Sweeter Than Wine (6 page)

"A few days, perhaps. I will telephone when all the arrangements have been
made. Good-bye, Alice."

Siegfried had hailed a taxi passing on Grove Street. He opened the door for
her and kissed her hand with formal correctness before handing her into the car.
He began to shut the door, then stopped. "When you declined our dinner
invitation, I felt that perhaps--" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. Oma Tati
did
tell you we could get an annulment, if you decide we do not suit?"

She searched his expression for some clue that he understood how Tati had
coerced her into this farce. He didn't seem like a devious man. Surely if he knew
anything at all about her he would show it in some way, by a sidelong glance, or a
significant pause before he spoke. But his eyes--a deep blue, darker than Bill's
eyes--held only concern, as if he actually craved her good opinion.

Alice realized with an odd sense of relief that Siegfried had not been party to
his grandmother's blackmail, otherwise he would know that Tati would never let
Alice obtain an annulment. He was trying to make amends because he sensed
something wrong.

"Then you'll agree to separate bedrooms?" she asked, adding hastily, "for
now, I mean." One thing she had learned from Mama: always leave hope in a
man's heart.

"Of course," he said without hesitation. "I would not expect you to, ah--I
mean..." He flushed and cleared his throat again. "I would not impose on you."

She found herself smiling at him.
Alice, don't be more of a fool than you
have to. He just wants your land.
But he was so sweet, with a natural charm
more potent than Bill's cultivated variety. "I'll see you in Sonoma, then," she said,
when the pause grew awkward.

He gave a stiff bow and she settled herself in the seat as her new husband
firmly waved the taxi off. They sped down Market Street, where the pale clock
tower of the Ferry Building loomed like a beacon in the late afternoon
sunshine.

* * *

Saturday, May 17, 1919

Siegfried put down his valise with a hollow thump. He stood on the narrow
platform of the ochre-painted Sonoma train station, searching hopefully for Alice's
trim figure and trying to quell his dismay. Against his will, he remembered another
railroad station, glistening with rain and decorated with tubs of spring flowers.
Now, as then, no one came to greet him.

His stomach cramped slightly. The foreign-yet-familiar landscape made him
nervous. Rugged California hills surrounded Sonoma, a few resolute wildflowers
making a last yellow and white stand before summer's gold swallowed them
up.

He wondered what awaited him at Montclair. What sort of a woman was Alice?
Why had she agreed to marry him? Tati had been vague when he questioned her
after the wedding.

He could not afford to fail, as his father had failed. Siegfried scrubbed the palm
of his free hand vigorously against the wool of his trousers, trying to dispel the
memory of his father's desk, sticky with blood.

He would succeed here. He must. He would make the marriage work, and
make this sun-browned place his new home.

He heard the rattle and roar of an automobile engine approaching from the
Plaza, and eagerly picked up his valise, but the sound faded as the car passed the
station and continued down the street.

Where
was Alice?

Finally, he walked down the platform to the door of the stationmaster's
office.

Behind a rolltop desk, an older man with mutton-chop side whiskers wearing a
gold-braided black cap and uniform jacket scowled at a logbook spread open
before him. He put down a chewed fountain pen to say, "May I help you?" when
Siegfried entered.

"May I use your telephone? Someone from Montclair Vineyard was supposed
to meet me here, but..." He half-shrugged towards the door and the deserted
platform beyond.

"It's broken."

As Siegfried wondered what to do next, the stationmaster squinted at him and
asked suspiciously, "Are you German?"

"I am Alsatian! Montclair's new vintner."

"Well, uh, the Depot Hotel, just across the street, has a 'phone. If anyone
comes for you in the meantime, I'll let them know where you've gone, Mister, er--
"

"Rodernwiller."

"Road and villa?"

Siegfried bit his tongue at the mangling of his name, but before he could
correct him, the stationmaster jerked at the loud jangling of the telephone on the
wall next to the desk. He jumped up to answer it, avoiding Siegfried's gaze and his
lethally courteous thanks.

As Siegfried left the stationmaster's office, he heard a low-voiced curse:
"Damn foreigners."

* * *

Four blocks away, Alice traced an impatient pattern against the red linoleum
floor with the toe of her shoe. Mrs. Springer was complaining to the butcher in
excruciating detail about her arthritis, and Alice, in politeness, could not interrupt,
although she was anxiously aware that she was very late.

She had driven into town a half-hour early, hoping to quickly buy extra supplies
of coffee and sugar, as well as some meat for dinner. She had been delayed by
chatty Mr. Duhring at his hardware and grocery store on the Plaza. And it was
taking Ralph Cummings forever to wrap up an order of lamb chops. Finally Mrs.
Springer left with long farewells.

Alice stepped up to the counter and spoke hurriedly. "I'd like two sirloin steaks,
please."

"Certainly, Mrs. Roye, and congratulations on your marriage! Although I guess
I should be calling you Mrs. Rodernwiller now?"

Alice's heart stopped momentarily, then pounded furiously. "How--how did you
know?"

The butcher reached unerringly into his cabinet for a slab of meat and began
slicing it. "Saw the announcement in the
San Francisco Chronicle
." Creases
in Mr. Cummings' jowls extended his generous smile.

"Er, thank you," She should have remembered there were no secrets in a
small town. How long would it take before
everyone
in Sonoma knew about
her hasty marriage?

"How did you two meet?" Mr. Cummings sounded ready to hold a detailed
conversation as he trimmed the fat from the thick edge of the first steak.

How could she explain? "Bill's grandmother introduced us. Siegfried is Bill's
cousin, from Europe."

"Aha! I thought the name sounded familiar. He visited here a couple of times
when he was just a lad--"

Alice checked the little gold watch pinned to her blouse. "I don't mean to be
rude," she interrupted, as she accepted the wrapped meat, "but I really must go.
I'm already late in meeting my--my husband's train."

"Don't let me keep you, then," the butcher drawled as he took her coins. "See
you next time." He waved, and she departed, rushing across the street to her
truck. She put the steaks in the back with her other purchases, grateful she had
found a spot to park under the shade of the Plaza trees, grateful that she had
escaped relatively easily.

Should she drive or walk the short distance to the station? The thought of
promenading back through town with her brand new husband made the decision
simple.

Worry gave her the strength to turn the crank handle smoothly. It might not be
as easy as she had first hoped to dissolve her marriage, consummated or not.
Afterwards, there would be gossip of the same type that attached itself to a
divorcée. Everyone had been so kind since Bill's death. Would her neighbors treat
her respectfully after an annulment? Or would she be the scandal of the
county?

The dusty black Ford coughed to life. She let the engine turn over a few extra
times before she found the courage to put it in gear.

* * *

The sun was hot on his dark wool suit as Siegfried walked across the street.
The sign announced "Depot Hotel -Est. 1870," on a building of rough-cut gray
fieldstone stuccoed with pale rose-colored plaster on the second story. The
wooden shutters on the windows were freshly painted, and seeing them gave him
a pang.

He pulled open a door decorated with a lion's-head knocker. Strong sunlight
streamed through a wide-open doorway straight ahead, setting the haze of cigar
smoke in the saloon aglow. Several splintered pieces of wood lay on the waxed
flagstones near the feet of a large man wearing a carpenter's apron. He gave
Siegfried a quick glance, then went back to fitting new louver slats into the broken
patio door.

Two rough laborers sitting at the mirror-backed bar sipped their beers and
eyed Siegfried with bleary interest. The room to the right, under gilded-brass gas
chandeliers, was a dining room redolent of garlic and tomato sauce, with tables
covered by red-checked cloths.

Siegfried addressed the genial bartender. "Good afternoon. May I use here the
telephone?" He was uncomfortably aware that his normally faint accent had grown
stronger in the aftermath of the stationmaster's rudeness.

The bartender's expression changed. No longer friendly, he jerked his chin
towards the dining room. "It's in there."

"Hey, Joe, the Hun wants to use the 'phone," the taller of the two drinkers
complained.

"Guess he got tired of murdering Belgian babies, George," the other replied.
He wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and stuffed it into the pocket of his
dusty jeans.

Siegfried clenched the handle of his valise tightly. This was not the welcome to
Sonoma he had imagined, however, he had no desire to trade futile insults with
drunkards, so he deliberately turned his back and took a step towards the dining
room.

The scrape of a barstool against the stone floor was as loud as a sniper shot.
"Hey, Hun, we don't want you dirtying up this hotel!"

"Take it outside, boys," warned the bartender, watching them closely. "Mr.
Behrens here hasn't fixed the damage from last night yet."

"Yessir! Come on, George, let's take it outside!"

From the corner of his eye, Siegfried saw Joe draw back his fist. He ducked
under the blow and drove his valise into the other's middle in the same smooth
motion. Joe folded, groaning loudly.

"You filthy German bastard!" yelled George, knocking over his barstool with a
crash as he jumped from his seat. "My brother died Over There!"

"Hey! Cut it out!" the bartender shouted, unheeded.

Siegfried sidestepped the first of George's flailing punches with the same twist
used to counter bayonet thrusts, but a second roundhouse caught him squarely on
the cheekbone. He reeled, his vision clouded with black motes and bright sparkles,
then he landed a hard right to George's jaw. He would have delivered another one
except that his arms were grasped from behind. A powerful reek of stale sweat
and beer emanated from his captor.

"Got 'im, George!" Joe's voice rasped in Siegfried's ear, just before Siegfried
whipped his head back, trying to avoid the full force of the blow on his mouth. His
lips went hot and tingling at the same time that the back of his skull connected with
Joe's face in a satisfying crunch.

Joe gave a muffled moan and clutched his nose, releasing Siegfried. Bright
red blood seeped between his fingers.

Siegfried twisted away from George's next punch. He heard his pulse
drumming in his ears, and sucked in great draughts of air. "I am not German," he
insisted, but it made no difference.

George grabbed one of the barstools, and swung it. Siegfried dodged to one
side but lost his balance on the slippery floor, falling flat on his back. He watched
George reverse the barstool's swing. Time froze as the unwieldy weapon poised at
the top of its arc, aimed directly at his head.

* * *

Parked under the acacias at the train station, Alice wasted another few
minutes composing internal apologies for her lateness, even as she sat in the
driver's seat, frozen in place despite the dry heat of the afternoon. She teetered on
the verge of running away, but, recalling Tati's threat, Alice knew she had nowhere
to run. Montclair's success was her only hope. And Montclair needed Siegfried's
skills as a vintner.

She forced herself to climb out of the truck.

The train was long gone. Gravel shifted under her feet as she hurried as fast
as ladylike propriety would allow. She came around the corner and saw the empty
platform.

Alice considered what to do next. Siegfried might have gone for a brief walk to
stretch his legs or stepped into the nearby hotel for a drink. Perhaps if she just
waited for a few minutes, he might return to the depot and find her. For one bright
instant she hoped that Siegfried had despaired of her arrival and departed with the
train.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Oh, Mrs. Roye. How are you?"

Alice turned, and saw Mr. Myers standing in the doorway of the his office. "I'm
fine, thank you. My new--vintner was supposed to be on the 3:25 train from the
Tiburon Ferry. Have you seen a tall, blond man?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. The foreigner? He went over to the Depot Hotel. Said
something about wanting to use their 'phone."

"Yes, that's he. Thank you," Alice said, guiltily. How long had he waited before
he decided to call her?

She walked slowly back to her truck, feeling the heat radiating from the black
paint. The still air smelled of dust, eucalyptus, and sun-warmed wooden buildings.
Cicadas clicked randomly. Alice took off her linen driving coat and folded it neatly
on the driver's seat. She reached up to touch her wide-brimmed straw hat, making
certain that it was pinned firmly in place. Then she took a deep breath and started
across the quiet street.

As she drew close, Alice heard a commotion, and she recognized the sounds
instantly. There was a fight going on in the saloon.

She stood outside the saloon, dithering. A respectable woman would never be
caught dead in this sort of establishment at any time, much less in the midst of a
brawl! But Siegfried was in there, and it was her fault because she was late.

In the next moment she heard Siegfried's protest: "I am Alsatian!" A pained
grunt accompanied a crash against the door, which flew open toward her
violently.