The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(77)
Quillan considered the offer. It could serve to get him established.
Schocken pulled open the window shades. “I’ve got a good crew. Mainly Italians. I import them.”
Italians. That should prove interesting. And now his pluck quickened. “All right. Do you have anything for the evenings?”
Schocken turned with the feather duster he’d lifted from the corner socket. “The evenings?”
“I don’t like much slack time.”
For a moment Schocken seemed without an answer, then said, “How about stocking the shelves here at the store?”
Quillan looked around again. The store was long and filled with groceries and provisions, furnishings, dry goods, and yard goods. He saw racks of clothing, boots, and shoes. Shallow crates held cutlery, tin ware, and hardware. That should just about keep him busy enough to stave off the ache for his wife. At least until he figured out what to do about that. “Okay.”
“You’re an enterprising one. I admire that.”
“When do I start?”
Schocken tapped the duster against his palm. “As soon as my clerk arrives, we’ll go out to the quarry. Mr. Marconi is the foreman. He’ll direct you from there.”
Quillan nodded. “I’ll set up my team.” He went out and surveyed the plaza. The narrow gauge tracks ran along Vallejo Street on the corner of which sat Schocken’s store. The cross street alongside the store was named easily enough First Street East.
Across the plaza, he saw two other general merchandise stores, a hardware store, and a couple blacksmiths and bakeries—one named Union like the hotel and livery; it wasn’t hard to tell where the sympathies of these folks lay. There was a meat market, druggist, and stationer. He also counted several Chinese stores around the plaza. They included two laundries, three restaurants, a grocery, and one establishment that said simply Chinese Store and listed fireworks for sale. Sonoma was like any another town except for its pleasing layout around the square and what seemed regular quadrants flanking that. Very neat, though the pressed dirt streets were none too clean. Was there no provision for waste?
As he stood catching his bearings, a diminutive Chinese man stepped from the grocery and started down the street calling, “Fluit, cabbagie, ladish, splouts. Allie same plice.”
Quillan’s ear twisted around the pronunciation as the man in a shiny dresslike getup pushed his small wheeled cart past.
“Fushie and slimps. Vely flesh. Allie flesh. Allie same plice.” The little man looked at him, then passed by, no doubt pegging him for a stranger not likely to buy. The man’s braided hair reached almost to the street. Quillan was duly impressed.
He started for the Union Livery and Feed, where he’d left his wagon and team after removing them from Giuseppe’s care. The furniture remained covered with a tarp in the DiGratia’s barn. It was Carina’s, after all. But he had to stop thinking like that. It wasn’t his wagon and her furniture. It was all theirs. He couldn’t allow division in his thoughts or the division in their lives could take root.
The livery was right next to his hotel, and after calling for his team and wagon, he went up to his room, donned the buckskin coat to protect against stones kicked up by the horses, and his broad-brimmed hat for the sun. He felt like a freighter again, and the familiarity settled him. It may not be his final vocation, but for now it was one familiar thing among so much strange.
He met Solomon Schocken in front of the store. Schocken climbed up beside him. “Fine rig.”
Quillan nodded.
“Are the horses heavy shod? The stone in the quarry can be sharp and troublesome.”
Quillan hadn’t thought of that. They were shod for long hauls on rough roads, though. “I think they’ll do. I’ll check them over tonight.”
They shared small talk on their way to the quarry, Quillan revealing as little of his situation as possible, partly because he didn’t understand it himself. He had brought Carina home, but what did that mean for him?
Carina’s eyes ached from weeping, but she could pursue sleep no longer, so she forced them open. The morning was well advanced, but no one had wakened her. She sat up groggily, reminiscent of the effects of laudanum. This time it was only grief and worry that made her heavy and slow. She sighed.
Pulling herself up, she washed and dressed. The morning sun was muted as always by the haze that lingered on the valley though the sky was clear. Much of the rain for the season was past. Now the slow warming would begin, the awakening of the land, the waking of the vines. She twisted the front strands of her hair back over her ears and plaited them together, leaving the bulk of her hair hanging down her back.
She saw in the looking glass that she had lost weight. With her corset merely snug, the side seams of her dress were no longer tightly fitted. She put a hand to her flat belly. Was it possible she’d never bear a child? She vaguely recalled Mae asking Dr. Felden about that, and his nebulous reply. He had cautioned her again before she and Quillan left, cautioned that her kidneys might not support a pregnancy.
And anyway, with Quillan gone how would she conceive? She quickly shook the gloomy thought away. Quillan was not gone. He had promised to stay in town. She would make some excuse to find him there today. To see him, to touch him, to hear his voice.
She dropped to her knees. “Grazie, Signore, for this day. All things are in your hands. Melt my will to yours, but . . . per favore, give me back my husband.” That had to be God’s will. How could He will otherwise when He had given her Quillan before? Surely God did not give only to take away.