The Rose Legacy (21 page)

Twenty bucks he’d made? What twenty bucks? He was in the hole! He pulled the wagon inside the livery and parked without waking Tavish. He unhitched the horses himself and sent them to their stalls. He could leave the wagon for the night and square up in the morning. He rubbed the back of his neck and climbed down.

So she’d cook for him, would she? He scowled. As if he needed that. He’d been fending for himself a long while, and he didn’t need some foreign debutante to feed him suppers. He forced his way through a rowdy bunch of revelers at the corner and cut across toward the creek.

His tent was almost lost in the dark between two dimly lit neighbors. Quillan yanked open the flap and stooped. His small stove stood ready with the pipe venting out the back. He stared at it a moment, then at the cans of victuals ready to heat. He dropped down to the cot, dog tired.

What would she make with that moldy cheese and oil squeezed from olives? And garlic? He’d smell for weeks. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. It would be well to avoid her for a time, even if she was the key to Berkley Beck. Every encounter with Miss DiGratia proved far too costly.

S
IXTEEN

A prayer in the darkness might go no farther than the pillow. But a prayer in the morning comes back to slap you.

—Rose

I
N SPITE OF THE COST
, Carina’s heart swelled the next day when she began her work in the kitchen. She had needed to wait until Mae fed all the miners their bacon and hot cakes, scoured the dishes, then set the beef into the giant kettle to stew until lunch and continue on until supper. Some, at least, would not attend the picnic and would serve themselves from the pot.

But now the kitchen was hers, and she tied on Mae’s apron, wrapping it twice around her small form, then began, first chopping and mashing, then heating the olive oil with the garlic cloves, emptying the jars of tomatoes into the pot with the slivered anchovy filets and herbs to simmer and thicken.

Next, she made the filling for the ravioli with the canned spinach, eggs, and parmigiano and ricotta cheese. The Italian market in Fairplay had a source for some of the best ricotta she’d seen. But it was the parmigiano, her own dear grana from the north country, its pungent flavor with a slight bite, its pale, creamy yellow color and grainy texture that brought tears to her eyes.

How she had longed without knowing she longed. Her dissatisfaction with Mae’s fare was no more than knowing inside how much better it could be. Eating was more than filling your belly. It was an art of blending and releasing the gift of each food to complement another until the right perfection had been reached. And it was savoring the experience of each bite.

As she worked, mixing the pasta dough and rolling it thin, marking the raviolis with Mae’s biscuit cutter, since her own square fluted ravioli cutter was lost with the rest, Carina thought how it was as much an art as Flavio’s painting. The mix must be just right. Too much flour and the stuffed pillowy pasta would be dry and heavy. Too much oil and they would sag. A poor seal between the layers of dough and the boiling water would ruin the filling.

She could feel with her fingers that she had made it just right. The dough had the consistency of fragile skin—elastic, yet powdery. She brushed the first layer lightly with water, then dabbed the filling into the centers of the circles she had marked. Then she laid the second sheet of dough atop, forming small mounds over the fillings.

As she cut the raviolis, she set them aside, then covered them all with a towel to wait. Normally the ravioli would be boiled and eaten simply with melted butter, but she couldn’t keep them hot that way, so she had decided to serve them in the sauce. After boiling, she would layer them into the cast-iron pan and douse them with the steaming tomato sauce, then sprinkle grated parmesan and basil on top.

She had to leave the kitchen for Mae to serve lunch to the miners, more today than usual, since many were having a holiday in anticipation of the day’s events. After that, she made the bread. When it came out of the oven in long crusty loaves, she did cry. For this day only, she had made Crystal home.

And she knew already she would not send the meal with Mae. She must be there herself to see it tasted and savored as she knew it would be. They walked up together, Mae carrying the bread already sliced and spread with olive oil, basil, and salt and heaped on a wooden board, Èmie with one pan of ravioli and Carina with the other.

Carina felt like a child with butterflies in her stomach. What would she do if the men simply shoveled it in as they did anything else? She must not stake too much on this. But as she laid the offering on the table and people gathered around to sample the new aromatic fare, her heart swelled again.

She saw the looks of surprise, then delight, heard the murmurs and exclamations. Her heart swelled with both pride and pleasure. And then Quillan was before her, and all the crowd seemed to dim in importance as he scooped a helping onto his plate. Carina’s breath hitched, but she forced an even tone. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

He shrugged slightly, suspending the fork with his first bite ready. “I figured I ought to get some return on my investment.”

She waited, holding her breath. His was not the exuberant expression of the easily pleased. He finished the bite and swallowed, then swabbed his lips with the napkin he carried. Still Carina waited, though why did it matter?

“I don’t taste the blue-veined cheese.”

She released a short laugh. “No. That will be for desert next Friday if you bring me fresh apples.”

“It’s a little early yet for apples.”

“Then dried will do.”

He stood quietly, finishing every bite and swabbing the sauce up with an oily slab of crusty white bread. He would say something, praise some part … He covered his empty plate with the napkin, then nodded. “I’ll see what I can find by way of apples.”

Carina watched him walk away. Somewhere in his unstated praise was a tacit approval. He had accepted her offer, and she knew he would not have if it hadn’t pleased. She watched him milling through the crowd, saw him stop and speak to the old man on the crutch with a white-and-brown dog at his side. It was the same man who had pulled his son from the street, the son she had nursed the next time he was beaten. She felt a small connection, not as strong as that growing between Mae and Èmie and herself, but something to lessen the awful aloneness.

She watched the old man grip Quillan’s shoulder, and Quillan shake his head, then reluctantly shrug and walk with his friend toward the tent. Was he going inside? Did he mean to hear Preacher Paine after all? The tambourines had started and now voices were raised in hymns.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow …

People were filling the tent—men, women, and children. Carina saw Èmie start for the opening and caught her arm. “Are you going inside?”

“Of course.” Èmie spoke over her shoulder as she had the first time Carina saw her.

“But what would Father Charboneau say?”

Èmie smiled. “He says if you’re not against God, you’re for Him.”

“But …”

Mae pushed Carina from behind. “Come on, or we won’t have a good seat.”

Like a branch on the creek, Carina was carried along by the two of them. They entered the tent, and the music encircled her. The women wielding the tambourines seemed more animated than when they’d marched in, though still stiff, as though the music had a purpose but failed to move them. Thankfully Carina’s companions sat near the back where the breeze through the open flaps would keep Mae as cool as possible in the stuffy tent. Carina took the aisle seat.

Two rows up, also on the aisle, sat Quillan. He didn’t look back but sat straight with the dog lying at his feet. The song ended and Preacher Paine mounted the platform and raised his hands. Carina studied him curiously. He was not a large man, average in height and slightly gaunt. His eyes were green and protruding, his hair a thin mat of brown. What was there to recommend such a one?

But when he opened his mouth, it all changed. “People of Crystal!” His voice was a trumpet. “Thus says the prophet Ezekiel: ‘Now is the end come upon thee, and I will send mine anger upon thee, and will judge thee according to thy ways, and will recompense upon thee all thine abominations. Violence has risen up into a rod of wickedness. The day draweth near. None shall preserve his life, neither shall any strengthen himself in his iniquity. For my wrath is upon the multitude!’ ”

The tendons on his neck stood out, and he raised his arms like Moses casting down the stone tablets. “The day of the Lord is upon you!” His eyes were fire, green flame passing over the crowd.

Carina trembled. They sought her alone, or so it felt. He must see her sin, her hatred toward her sister, her unforgiveness. But she felt stubbornly resistant. Why should she forgive? Had Divina asked it? She had laughed! And Flavio. He’d called her foolish and temperamental. No. The only way she would forgive was if he, Flavio, came to Crystal and went down on his knees before her.

“You have the heart of a harlot!”

She riveted her eyes once again on Preacher Paine’s face, reddened now with fury.

“You have left your first love for the love of gold.”

Carina released her breath. At least that was not directed at her. She had not left Flavio for gold.

Preacher Paine’s tone became entreating. “Have you not heard? You cannot serve God and manna. Will your greed buy you one day more? I tell you even the hairs on your heads are numbered. Will gold give you one breath that is not allotted you already? No!”

He bellowed this last with such force Carina jumped in her seat. She was mesmerized by his voice, by his quick stride back and forth across the stage, as though he could have no peace until all the words inside had found release. He was John the Baptizer, gaunt and uncomely, but filled with a holy rage.

She saw people squirm and was only glad his words didn’t apply to her.

Then, “You are all doomed. Not one is without sin. Not even one.”

Bene
. She wasn’t perfect, but …

Preacher Paine suddenly stopped moving and stood, eyes closed, hands clasped at his throat. Carina waited, scarcely daring to breathe until his eyes shot open. He stretched out his arm, one finger pointing like a spear at her heart. “Behold, the judgment is upon you! Your hands are red with the blood of your brother whom you have slain!”

Or your sister
. The thought seemed to come from within her. Was wishing for Divina’s misery the same as killing her? No. But a trickle of sweat ran down Carina’s chest, which rose and fell sharply.

“In your hearts you have slain the unfortunate, murdered those who opposed you, butchered those who stood in your way. I say unto you, as much as ye have thought vile thoughts, so have ye done it. As much as ye have disdained charity, so have ye wrought evil.”

So. Carina shrank inside. She was guilty.

“I tell you, as ye have done to the least of these, so ye have done to me. And I will spit you from my mouth, sayeth the Lord!”

Carina trembled.

“You adulterers. You thieves. You who covet and bear false witness. You who worship the idols of gold and silver. You gluttons and fornicators. You who traffic in the dark arts. The flames of judgment await you in the fiery pit unless ye repent of your sin! Cast yourselves upon the mercy of the Lord, for the day of wrath is upon you!”

The very air trembled as he invoked the wrath he spoke into being. Carina’s heart was pounding in her chest. Never had she heard such words pronounced with such force, never seen one so possessed of supernatural power. She could not doubt it was God speaking through him. Dread and terror seized her.

“Lazarus, come forth! All ye who are dead, come forth from your tombs, for you are surely damned! Come forward if you would live. Kneel before the King of Heaven and confess your sin. Be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb!”

The singing burst around her again and rose to a throbbing pulse. People streamed into the aisle—a trickle, then a flood. Carina saw Quillan stand, but he turned and walked out the back, his face troubled and angry. She wanted to run, too, to escape the horrible voice, but she was held mesmerized as Preacher Paine touched the heads of each person in turn, exhorting them to lay down their sinful selves and take up the cross of Christ, to die and be reborn.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean? Unconsciously she gripped the crucifix until it cut into her flesh.
Signore
… was God a wrathful being waiting to devour her?

“Freedom only comes through laying down your life! If you would keep your life, you will surely lose it! If a seed does not fall to the ground and die, it cannot live.”

These were words she knew, but they suddenly had a force, a power unknown before. How? How did she lay down her life? Only through repentance. And she couldn’t repent. Wouldn’t. She was not sorry for hating Divina. Instead, feelings of vengeance swelled inside, carried her up from her seat and out the back of the tent.

She would die. She would die in sin, but Divina … Divina would pay in everlasting pain for stealing Flavio’s love. Carina staggered, caught herself by the rope of the tent, and gulped for air. It was cold in her lungs, the evening chill already advanced.

Her head cleared, and she stared about her. Quillan was gone. She was alone. Swallowing the bitter feelings, she stalked away even as a new hymn started, a hymn of triumph and salvation. Behind her in the red-gold rays of the setting sun, a procession started for the creek, but she hurried away. She no longer cared to see those washed clean in the blood of the Lamb.