Sweeter Than Wine (12 page)

She was now whispering furiously out of the side of her mouth into her
husband's ear. "Why didn't you tell me he's as good as the ghost of Bill Roye? I
nearly lost a year's growth!"

Peter gave a rusty chuckle and murmured disparagingly: "It's just because he's
so skinny. You fatten him up and there won't be any resemblance at all."

Maria turned and said with a hasty smile, "Welcome to Montclair, Mr.
Roderrn...Mr. Roddenwell...Is it all right if I call you Mr. 'R.'?"

Siegfried realized he had missed his opportunity to shake hands with Peter.
He stuck his thumb through a belt loop and considered Maria's question. "I will not
mind if my wife does not."

"Your wife?" In confusion, Maria turned to Peter again. "I don't remember
hearing about a wife. Oh, dear. I hope I've made enough for breakfast."

Before Siegfried could say anything, the screen door creaked and Alice
entered from the garden, carrying an armful of pink and white roses.

"Good morning." The door slammed behind her. "I see you've met Maria and
Peter." She eyed the tableau in the kitchen warily.

"He's just come down, Mrs. Roye," Maria said, busying herself at the stove.
Bacon sizzled, sending its tempting odors into the air with spits and spats. "Eggs'll
be ready in a minute. Hope you're all hungry! But I do wish you'd told me there'd
be another person for breakfast!"

Siegfried raised his eyebrows at Alice. Mrs. Roye? he mouthed. She hadn't
told Peter and Maria about their marriage?

"There will only be four for breakfast," Alice said guardedly. She tumbled the
roses into the sink and continued, "Won't you be seated? Coffee?" She stripped
thorns and leaves from the lower stems, then slipped the roses into a large vase
half-filled with water.

Siegfried sat at the table, refusing to wince as his leg resisted bending. Alice
placed the bouquet on the table, poured and served him a cup of coffee, then sat
down.

"Thank you," Siegfried said, enticed by the coffee. Did heaven smell this
good?

Peter hung his hat on the chair back and sat, too. He flinched and his mouth
twisted as Maria passed a platter of creamy yellow scrambled eggs swathed with
bacon too close to his nose before setting it on the table. "I hope you've made me
something I can eat!"

"Don't worry! You get oatmeal to settle your stomach. Too much wedding
celebration!" Maria said to Alice as she patted Peter's shoulder and placed a full
bowl quickly before him. Peter flung his arm toward her as if he might like to hug
her, or hit her, but she deftly avoided him. Out of reach, she clicked her tongue at
him and shook her finger. "Try it before you throw it back at me!"

Siegfried hoped Maria would sit down soon, so he could begin eating. He
swallowed heavily as she set down golden pancakes and a jar of raspberry syrup.
His mouth went dry when she carried another place setting to the table and asked,
"But when will Mrs. R want to eat?"

"Who?" Alice looked up guiltily.

"Mr. R's wife," Maria explained.

It was gratifying to see the cherry-red blush spread across Alice's fair, freckled
skin and down past the open neck of her sailor blouse. When she didn't speak,
Siegfried announced for them both: "Alice has done me the honor of becoming my
wife."

Maria dropped the plate she was holding. It fell two inches and the good
porcelain rang on the oak table top. "So that's what Mrs. Duhring meant by--"

Peter straightened, frowning fiercely, thick eyebrows nearly meeting in a dark
bar across his livid face. "Mrs. Roye said you were coming to be the new vintner.
But you married her?"

Siegfried nodded.

Peter stood up, slammed his hat onto his head and stormed out of the kitchen
without another word.

"Oh, dear." Maria said uncertainly. "Congratulations."

Siegfried eyed the plate before him. There was so much food that the pattern
of pale blue flowers around the rim of the platter was nearly eclipsed. He stood up
resentfully. "I had better go talk to him. I do not think he was pleased by your
news, Alice." He could not believe that she had failed to tell her closest employees
about their marriage.

Alice ignored him, fiddling with the arrangement of the roses in their humble
vase.

She would not take care of things? So be it. He would.

As Siegfried pushed through the door onto the porch, he heard Maria
demanding of Alice: "Did you really marry him, Mrs. Roye?"

The door banged shut as he cleared the steps. Siegfried set off after Peter,
whose hat was just visible above the vines, making good speed into the heart of
the vineyard. Siegfried cursed his leg and the rest of his bruises, and followed as
fast as he could.

It was a foggy morning. Green rows of vines disappeared, swallowed by mist,
and the sky was a lowering gray bowl. Even the tips of the palm trees seemed
indistinct, yet it was not cold. The damp air held only a hint of chill; the kiss of the
deep ocean, not its embrace.

Siegfried's stomach growled. He thought of his beautiful breakfast, growing
cold on the kitchen table.

"Peter! Wait!" he called. He ignored the pulling of his scars as he forced
himself to run. Peter did not stop but he slowed down. Siegfried caught up with
him, although he had no breath left for conversation. They walked together, almost
companionably, for another hundred yards, over the crest of the hill, and out of
sight of the house.

Peter stopped as if to examine one of the vine shoots splayed out from a
gnarled trunk. "When?" he demanded, not looking at Siegfried.

"Last week, when she came to have tea with Oma Tati in San Francisco."
Siegfried did not pretend to misunderstand Peter's question.

"Why didn't she tell me--us?" Peter snatched his battered hat from his head,
fanning himself.

"You know her better than I," Siegfried confessed.

Peter's cheek twitched. "And you're married?"

"It was very sudden," Siegfried admitted. "I expected to become the vintner,
but my grandmother..."

"Tatiana Roye." Peter muttered her name with a mixture of frustration and
grudging admiration and returned his hat to his head. "That explains most of it. But
how did she get you to come to California? Oh, damn! Mrs. Roye--that is, Alice--
did say that your father passed away. I'm sorry. I know what that feels like," Peter
said, putting his hand out in condolence.

In the gray-wool world of fog, they might have been the only two men on earth.
Siegfried accepted the handclasp, but he could not take the sympathy. "My father
left me nothing. Your father's loss is the greater for both of us. He was a good
man, and a fine vintner."

Peter did not move, but he seemed to go away inside himself. Then he took
his hand back and said, "Life is funny, isn't it, Sig? It never turns out the way you
expect."

"No," agreed Siegfried. He took a hard breath. "For one thing, I never expected
that a winery in your charge would ever look like Montclair does today. What
happened?"

"There's nothing wrong with these vines!" Peter protested, seizing a whip-
supple cane and shoving it in Siegfried's face. "They're bearing better than they
ever have."

"But the equipment! How could you neglect it so? If your father knew, it would
break his heart."

"Too late," Peter said wearily, then he mustered a defense. "Alice never wants
to part with a penny. I can't hire enough men to do everything! She tries her best,
I'll give her that, but she doesn't know any more how to run a vineyard than a day-
old chick does."

Siegfried glanced at him sidelong. "I do not know her well, yet, but she does
not seem ineducable."

Peter colored again. "My father..."

Siegfried shook his head in rueful understanding. "Was it so hard for him to
work for a woman? Oh, Peter." They took a few more steps in silence. "What
about you?"

"Me?" Peter scuffed his boots into the beige dirt. "I don't mind. She's a hard
worker, for a city girl. Of course, she does run back to the City every once in a
while."

"Tell me more about her," Siegfried prompted. "Oma Tati was not forthcoming.
How did she and Bill come to meet?"

Peter's mouth twisted. "She doesn't talk much about herself, does she?" He
looked away over the fields. "Her daddy introduced her to Bill. Patrick O'Reilly was
a real dandy. He wore checkered suits, and his long hair was redder than hers."
He smiled slyly. "And he never let his shoes get dirty. But you wanted to know
about Alice."

Siegfried nodded.

"From what I hear, she finished high school, St. Rose's in the City, like a good
Catholic girl. I dunno whether the nuns found her 'ineducable' or not." He paused,
waiting for Siegfried to fill in the blank.

"But she does not talk about herself," Siegfried responded obligingly.

"That's right."

"Why did Bill leave her?"

"Sig, 1915 was a bad year."

Siegfried nodded. For him, too. He refused to remember the stench of blood-
soaked, corpse-sown mud.

"Bill wasn't near as good with the wines as you were. He took some to the
Exposition in the City--the one Mr. Roye was going to help with before he passed
on." Peter coughed. "Bill didn't win any prizes at all. You know how he was. That
made him feel littler than a root louse. That fall, prices fell out the bottom--some
farmers couldn't give grapes away. So after Christmas, Bill up and joined the
Army.

"He wound up serving under Black Jack Pershing in Mexico and sent his pay
home to us. The '16 prices went through the roof, but he was bound for two years,
and they sent him over to Europe." Peter scuffed the hardened dirt clods. "He
didn't want to go. He knew you'd be there, somewhere, after Ernst--" He broke off.
"Poor squirt. I'm sorry. And your mama too--Sig, it's been a bad five years all
around."

Siegfried nodded. "Alice mentioned you also suffered another loss. I am sorry
about your son." Siegfried meant to offer sympathy, but Peter's face became a
strained, white mask, rigidly holding at bay emotions too strong for
expression.

"I can't--" Peter grated, blinking desperately, staring into the fog. "I can't talk
about it."

Siegfried averted his gaze until Peter coughed, a thick, wet sound, and spat
richly onto the dry earth. They walked to the end of a row of vines, then, by
unspoken consent, turned their steps back to the house.

Overhead the fog thinned, revealing a streak of blue.

Before they reached the porch, Siegfried stopped Peter gently, hand on his
arm. He understood better now why the winery was so neglected. It was not really
Peter's fault. But he hoped for a bit more information. "You said that you knew
Alice's father?"

Back in control, Peter gave a half-smile. "Oh, yeah. Didn't I mention it? He was
Montclair's wine broker. Bought all your grandpa's champagne for his wife's
establishment in San Francisco." He seemed to wait for a reaction, but when
Siegfried only nodded, he hitched up his jeans and turned toward the door. "Guess
breakfast's waiting."

Siegfried let him enter first. He had no wish to share the revelation so forcefully
washing away the puzzlement he had felt about Alice: why her manners were so
formal, and why she might be willing to pledge herself to a marriage of
convenience to a penniless bridegroom to save her land.

Only gentlemen brokered wine in Europe. Alice's family must have been very
good, indeed.

Pleased hunger woke in him as he came through the squeaky kitchen door.
He smiled. There was still plenty of food left.

* * *

The door to the huge stone winery slid open. Siegfried winced at the reek:
vinegar, yeast, and spilled wine. The floor was nearly in darkness. Huge redwood
tanks blocked the diffuse light from the small windows near the roof. His foot
splashed in a scummed puddle on the uneven concrete and in the gloom
something scuttled away.

He had told Alice that the winery must be cleaned, and in the absence of a
crew, he would have to do it alone.

He found a doorstop and fixed the door open, battering the gloom with a shaft
of sunlight, revealing the scabrous growths on the tanks. He could almost sense
the malignancy of the mold, feeding on the seepage through the old black wood of
French oak aging barrels, oval ends rising to twice his height. He knew the texture
of that mold, as soft as fur or rotten velvet. Just one touch left his fingers dark
gray.

Opa Roye had loved this cooperage, had cared for it like a violinist for his
Stradivarius. Grapes grow every year, but fine cooperage can last for generations,
had been one of Opa's favorite sayings. Take care of your wood, and your wine
will take care of itself, had been another. Opa had told him stories about the great
wooden barrels other winemaking families had brought with them from Europe: the
Beringers, with their ornate heirlooms crafted in France before the Revolution;
Etienne Thée's Bordeaux casks 'brought round the Horn' in use at Almaden.

Siegfried remembered the echoing winery at Rodernwiller on the hideous day
he had walked the property with the official from the Landesbank. Only splinters
had remained; but whether his father had sold the casks or used them for
firewood, no one had been able to discover.

At least he might be able to save these masterpieces of the cooper's art. He
would free them from their sticky shrouds of spilled wine and silver-gray mold,
using hot water and soda ash to banish the ghost of Bill's mercaptan-tainted
vintages. And he would get rid of the spiders and birds' nests layered thickly in the
corners and under the vats.

The smell of spoiled wine pained him as he hurried through the tunnel formed
by the tanks with their catwalks and overhanging pipes, to the stairs that led to the
upper story.

He opened a door and, because overgrown cypresses shaded the dust-
splattered windows outside, pulled a frayed cord to turn on the electric lamp.