Sweeter Than Wine (9 page)

He opened up the grinder to clean out every speck, as if each particle of coffee
were as precious as diamonds. He transferred the ground coffee into the china
filter on top of the coffee pot and then sighed, as if he had accomplished some
great mission.

The kettle whistled and she let the eggbeater settle into the thickening cream,
shaking her wrist--still sore from the impact with the hotel's door--to loosen up her
muscles. She poured boiling water through the coffee filter, checked that the
porcelain coffee service held sugar as well as cream, and handed a willing
Siegfried the tray. "I'll be finished in a moment," she promised, shooing him
out.

When Alice emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, she had a dusty
bottle of well-aged port tucked under her arm and was balancing plates of fluffy
shortcake heaped high with strawberries from the garden and topped with whipped
cream. Siegfried sat at the head of the table, waiting expectantly.

She handed him a dessert plate and poured out cups of coffee and small
glasses of deep-red port before sitting down opposite him. "Can you tell me a bit
more about your winemaking skills?" she asked after his plate was clean.

"I used to make--that is, I used to help my father make wines at Rodernwiller,
and I apprenticed here under Opa Roye and Signor Verdacchia," Siegfried replied.
Absently, he fingered the rim of the plate as if searching for nicks, or crumbs. "I
know he lived a good long life, but I was very sorry to hear that he had passed
away, and I shall miss him. My grandfather was a great vintner--when he could
take the time from his business concerns--but he depended on Signor Verdacchia
to take care of all the day-to-day tasks which must be done to achieve a good
wine."

"We all miss him," Alice said, eyes stinging. Last winter had been a nightmare.
Everyone at Montclair had come down with the Spanish Influenza one after the
other, and both Peter's father and his young son had perished. Maria still grieved
for little Mario in silence, but she had begun to recover her ability to take joy in the
simple things of daily life. It had taken the foreman a long time to regain his
balance, and Alice was not entirely sure he had achieved it yet.

"I'm surprised that you learned much from Signor Verdacchia," she said, a bit
off-balance herself. "He would never talk to me."

An involuntary smile tugged at Siegfried's lips. "Not even his lecture on
'Winemaking, Man's Work?' He gave it to me, forcefully, several times."

"So that's why he never let me into the winery alone!" Alice exclaimed. "Bill
always had to come with me, before he--left." She hated the catch in her voice,
and the thought of getting swept up in those memories again. She focused on the
lesser pain. "I paid attention during crush, and listened to Peter and Signor
Verdacchia argue about sugar and length of fermentation, but I can't say that I
know very much yet."

And she needed to know everything. Someday, if she could figure out a way to
annul this travesty of a marriage without bringing Tati's vengeance down upon her,
she would run Montclair alone. She took a sip of port, its complex, sweetly
perfumed taste a memory of crisp autumn days. She said, raising her glass, "I
want Montclair to produce the finest wines."

"Why?" Siegfried asked intently. "There are many ways to make a profit from a
vineyard, and from what I have learned since I arrived in this country, this
'Prohibition' will make winemaking illegal."

"There's a hope that wine and beer will be exempted. But, even if it isn't
generally allowed, wine will have to be made for the Church." She held her breath,
waiting for Siegfried's disdain to echo Hugh's.

"That is true." Siegfried wasn't laughing at her yet. "But I am certain every
winemaker and his brother will wish to--" He searched her face, apparently finding
confirmation there. "You have planned for this! Excellent! The Church is a good
market. And they accept only the best, which I can provide." He sat back swirling
his glass and inhaling the bouquet. He allowed a few drops to trickle onto his
tongue, exhaling with satisfaction. "Montclair has always had the most modern
equipment, and the best combination of grapes and terroir."

"I don't know how good our equipment is now. You heard about the Traminer?"
Alice gulped the remaining port in her glass with embarrassment.

"Oma Tati mentioned that you had a failed vintage last year." Siegfried said
with a sympathetic grimace. "It can happen to the best of vintners. The
transformation of grapes into wine is as close to magic as we mortals get."

"I guess I don't have the magic touch." Alice put down her empty glass.

"Do not worry, Alice. I do."

Alice blinked, wondering if he were actually that arrogant. Then she saw the
twinkle in his eyes.

"If you give me complete command, I will produce great wines for you,"
Siegfried continued. "But you must agree never to interfere."

"You would bar me from the winery too?" Alice asked, bitterly. Not here even a
day and he already planned to take over!

"No, Alice!" Siegfried exclaimed. "I only meant that I alone will manage the
winery operations. My decisions will be final. The grapes cannot serve two
masters." He watched her patiently, awaiting her agreement.

She pushed her empty glass away, and reined in her temper. "I agree. Your
decisions will be final. However, I want to learn how to make wine so I know your
decisions are the best for the winery." She waited for Siegfried to turn her down,
bracing herself for an argument.

"You want to learn?" Siegfried's twinkle turned into a beam of joy. "I will be
happy to teach you anything you wish."

"You will?" The wind was knocked out of her sails; far from wanting to fight
about this, he looked happy at the prospect. "Well, good," she managed. "We'll
tour the winery tomorrow morning."

"That would be excellent." Siegfried suppressed a yawn, then stood and
helped her out of her chair.

"It's gotten late. I'll wash up these dishes."

"Let me help, Alice. I am not tired--" Another yawn slipped out.

"Of course not," Alice said. Her lips twitched. He was so improbably earnest
about his offer to help. "All right. If you must."

Together they cleared the dessert dishes away. Using hot water from the
kettle, she filled the dishpan and washed the dishes. Siegfried toweled them dry,
handling each plate like a baby.

Then he followed her upstairs, pausing at the top of the landing. "Thank you
again for the marvelous dinner, Alice." His next yawn nearly cracked his jaw.

"You're welcome," she replied, forcing herself to remember that she was
annoyed at him. "Goodnight." She walked past his bedroom, entered hers, and
closed the door firmly.

* * *

Siegfried stood in the hallway a few moments longer, wondering why on earth
Bill had enlisted. With a wife like that, Siegfried thought enviously, only an invasion
would have torn him from Montclair.

Montclair

Sunday, May 18

Lost in the middle of a maze-like vineyard, she ran down rows that were
endless one moment, crazily turning inward the next. She was following a voice,
the memory of laughter, a ghostly whisper. Bill...

Alice awoke, her pillow damp with tears. Seeking to reassure herself, she
turned over automatically and reached out a hand to touch Bill's side of the
bed.

Empty.

She smacked his untouched pillow and threw back the bedcovers. Why did
you leave me alone? But there wasn't any answer to that. She slipped from the
bed, and raising the window shade, blinked at the morning light filling the room,
banishing dreams.

While she combed out her nighttime braid with her fingers, she leaned out the
window, never tired of this view of Bill's last gift to her. Sunlight on the tender
leaves of the vines colored them the essence of green against the tawny earth. As
far as she could see, the land was hers.

With a sudden jolt she remembered she wasn't alone in the house. She wasn't
the sole owner of Montclair anymore.

She tugged the last twining of her braid apart and checked the clock. It was
later than she thought. She had to hurry through her toilette, or she would be
late.

A little while later, she knocked tentatively on Siegfried's door.

"Yes?" His voice came muffled and sleepy.

"I'm going to nine o'clock Mass. Would you like to join me?" Alice called.

"No." Siegfried said definitely.

"Are you ill?" Alice asked in alarm. Had Siegfried been more grievously injured
in his fight yesterday than they had thought?

"You can say I am."

He sounded healthy. What was wrong? "I'm sorry I didn't tell you Mass was so
early. I forget we're such a small town--there isn't a later one."

"I do not go."

Although rebuffed and shocked, thinking, It's a mortal sin! Alice responded
with automatic politeness, "I'll leave the coffee pot warming on the stove. Please
help yourself. I'll cook breakfast when I return."

"Thank you."

Shaking her head, Alice walked down the stairs, feeling the pull of her strained
muscles at every step.
He doesn't go to Church? What have I gotten myself
into?

* * *

Siegfried despised himself for not rising to help her start the truck, but he had
no time to dress, and he could hardly go downstairs naked. And he was so
comfortable here, warm, surrounded by softness. He could easily fall back asleep.
He didn't want to move. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so good,
not hungry, and the sheets were so smooth...

Drowsily, he listened to the truck depart, thinking about Alice: the delicious
color of her flushed skin, her small, competent hands. He wondered if her unbound
hair was long enough to brush the curve of her hips, and imagined the texture of it,
sliding through his fingers.

He opened his eyes wide, staring at the white pillowcase, stained by a seeping
dot of blood from his cut lip, and rose, stifling an involuntary groan as yesterday's
contusions and bruises assailed him. A fiery claw of pain swiped at the muscles of
his right leg when he planted his feet on the carpet and tried to rise from the
rumpled bed. Siegfried swayed, glaring angrily at the raised pale-pink furrow
plowed down the length of his thigh by shrapnel. After a moment, the pain
loosened its hold, and he thought he might be able to walk without toppling
over.

At least he still had a leg, he told himself, repeating the litany he had chanted
during the long weeks of healing and recovery in the hospital. Each visit of the
soft-voiced surgeon, frowning down upon the infected wound, had brought terror.
What if he should return with chloroform--and a saw?

In the end, Siegfried had been more fortunate than many other soldiers. He
took a determined step forward, wincing as he moved to the bedroom door and
opened it a crack. Good. The hallway was deserted. He did not trust his leg to
support him yet, which meant putting on his underwear must wait.

A hobbled dash got him to the bathroom. The wood-framed mirror showed his
eye was now puffed up and black. He probed gently at the scabbed cut on his
lower lip and thought that Alice should be glad he had not accompanied her to
church looking like a common barroom brawler. He avoided the mirror as he
bathed, shaved, and combed his hair. The hot water relieved his many aches, and
his leg was feeling almost normal by the time he crept back to his room and
dressed.

He found the coffee Alice had promised, and poured himself a cup, sitting
down at the table against the wall to enjoy it.

After only a few sips, he carried his half-finished cup of coffee to the screen
door. Outside, wisps of translucent fog clung to the hills. He moved to the porch
and breathed crisp, shining air.

Nothing had changed. The palm trees shushed gently in a breeze he could
barely feel. A flock of finches chirped and cheeped their nonsense music in the
bushes beside the house. Sparrows searched for crumbs of food near the gravel
path, while a blackbird surveyed him suspiciously from the flat top of the vegetable
garden's corner fence post. Siegfried stayed very still, but the bird flourished its
brilliant red-patched wings at him and flew away.

He leaned on the porch railing, entranced by peace. There were no bomb
craters pocking wounded earth, no thunder-rolls of artillery, no staccato bursts of
rifle fire. There was no smell of death here, only the sweet fragrance of the roses
planted at the end of each row of vines marching almost up to the house.

The vines drew Siegfried. Leaving his cup on the porch, he walked the rows.
They were planted further apart than in Alsace, but even so, the shoulder-high,
densely curling tendrils reaching towards each other almost blocked his passage.
He brushed them aside gently, pausing occasionally to lift a cluster of pale,
yellowish-green grape blossoms, to examine the underside of a broad, trefoil
leaf.

At the crest of the hill, Siegfried paused and inhaled the scents of Montclair:
vines, roses, bay laurel, fennel, and eucalyptus. He raised his arms to the serene
blue sky, filled with unlooked-for triumph. He was alive! He had only to convince
Alice to become his wife in fact as well as name, and Montclair was his.

* * *

Alice genuflected, crossed herself, and slid into the pew, grateful to be late.
She was thus spared the chit-chat indulged in by the ladies of the parish who
invariably gathered outside the church before the service.

Usually she enjoyed being welcomed as part of this small society. Today she
felt like an impostor. What could she say if they disapproved of her hasty
marriage? Would they turn their back on her? Would she suddenly become
invisible to her neighbors?

She bent her head and folded her hands as if in prayer, but she was too
keyed-up and nervous to actually bother God with her troubles. The hard pad of
the kneeler and the satiny finish of the next pew's back helped to calm the chaos
in her mind.