Sweeter Than Wine (10 page)

She loved this church. It was her favorite spot in Sonoma, next to Montclair.
Painted simple white, plain dark rafters and thick square columns held up the high-
pitched ceiling. The gilded altar gleamed, bright with candles. Sunlight jeweled the
high stained-glass windows, memorials to the faithful departed.

There was only the wail of a new baby crying and the rustling of clothing as the
other worshippers knelt and prayed for their own private concerns before sitting
down to wait for the service to begin. The scent of incense mingled with store-
bought perfumes and the homely smell of soap, cigars, and some dairyman's dirty
boots, probably old man LaFranchi's, if this was anything like a normal
Sunday.

Everyone sat in their accustomed places. Just ahead of her were the spinster
housekeeper sisters, Adele and Margaret Livernash, and to her left, Mrs. Mary
Ricci, who had worked so hard to build up her own laundry. The Sebastiani family
across the aisle, and Susannah Kennedy, who, like Alice, struggled alone to keep
her farm in Schellville going. The Breitenbachs--if she didn't look, she wouldn't
have to acknowledge Gertrude, a stout matron in her forties with artificially black
hair marcelled into stiff waves under her dashing hat. Gertrude Breitenbach, who
knew everything anybody said into a telephone...

Why had she come? How much did Mrs. Breitenbach really know about Alice's
past? She wouldn't be able to stand it if they pointed at her, and whispered. She
trembled, ready to leap and run--

On the balcony above the back of the church, the organist started to play the
introit.

She couldn't leave now.

Alice stood with the congregation to welcome the priest, and looked again as
an unfamiliar young man appeared from the sacristy door, led by altar boys in their
spotless surplices.

Adele Livernash, who didn't see too well these days, hissed loudly to her
slightly younger sister, "Who's that?"

Margaret was a little deaf. Her return whisper was more than loud enough for
Alice and the rest of the back of the church, as well as her sister, to hear. "That's
Father McGrattan from Saint Rose, assisting here while poor Father Moran's in
Mary's Help."

Adele crossed herself. "God save him, the poor sick man. When's he coming
home?"

"I don't know. We could ask Gertie Breitenbach--" Margaret shushed herself as
Father McGrattan began to pray in sonorous Latin.

Alice let the beautiful sounds wash through her as she tried to quell a
burgeoning sense of relief. She shouldn't rejoice that Father Moran was ill, but his
misfortune meant she might escape unscathed, today.

Father McGrattan wouldn't know the local gossip, so he probably wouldn't
chastise her for marrying in a civil ceremony, nor would he badger her to rectify
the situation with a proper sacramental marriage. He didn't know her the way
Father Moran did, her petty current sins, and her old, old stains of guilt.

Eventually she'd wind up paying penances. After Confession, Father Moran
used to assign her twenty Hail Marys for her unchaste thoughts. What would she
have to pay for marrying Siegfried? Belatedly she began whispering the Credo
with the rest of the congregation.

She submerged into the beauty and the sadness of the ceremony. "Domine,
non sum dignus," she murmured at the consecration. "Lord, I am not worthy; but
only say the word, and I shall be healed." If He could forgive Mary Magdalen,
maybe He could forgive Alice, too.

* * *

She slipped out the large double doors just before the very end of Mass, clear
hot sunlight almost a tangible force after the candlelit dimness of the church.

Her neighbor Carl Dresel, enjoying a cigar on the front steps, waved with mild
friendliness and said, "Heard you caught yourself a vintner. Wonderful news!"

She smiled tentatively at him, still hoping to make good her retreat, but
Gertrude Breitenbach called from the steps behind her. "Oh, Mrs. Roye! Don't go
yet! We heard the news, dear. Did you really get married?"

Alice slowly turned around, pasting an artificial smile on her face. "Uh,
yes."

"Well, she didn't believe it," said Adele Livernash, emerging from the shadow,
pointing to her younger sister.

"I heard that! I did too believe it," contradicted Margaret. "I saw it in the paper.
Isn't your new husband Billy's cousin from Alsace?"

"I suppose we shouldn't call you Mrs. Roye anymore," Gertrude said. She
seemed a little disgruntled that she wasn't the first with the news. "How did you
two meet?"

"Let us through, please," someone said from the dark interior of the church.
"You're blocking the steps."

"Oh--" Alice seized on this chance. "Excuse me, ladies. I must go home and
cook breakfast." She moved away as the crowd streamed down the steps.

Gertrude followed determinedly, cutting off Alice's departure. "So where is this
husband of yours? Why didn't he come with you?"

"He's--" Alice pulled on her gloves, buying a little time. "He's--not feeling
well."

"I remember when he was here as a boy," said Margaret, her lips pursed to
disguise a smile. "He and Billy brought frogs in their pockets to Mass! And tried to
get them to sing with the choir. You watch out. That young man was quite a
prankster."

"Come to think of it," Adele twittered. "He would be just the type to elope. How
romantic!"

"Well, I hope he feels better soon. You tell him we want to see him again,"
Gertrude ordered.

"I will," mumbled Alice, feeling even more like a stranger in this town where
everybody knew everyone--and everything. Even Siegfried had a history here. If
only her own past were not so full of secrets and lies...

* * *

Siegfried studied the pruning and training of the vines until he heard the
rattling cough of Alice's Ford coming backwards up the drive.

Limping down the hill, Siegfried arrived just as she parked the Model-T. He felt
absurdly pleased to open the car door for her.

Alice rewarded him with a word of thanks as she took the hand he offered her
and allowed him to assist her out. She unbuttoned her driving coat, revealing her
Sunday best. The ivory silk dress had a square neckline embellished with a wide
band of dark green embroidery, and over it she wore a long, open tunic in dark
green. The peach-golden skin over her throat and collarbones and the gentle
curves of her breasts under the layers of silk made Siegfried's blood pound.

He looked down. Her narrow hobble skirt ended at mid-calf, revealing shapely
ankles clad in ivory stockings. All of his earlier fantasies about her returned full
force, and he did not, for decency's sake, dare to immediately follow her into the
house.

* * *

"The misses Livernash said to tell you hello." Alice was determined to be polite
over a substantial brunch of fried eggs, ham, coffee, and toast with fresh butter
and plum jam. "And Gertrude Breitenbach wants to see you again. I had no idea
you had so many acquaintances here."

Siegfried grunted, apparently concentrating on devouring his food.

Alice poured herself a cup of coffee and nibbled on a piece of toast. "Did you
really bring frogs to church?" she asked into the silence a few minutes later.

Siegfried had the grace to look embarrassed. He swallowed a huge mouthful.
"The choir was very bad that summer. And it made Bill laugh, so I counted it quite
successful." He slathered jam on his toast. "Is that what people remember about
me?"

"Margaret Livernash," Alice corrected.

"I hope she and her sister are both well. They were very kind. Have they grown
into wild old ladies?" Siegfried grinned, as he folded a piece of toast, and took the
whole piece in one gulp.

"I only know them from church," Alice said primly. "They wondered why you
weren't there."

Siegfried's eyes darkened. He finished his coffee and laid his napkin on the
table. "I have not been in the habit of going--I will try to look up the Livernashes
sometime when I am in town. This morning I walked the Cabernet vines near the
house. I must say the canopy trimming was nicely balanced, and all of the clusters
appear to be receiving adequate light."

"Peter's crew does excellent work," Alice said. She rose and began clearing
plates from the table.

"I was pleased there were no visible infestations. Have you any black
rot?"

"No. We've been lucky. Peter is spraying the Traminer vines in the north
vineyard with Bordeaux mixture against oidium. The Dresels had some, so we're
taking preventative measures."

"Has there been any recurrence of Phylloxera?" he asked anxiously, trailing
her into the kitchen.

Alice, rinsing off the dishes, said without thinking, "Not since before the W--"
She stopped, appalled at her automatic dating; there was life "Before the War" and
life "After the War." She could just as easily have said, 'Before I came to Montclair'
or 'Since I've lived here.' Jerkily, she set the dishes in the sink to drain, and untied
her apron. She dried her hands and hung the apron on a wooden peg.

Siegfried's expression was troubled.

Alice said softly, "I'm sorry I brought up the subject. It must be painful for you. I
know how I would feel if I lost Montclair." She touched him lightly to convey her
compassion. His arm was thin under her fingers, and tense, with a current of
vitality that surprised her. He was suddenly more real than anything else in the
kitchen, poignantly alive and male in a room where Bill had never intruded.

He looked back at her, his eyelids half-drooping, his eyes intensely blue, the
pulse leaping in his throat. His expression at that moment held nothing of
nostalgia, or sadness, just an elemental need so intense that it shook her.

She retreated, self-consciously tucking wayward strands of hair back into her
coil of braid with quick motions. Her fingers trembled, but not with
nervousness.

"I have to go--upstairs--to change into something more appropriate--for the
tour. I should only be a moment."

She fled.

* * *

Siegfried leaned his forehead against the cool cupboard. The faint scent of her
eau-de-cologne lingered. He had wanted very badly to take her in his arms, and
lower her to the shiny linoleum. In his mind's eye he saw the ivory silk of her skirt
bunched up to her waist as he buried himself in her softness...

He had to get himself under control. He would need to court her gently,
gradually, not like some contemptible fortune hunter trying to seduce Montclair
away from her.

He had promised Oma Tati that he would help Bill's widow. He would be calm.
He would be a gentleman.

Siegfried looked down at his shirtsleeves and smiled wryly. Father had always
come into the winery wearing a coat and tie, befitting his lofty status. Montclair's
newest vintner could do no less. He went upstairs, took Opa Roye's jacket and a
tie out of the wardrobe, and put them on.

True to her word, Alice came downstairs again very shortly. The stylish silk
dress and stockings had been replaced by a long, gray skirt and a shirtwaist, its
lace trim limp from repeated washing. Sturdy black leather boots laced up past her
ankles. Her hands were ungloved, and she clutched a bunch of large iron keys
and a rather battered-looking straw hat. She looked every inch a farmwife.

He wanted to make love to her more than he had ever wanted anything.

"Shall we?" She walked briskly towards the front door.

He followed her in silence up the hill. A slight breeze carried the rich scent of
wood steeped for years in wine. He took a deep, savoring breath, adjuring himself
to pay attention to business. He loved this air, laden with the mysteries of
winemaking.

And he loved this building, tradition embodied in wood and whitewashed
stone. The outside had changed very little since Siegfried's summer visits here.
Opa Roye had cut a carriage-way high into the hillside to provide upper-story
access for wagonloads of grapes at harvest time. They were unloaded and
crushed in the wooden basket press on the third floor, syrupy juice pouring to
several huge fermenters below, then delivered through brass pipes to the huge
redwood vats on the concrete ground floor for aging.

Alice clucked her tongue at the sacks of Bordeaux mixture leaning against the
door frame as she unlocked the door. "These should have been put away before
now. I guess Peter forgot, in all the to-do before the wedding." She shrugged and
ushered Siegfried in.

Then Alice turned on the electric lights, and Siegfried gasped as if he'd taken a
bayonet in the gut. The floors and gutters were dirty, cobwebs and dust
everywhere. The exteriors of the eleven-hundred-gallon redwood tanks were
shrouded with a thick, velvety layer of gray mold. He did not want to imagine the
interiors. The hoses, where there were any left, were cracked and rotten.

Upstairs was just as bad. The fermenters were layered in debris; some even
contained small animal bones. The basket press at least had been rinsed off after
its last use, but some of the slats had been gnawed by rats or mice, and the screw
was rusted. Under the high wooden roof, birds' nests clogged the vents.

In appalled silence, he surveyed it all.

Alice turned to him, her eyes shining. "Well? What do you think?" She
sounded proud, and shy, as if totally unaware of the ruin surrounding them.

And perhaps she was. She was certainly ignorant enough not to recognize
mercaptan. Siegfried controlled his voice. "I see now why your wine spoiled."

"You do? I'm thrilled! That means we'll have a good vintage this year. Do you
want to see the wine cave now?" She stopped, as if she'd just caught a glimpse of
his face. "What's wrong?"

"No. I could not bear--No, thank you, Alice. Not now." He touched a piece of
moldy cooperage reeking of vinegar, and clenched his fist. "No good wine can
come from this."

His loathing at squalor must have shown, for Alice jerked away from him as if
he'd slapped her. But she squared her shoulders and said defiantly, "Bill made
perfectly good wine here. And you said the equipment was--"