The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (39 page)

Divina tucked her head inside. “May I come in?”

Carina wanted to refuse. She did not have the strength to ward off Divina’s cruelty. But she nodded.

Divina came inside and closed the door behind her, then sat down on the bed with a frank, but not unkind, expression. She said, “Carina, I’m sorry.”

Carina stared. Was this some trick to expose her for the barb? She shifted on the bed, bringing her knee over and settling the other beside it. “Sorry for what?”

“For the way I’ve been.”

Carina still did not trust her. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because you’re my sister, and I’ve been hateful.”

Something in Divina’s tone, in her earnestness, melted away Carina’s resistance. “You were hurt.” And she knew from her own ugliness what hurt could make one do.

Divina dropped her eyes and nodded. “I thought Flavio would love me in your place. I was glad to have his child.” Her eyes flashed up. “Yes, Nicolo knows.”

But that wasn’t right! Carina thought. A child should have his own papa, a family united in love, not necessity. Could Divina ever love Nicolo, when she’d pined so long for Flavio?

“I wanted so much to take what you had.”

Such bare honesty. Carina hadn’t thought Divina capable of such.

Her heart stirred as she laid a hand on her sister’s knee. “I forgive you, Divina. You and Flavio both.”

Divina moistened her lips. “Then you’ll have him back?”

Carina shook her head. “I can’t.”

“But why?” Divina caught her hand between hers.

Carina drew herself up. “Even if my marriage is annulled, I will love Quillan forever. And he will love me, too.”

Divina started to cry, buried her face in her hands. “Then I can’t ever make it right.”

Carina took her sister into her arms and held her a long time while she cried, stroking her hair and patting her back. “Divina, you must trust that God will make it right.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can. He is always there, always willing to take a broken heart.”

Again Divina sobbed, but Carina simply held her. How many times had she felt such woe herself?
But, Signore, you have borne our sorrows
. Even now, when He was asking her to surrender her marriage, she knew God suffered it with her. And somehow, though it didn’t seem possible, He would bring good of it. “Divina, God works all things together for the good of those who love him.”

“How can He?” Divina sniffed painfully. “Oh, Carina, I’m afraid for him.”

Carina had to guess what Divina meant. “Flavio?”

Divina nodded, fresh tears starting.

“Why?”

Divina swiped the tears from her nose. “You heard what he did?

To the old man?”

“Yes, I saw.”

“You know how he hates violence. If he is so angry he could do that . . .” Divina gripped her hands tightly. “Carina, you must not push him further.”

“It is my fault he has a temper?”

“No, no, of course not. But he’s so desperately in love with you.”

“No.” Carina shook her head. “I know what real love is.”

“Mamma mia, Carina. Can you persist?”

Carina stood up, walked to the mirror, and turned back. “I’m sorry for Flavio, for everything he’s suffered, for what he suffers now.” And she was. She thought of what Papa had told her, felt the weight of it. And she thought of the deep melancholy inside Flavio . . . the wrongful loss of a father. Did Flavio’s spirit know his papa might have lived? Even so, that didn’t excuse his cruelty, his arrogance, his violence. She had only to think what Quillan had suffered in his life, yet he had grown to champion the helpless.

Slowly she shook her head. “I am sorry. But I can never love him as I once did.”

Divina hiccupped. “Then God help the man you do love.”

Quillan climbed down from the wagon inside the livery. The paper crinkled inside his shirt, and he pulled the newspaper loose. He wished he didn’t want to read it, but his eyes searched for and found the column at once. He could at least see how accurate Pierce had been. He read the article, cracking a wry grin at several turns of phrase, but Pierce hadn’t laid it on as thick as he might. It was quality journalism, and he could see why it had found appraise.

Quillan tucked it under his arm and reached beneath the box for his journal. He felt about, farther back, then walked around and felt around the other side where it must have slid. He climbed back up and looked underneath, but the space was empty. Had he left it on the hill? No, he recalled putting it under the seat when he climbed in, before Pierce climbed in beside— He clenched his jaw. Not even Pierce could be that low. Or could he? Quillan stalked from the livery to the Traveler’s Home Hotel just across the street. He asked for Mr. Pierce’s room.

The clerk searched the register. “That would be room four, but I believe he’s at dinner. Just a short while ago he asked if anyone had inquired for him. Is he expecting you?”

“Without doubt.” Quillan went into the adjoining dining room and searched the tables for Roderick Pierce. The man was seated by the window, dining alone. Quillan crossed the room and stopped. “Where is it?”

Pierce stood. “Have a seat, will you? The meal’s on me.”

Quillan held out his hand. “My journal.”

Pierce smiled. “Sit first. Man alive, you’re a hard nut.”

“I’ll take that from a cheat.” But Quillan sat.

“Steak?” Pierce indicated his own plate. “It’s passing fine.”

“I didn’t come here to eat.”

Pierce waved his waiter over. “Another plate like mine for my friend.”

The man bowed and backed away. Quillan crowded the table. “My journal, Pierce.”

Pierce sighed, reached behind the half curtain along the window, and handed the journal over.

Quillan flicked the pages, swiftly noting his own handwriting, then laid it in his lap. “I suppose you’ll tell me you didn’t read a page.”

“On the contrary, I devoured as much as I could. Incredible writing. I’d hoped for more time before you discovered the loss.”

“You blackguard.”

“Not entirely. But I say, I never would have pegged you for a poet.”

“I hadn’t pegged you for a thief.”

Pierce smiled. “Thievery connotes intent to retain. I only guessed it would be one sure way to get you here tonight. And I was dying for a look at those pages.”

“I ought to blacken your eyes.”

“Maybe you ought, but I suspect you won’t.”

Quillan brought his fists to rest on the table. “Why not?”

Pierce nodded. “Because I read your journal.”

Quillan wanted to reach over and squeeze his throat. He lifted the journal from his lap and waved it in the man’s face. “Not even my wife has read this.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t your memory.”

“I wouldn’t doubt you’ve copied it somewhere.”

Pierce held up both hands. “I give you my word.”

Quillan snorted. “Your word?”

“My tactics may be suspect, but my word is good.”

The waiter brought Quillan’s meal. He sat back as the plate was set before him, then tucked the journal once again into his lap. He looked down at the plate, the beef aroma causing the juices in his mouth to flow.

“Well, eat,” Pierce said, resuming his own meal.

Quillan took up his knife and fork, cut a bite, and chewed it slowly.

Pierce smiled, raising his brows and nodding. “Eh?” They spent their next minutes eating and washing it down with hot coffee.

Then Quillan pushed his plate away. It was the first hot meal he’d had in days, and it did sit well. “All right, you’ve got me here. What do you want?”

“The more I learn vis-à-vis your journal there, the more convinced I am these biographies will be a triumphant success. You read the article?”

Quillan wished he could say no. “I looked it over.”

“Then you know what I can do.”

It didn’t matter what Pierce could do. “How do I make it clear to you I don’t want my life in your pages?”

“In all fairness, Quillan, I could write them now. From what I’ve already collected—”

“And stolen.”

“True, in a manner of speaking. But that’s my job.”

Quillan shook his head, spread his hands. “What do you find so fascinating you can’t let it go?” He truly did not understand.

Pierce tapped his nose. “It’s just here, Quillan.”

“Then what do you need me for?”

Pierce bowed his head a little. “I’m a fair man. I want to split the fee.”

“Why? You have what you need.”

Pierce half smiled. “Well, I have enough to whet my interest, but not really to fulfill the contract. There are gaps.”

Quillan sat back with a sardonic smile in return. “Patchy work, is it?”

Pierce held up his hands. “Don’t start that.”

Their waiter came and cleared their plates. He laid the bill beside Quillan, who slid it over to Pierce. With a quirk of his brows, Roderick Pierce paid it, then he took a pad from his pocket and eyed Quillan frankly. “I’ve contracted three short sketches. I’m envisioning a rework of the news article for the first, to hook them in with a flourish. A little more detail on the bank robbery and your subsequent departure from home. Being an eyewitness to the train sequence, I need only your own thoughts.”

Quillan couldn’t believe he was sitting there contemplating Pierce’s request. “What do you envision for the others?”

“The movement you led to clear Crystal of its rough element. How and what transpired.”

Quillan frowned. “And the third?”

Pierce cocked his head. “A love story. How you stood up to opposition and won back your wife.”

Quillan’s chest constricted. “That story’s not been told.”

“I’m on leave from the paper.” Pierce waved his pad. “I’ve got time.”

Quillan shook his head, suddenly tired of the fight. “You’re more than half crazy.”

Pierce shrugged. “Maybe so. But I cap the climax as a journalist. Say, can we use some of those poems?”

Quillan raised his eyes in disbelief.

T
WENTY-TWO

What fulfillment can contend with possibility?

What sufficiency compare with opportunity?

Take heart, you fool, whom joy has spurned.

In strife the greatest prize is earned.

—Quillan

F
LAVIO PRESSED IN BETWEEN
the warm, soft flanks and sides of the cows as he opened the door to let them out of the milking shed. They went out to his father’s pasture with a rolling gait, and Flavio dragged his fingers along the bony back of one tawny cow before closing the door behind them.

His mother had looked dumbfounded when he offered to do the milking for her that morning. “Are you all right, Flavio?”

His eyes were burning from two nights with no sleep, and a sharp pain connected his ears across the top of his skull. “Go back to sleep, Mamma Lanza. I’ll bring you the milk.”

Six pails of it sat now on the wooden table in the center of the milking shed, milk and cream together, which Signora Lanza made into marvelous cheeses: creamy Bel Paese and mozzarella in soft white balls still moist with whey.

He took up two of the pails and carried them to Mamma’s kitchen, then made two more trips with the others. No wonder his mother was surprised. When was the last time he had helped with the farm? Not since university, surely. He didn’t want to damage his hands. He needed them soft and pliant for his artwork.

But this morning it had seemed an art to urge the milk from the teats of the cows, something so basic it eased a little of the strain inside him. He had to let it go or the cows would not release their milk easily; they would sense his tension. Now, though, he felt the grips across his chest, the ropes in his neck frayed and taut. How much longer could he bear the strain?

It had never been so bad. He must find release. But how? He thought of the old man he’d struck down with bocce balls. It was shameful and humiliating, horrifying, to go against everything he believed. Yet was that what it took? Must he hurt and destroy to find peace? The thought shook him.

There was another way; someone who had brought him joy in even his darkest times. Carina. He stepped out of his mother’s kitchen and looked across the hills in the direction of the DiGratia’s house. Dottore DiGratia’s house. His chest tightened with hatred and love so intermixed he couldn’t untangle them. But then, he had always believed the two were not opposites, but only a hair’s breadth from one another. Like pain and pleasure.

He walked farther out into the morning, damp with mist but promising warmth. As he stood, the light intensified, and between the hills the yellow yolk of sun slid onto the plate of the sky. Was Carina awake to see it?
“A thousand miles I wanted you to come and beg my forgiveness.”
What if he had? That thought was tearing him apart.

His pride had not allowed it. He could not have run after her like some lovesick whelp. He had wanted her to come back and find him waiting. Chase after her, beg her forgiveness? Beh! But if he had . . .

He closed his eyes, let the early sunrays warm their tired lids. The night before he hurt the Chinaman and the night he learned for certain Dottore DiGratia had let his papa die had both been entirely sleepless.

His feet started toward the DiGratias’. He had left there swearing to break off with them for good. How could he face the doctor without hating him again? How could he be near Carina knowing she loved this imposter instead of her own dear Flavio? If she would only stop and see him as she once had. He must make her see. He first went to his retreat and slung his mandolin across his back.

Then he went to the stable, saddled his stallion, from Angelo DiGratia’s own stock, and started at a canter for Carina’s house. The horse was frothed when he leaped down and brought it to the trough. Its hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard brought Tony out to greet him.

“Good morning, Flavio. The old man is awake and as sensible as any Chinese. Papa is sending him back to town this morning.”

Flavio felt a keen relief, but only shrugged. “Maybe he won’t sweep when a man is making his shot.”

Tony frowned but said, “Mamma is making sausages and eggs and bread. I just came from the kitchen. You’ll stay?”