouse was crowded with parked cars and horse-drawn wagons and even a
bicycle or two.

"I should have brought more wine!" Alice exclaimed, the first words she had
spoken since Sonoma.

"Too late," he replied, pretending to be calm. He wasn't. She had deliberately
driven into potholes she could have missed. She might have ruined the wine they
had brought.

He wished he could shake some sense into Alice! But she sat so stiffly,
refusing to look at him, untouchable.

His nerves were screaming as if he were about to go into battle, and Alice's
kiss had only added explosives to the incendiary mix. Even angry with her, he was
ready to do more--a great deal more--than kiss her. If she ever gave him the
chance again. And if he thought any more about how sweetly she had kissed him,
how soft she had been against him, how she had
let
him kiss her, he might
die.

He hoped he could survive this meeting with his dignity intact.

The back entrance of the courthouse was an alleyway, shaded by tall trees.
She drove to where a small dapper man hovered in an open doorway.

"I'm sorry we're late, Mr. Price," Alice called as she parked the Model-T. "I
know I haven't left much time for setup." She smiled apologetically.

At this mention of lateness, Siegfried jumped down and immediately started
loading the wine crates onto the hand truck. Of course Alice had not allowed
enough time for proper preparations. She had not wanted to come at all.

"All the arrangements are made, but we do need your wine, Mrs. Roye," said
Mr. Price fussily as he helped her down from the truck.

Siegfried, setting the last crate in the stack, realized with annoyance that Alice
had not made any correction of her name, nor was she going to introduce him. He
maneuvered the hand truck smartly to the doorway where the two of them were
now standing, and stopped it precisely. "I do not believe we have met, Mr...Price?"
Siegfried bowed slightly and gave Alice a fiercely expectant look.