Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (25 page)

“There’s a bunch of tourists out here, on their way home from one of them resorts on the river. They want to know if they can gather some walnuts for the drive back to the city.”

“One of
those
resorts,” Giuditta corrected automatically. “Why, yes, of course. Fetch them some baskets and show them the way. I’ll be right there.” She turned a look of resignation upon Lars and Rosa. “And this is how we’ll stay afloat until Washington comes to its senses.”

Rosa managed an encouraging nod in response, but she had balanced the books for the Grand Union Hotel back in the Arboles Valley, and it was obvious that the Cacchione Vineyard was a
far more complex venture. She doubted the sale of a few pounds of walnuts to passing tourists would suffice to keep it afloat.

Rosa accompanied Giuditta to the walnut grove while Dante and Lars set out to inspect the different sites Dante was considering for an apricot orchard. After the tourists paid for their walnuts and set off in a roadster that bore an unsettling resemblance to John’s, Giuditta showed Rosa around the kitchen, garden, and outbuildings where in the weeks to come she would spend her days working side by side with the Cacchione family.

Rosa soon realized that she and Lars were very fortunate that Dr. Reynolds had recommended them to the Cacchiones, because she couldn’t have asked for a more ideal place to live and work while Ana and Miguel underwent treatment. She liked the Cacchiones, from the youngest to the eldest, and the beautiful vineyard was as pleasant as their company. Although the days were long, the work was no more difficult than what she was accustomed to—if anything, the routine farm chores seemed easier because they were shared, and she no longer toiled in isolation. She enrolled the girls in school and started sewing quilts for the children’s beds and turning the cabin into a proper home. Lars began planning the apricot orchard on a sunny hillside on the northern hills of the property, but he also worked alongside Dante and his sons in the vineyard, determined to learn all he could about cultivating a crop very different from what he knew.

Every Wednesday morning, Rosa, Ana, and Miguel rode the train into San Francisco to meet with Dr. Reynolds. Ana grumbled about missing school and spent the entire ride sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest and her nose in a book, but Miguel enjoyed the trips, peering out the windows to watch the
passing scenery and studying the train’s features with awestruck fascination. With each examination, Dr. Reynolds noted marked improvement in their health, with one exception—the day after Alegra Del Bene brought her young son over to play, and the well-meaning, generous boy shared half of his jelly sandwich with his new friend. Dr. Reynolds assured Rosa that the effects of Miguel’s lapse would not last, as long as he resumed the banana diet immediately. “Eat only what your mother says you may. No more mistakes,” he warned his patient, and Miguel held his tummy and nodded solemnly.

One week their examinations ended early, so Rosa decided to visit Mrs. Phillips before catching the train back to Santa Rosa. Their former landlady greeted them with delight and marveled at how healthy and robust Ana and Miguel had become since she had last seen them. She served the children bananas sliced on pretty china plates and milk in teacups, offering scones and tea with honey to Rosa. As they chatted, Rosa noted with some satisfaction that not once did Mrs. Phillips refer to them as “poor little dears.”

As they were leaving, Rosa spotted a newspaper folded on an armchair in the parlor and on an impulse asked if she might borrow it to read on the train. “I’d like to see if there’s any news from home,” she explained.

Mrs. Phillips clucked sympathetically. “You must miss it terribly. Well, from the look of things—” She paused to beam at the children. “They’ll finish their treatment soon and you’ll be able to return home. Of course you may take the paper. Would you like me to keep an eye out for stories about Oxnard from now on? I’d be happy to save them for you until your next visit.”

Rosa gladly accepted her offer—adding, as an aside, that she had family in the Arboles Valley and would be interested in
news from there too—and promised to stop by again soon. Tucking the paper into her coat pocket and taking each of the children by the hand, she bade Mrs. Phillips good-bye, promising to bring her some walnuts on her next visit.

The excitement of the day had worn out Miguel, and he slept most of the ride home, resting his head on Rosa’s lap while she read the newspaper above him. As she skimmed the pages, a bold headline suddenly caught her eye: “Attempted Murder Charges Against Postmaster Dismissed.”

Her heart plummeted. “
Dios mío
.”

“What is it, Mamá?” asked Ana.

“
Nada, mija
,” she said, shifting the paper so Ana would not glimpse her father’s name and demand the truth. Dubious, Ana returned her attention to her book as Rosa read the article, her hands trembling so much that the words on the page blurred and ran together. Despite the presence of irrefutable witnesses and the testimony of shooting victim Henry Nelson, prosecutors had been forced to drop attempted murder charges against John Barclay due to a technicality. He remained in custody on charges of racketeering, but his lawyer said he intended to plead not guilty and was confident that he would prevail in court.

Rosa carefully folded the paper and set it aside as if nothing were amiss, and then she held herself perfectly still, staring straight ahead, scarcely able to breathe. A technicality. There was no question that John had shot Henry and had threatened to kill Lars, and yet if not for the contraband the officers had found in his hayloft, he would be a free man. Her blood ran cold with shock and fear, and not even the welcome news that Elizabeth’s husband was evidently on the mend offered her any solace.

Until that moment, Rosa had not realized how much her
hopes for a safe and happy future for her children had depended upon John being confined to prison for the rest of his life.

She dared not speak and allow her shaking voice to betray her fear and disbelief. Ana too was quiet, but Rosa assumed she was engrossed in her book until, just as they passed through the El Verano station, she marked her place with her finger and closed her book on her lap. “Mamá?”

“Yes,
mija
?”

“We aren’t really going home after Miguel and I are better, are we?”

Rosa considered her words carefully. “No,
mija
, we aren’t.”

“Are we ever going back?”

Rosa did not see how they would ever be safe to do so. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t want to,” Ana said quickly, opening her book again. “I like the cabin better. My new teacher’s nicer than my old teacher. I like the Cacchiones and I like Mr. Jorgensen.”

“I like them too.” And she desperately wanted to keep them out of danger.

She put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and Ana snuggled up closer to her, smiling with contentment as she lost herself in her book again. The train steamed ahead, but their destination no longer felt like a safe haven to Rosa.

She inhaled deeply and stroked Miguel’s hair, willing herself to remain calm. She could not allow herself to be swept away by the flood of fear that crashed down upon her. She must hold fast and let it wash over her and back out to sea, as she had done before when danger and despair threatened.

• • •

When Isabel died, Rosa might have succumbed to that undertow of grief were it not for her children, whose needs outweighed her own.

Like their siblings before them, Ana and Maria had seen every doctor in the Arboles Valley to no avail, and John refused to allow Rosa to take them beyond the valley. Frustrated, Rosa nonetheless remained undaunted. She remembered that a guest had left behind a Los Angeles business directory at the Grand Union Hotel, so she borrowed it from Mrs. Diegel and wrote to every doctor listed, describing the children’s symptoms and begging them for advice.

One day, she was out back weeding the garden and puzzling out how she might obtain similar directories for Oxnard and Santa Barbara when she heard a car approaching the front of the house. “Marta, please watch your sisters and the baby until I get back,” she called, brushing the soil from her hands and glancing into the bassinet where Pedro slept peacefully. Tucking a stray lock of hair back underneath her kerchief, she rounded the corner of the adobe and spotted the Jorgensens’ Model T parked near the barn. The driver emerged, tall and thin, with fair hair visible beneath his hat. For a moment she wondered who Oscar’s new hired hand was; a heartbeat later, she recognized Lars.

Riveted in place, she watched, scarcely able to breathe, as he crossed the gravel driveway to come to her, his worn boots kicking up clouds of dust.

He looked weather-beaten, thin and weary, as if he had aged far more than the seven years that had passed since she had last seen him. When he was still a couple of yards away, he halted, removed his hat, and regarded her somberly. “My condolences on the loss of your mother,” he said, his voice rougher than she
remembered and yet achingly familiar. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Where had he been, she wondered, that it had taken six weeks for word to reach him? Or had he gone so far abroad that he had needed all that time for the journey home? “I’m sure your family was happy to see you,” she managed to say. As far as she knew, Lars had not returned to the Arboles Valley since his departure seven years before, not once. In all the time he had been away, the Jorgensens had never sent him a letter through the Arboles Valley Post Office, nor had she seen his familiar handwriting on any envelope she had sorted into the Jorgensens’ mail bundle. Either Lars and his family had not exchanged a single letter throughout his long absence, or they had found another way to correspond, one that did not require the Barclays’ involvement.

“They were, and I was glad to see them,” Lars replied. “How are your father and Carlos bearing up?”

“I don’t know.” Their eyes met for a moment, but Rosa quickly dropped her gaze. “They don’t speak to me.” She was surprised his brother had not told him. Everyone in the valley knew of the longstanding estrangement, even if they misunderstood the cause.

“I’m sorry.” Frowning, Lars put his hat back on and eyed the rye fields, thick and golden beneath the warm August sun. “Where’s your husband?”

“At the hardware store, picking up a part for the harvester.” She took a deep breath to marshal her courage, and as she exhaled, she said in a rush, “Do you want to meet Marta?”

Immediately Lars returned his gaze to Rosa’s face. “Marta’s your eldest.”

Rosa bit her lips together and nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

Rosa led him around to the back of the house. Near the garden, Marta knelt beside the bassinet, tickling Pedro’s chin with a long blade of grass gone to seed. Even from afar Rosa heard his happy squeals and saw his plump legs kick with delight. Nearby, Ana and Maria lay on their backs gazing up at the sky, inventing names and histories for the aerial creatures they spied in the clouds. Marta looked up as they approached, beaming and beautiful, and she tilted her head in friendly curiosity at the sight of Lars.

“That’s Marta,” Rosa murmured, urging Lars forward with a nod. He cleared his throat and continued on beside her until they reached the garden. “Girls, this is Mr. Jorgensen.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Marta. “I’ve seen Mr. Jorgensen at school when he comes for Annalise, and this isn’t him.”

“This must be the other Mr. Jorgensen,” said Ana, studying him. “Not the grandpa, the one who went away.”

Lars nodded. “That’s right. The Mr. Jorgensen you know is Oscar Jorgensen, my brother.”

“How do you do?” asked Ana politely, standing up, straightening her dress, and offering him her hand to shake.

Rosa would have sworn she saw the corners of Lars’s mouth quirk in a smile as he shook her hand formally. “I’m doing fine, thank you.” He nodded to Maria, shyly peeping up at him from her seat in the grass, and offered his hand to Marta. “You must be Marta.”

“How did you know my name?” she asked, smiling as she shook his hand.

“Your mother told me.” He closed his other hand around hers. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Marta’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Really? Why?”

“This is Ana,” Rosa broke in, “and Maria, and the baby is Pedro.” She stooped over to tickle his tummy to cover the tears that suddenly sprang into her eyes. Straightening, she said, “I should fetch your mail so you can be on your way.”

Lars tore his gaze away from his daughter. “Of course, yes, I should take the mail.” He smiled briefly at Marta and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “It was nice meeting you children.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” said Marta, and Ana chimed in her agreement, while Maria covered her eyes with her hands and watched him through her fingers and Pedro waved a chubby fist at his sisters.

Quickly Rosa led Lars back around to the front of the house, where he waited outside while she went to retrieve the Jorgensens’ mail. She had so much to tell him, so much to ask, but she was afraid—afraid of what he might say, afraid of what John might do if he came home and found Lars there.

“She’s a beautiful girl,” Lars said when she returned outside, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done well with her—with all of them—you and John both have.”

“Thank you,” Rosa replied stiffly. Was this his way of telling her that she had done the right thing in marrying John? She never would have expected him to make such an admission, and she doubted he would have if he knew the sort of man his old friend and rival had become. “I’ve buried two other children, you know—a son and a daughter.”

She did not know what had prompted her to say that, but as she felt her face flush in embarrassment, Lars nodded, his expression mirroring her heartache. “I know, and I’m sorry.” Suddenly he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, a gesture of understanding, of brotherly compassion. “I’m sorry for all the losses you’ve suffered, and for any unhappiness
that you might have endured on my account. If there’s anything I can do to make things right, you know you only have to ask.”