The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(104)

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.





TWENTY-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

FLAVIO 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?”

Again Flavio shrugged. “I want to see Carina.”

Tony noted the mandolin knowingly. “She’s awake. I saw her coming from the bathhouse.”

“Will you ask her to come out?” He looked around the courtyard, the small fountain barely trickling with the lack of recent rainfall, the slender almond tree almost past its bloom, the stone troughs and benches.

Too public. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Tia Franchesca, Carina’s mamma, would watch every word, every gesture. “Ask her to meet me at the gazebo.” That small circular retreat between the vineyards and the hay fields would suit his needs well.