The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(136)

“Annelise! Rose was named for her mamma.”

Quillan folded the letter.

“And she wants to come visit. Write her back, Quillan. Tell them to come, of course to come.”

Quillan sagged. How could he see them now, with his pathetic arms, his crippled leg? He had gone to them strong and independent, and they had called him a thief. How would they look at him now? With pity?

“Quillan.” Carina reached into her pocket, then caught his hand and placed her closed fist inside it. When she opened her fingers, something heavy and round rested there. She drew her hand away.

His mother’s locket, the front different and the catch, but he knew the weight and shape of it. He looked up, questioning.

“It was damaged in the accident. I had it repaired.”

He pushed the release that opened the new front and saw his mother’s face. The photo bore one scratch, but the rest was unmarred. He stared into his mother’s eyes, remembering their aqua brilliance. The same color as Annelise DeMornay’s.

Carina folded both hands behind his neck. “They’re Rose’s parents, Quillan. And they need you.”

He looked from the locket to his wife’s face. Did she always have to be right? “So I should let them come.”

“You should welcome them.”

His mouth pulled sideways. “With something more than grim acceptance.”

“Exuberant joy.”

He laughed. “Being not overly endowed with exuberance, I’ll leave that to you.” But he felt suddenly light. Not only had God given him Carina’s family, but it seemed he meant to extend it once again. Grandparents. He took a moment to savor the thought. The Lord’s abundance amazed him. He had gone from being totally alone to winning Carina, being accepted by her family—though that was still a mixed blessing with her brothers—to having the DeMornays acknowledge him.

He lowered his forehead to Carina’s. “Do you suppose he’d foot me a loan for a new wagon?”

Carina punched his chest.

“Ow. I’ve had my reflex training, thank you.” He caught her face and kissed her, then hung the locket around her neck.

“What are you doing?” She pressed the locket to her breast.

“I want you to have it.” He stroked back her curtain of hair. “I have nothing else to give you these days.”

She caught his face between her hands. “You have yourself.” She kissed him back. He had thought she might.





Still warm inside from the meal they had all shared around the table, Carina helped Quillan down from the small grape wagon. Ah, what a wonderful time it had been, all gathered together at the long table for Quillan’s first meal with the family. They had all been there, her brothers and their wives, Divina and Nicolo, Tia Marta and Gelsomina and Ti’Giuseppe, beaming his bare gums in delight. Quillan had swallowed Mamma’s lasagne like a ravening wolf, then held up his goblet when Papa and the others raised theirs.

Papa’s voice was strong and sincere. “This wine was made from grapes grown and ripened before phylloxera weakened a single vine on our land. With God’s help, we will all grow this strong, mellow this deeply, and warm this well.” He had raised the goblet an inch higher to Quillan, sitting alongside her at the table. “Welcome to the family.”

Though his arms were stronger now, almost what they’d been, Carina had noticed the shake of Quillan’s goblet as he drank. Now, as she helped him, his muscles tightened and bunched as he eased his weight onto the cane and stepped down. The foot of the cane sank into the soft ground at the edge of the vineyard, the one she had discovered in bud, now burgeoning with green leaves and trailing tendrils. Quillan breathed deeply as he looked out at the scene.

“Do you like it?”

He nodded silently, his larynx working up and down.

“From the edge of this young vineyard, across that field and citrus orchard, up to the top of the hill there.” She pointed to the oak-capped hill. “This is the land Papa gives us.”

He stood in silence a long time, his eyes absorbing what his mind struggled to take in.

“It’s a gift, Quillan. He wants us to have it.”

“But I haven’t earned it.”

“You don’t have to.” She slipped her hand inside his free one. “It’s Papa’s gift, Quillan. Only accept it.”

He started slowly down between the vines, using the cane to balance.

“Can you manage on the soft ground?”

He nodded. “I can manage. I may never lose the limp, though.”

“Eh.” She waved her fingers. “What’s a pirate without a limp?”

He turned and smiled. “Or a poet?”

Surprised, she stepped up close. “Is that an announcement?”

He shrugged, shifting his weight on the cane. “It’s something I could do if . . . until this leg heals.”

She knew his concern, but she believed the Lord would and was healing Quillan’s leg. Only Papa could have put the bone together as well as he did. Now Quillan’s constitution and God’s mercy must do the rest.

“But it’s more than that.” Quillan shook his head. “Carina, since I was first able to connect letters into words, I’ve read the stories and poems other people have written. Sometimes it kept me sane. Always it gave me something. What if they had all kept their words to themselves? Hoarded them.”