The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(78)

She might have believed that once—had believed it. But not anymore. The God she came to know on the mountains of Colorado was not a capricious God, playing with her heart. He was faithful and true. Goodness and grace. If she must suffer separation now, it was somehow for her good and Quillan’s. “But how, Signore? I don’t understand.”

And maybe she wasn’t meant to. Maybe she had only to trust. She stood up and smoothed her skirts. She might not be plump and soft, and her eyes were red and dry, but she would not sulk. Somehow she must make peace between her family and her husband. She went out.

Mamma was in the conservatory dribbling water over the newly sprouted tomato plants that would go into the garden after all chance of frost was past. Carina watched her with pride and fury. She’d always been proud of Mamma, so capable and lovely, so fiercely protective of her own. Was that it now? Did she feel threatened by Quillan?

Carina walked in, watched Mamma test the soil in the little clay pots with her finger, then drip water over the plants. She imagined the round red tomatoes that would make rich chunky sauces pungent with herbs and garlic. She looked over the other plants, squashes and eggplant and peppers, melons and beans, and then the herbs on shelves along the glass wall, tended all year. The conservatory carried their fragrance through deepest winter, which of course, was nothing to Crystal’s snow-covered freeze. Nonetheless, the greenhouse gave Mamma an advantage over other wives in the area.

Papa used herbs for his medicines, also. His area of the greenhouse had plants arranged and labeled according to phylum, order, and species. Carina remembered him teaching her how to recognize and use them. She wandered over. Buttercup for asthma, arnica for sprains, slippery elm, aloe, chamomile, and clover for burns. Colds called for mullein plant made into candy. Coughs: onion syrup, unless they were severe, then Papa used paregoric, which he made from opium and camphor. She knew so many of his remedies, had applied them herself.

Thinking of Papa made her heart ache afresh. How could he have been so cruel, so cold and unyielding? That was not the Papa she knew. Yes, she had hurt him, but . . . Again she sighed.

Mamma looked up, watched her a long moment, their eyes holding each other with mingled hurt and love. Then Mamma said, “Good morning, Carina.”

“Good morning, Mamma.”

“There is tea and sugar in the kitchen. I know you didn’t sleep.” From the look of Mamma’s eyes, she had not slept either.

Carina nodded. “Thank you, Mamma.” She went out to the kitchen where the kettle was held just below boiling and the strainer filled with tea leaves over a cup. Carina steeped the tea, poured in some fresh cream, and spooned sugar into the cup. She slowly stirred, noting the small way Mamma had shown her love. On a cloth-covered dish stood a miniature panettone, baked only for special occasions.

Breathing the wonderful candied fruit aroma, Carina carried it with her tea to the marble table and sat down. Closing her eyes, she blessed the food, then cut and took the first wonderful bite. Oh, how she wished Quillan were there to experience it with her. Her lip quivered, and she sniffed back tears that once again threatened. Would they love and pamper her into forgetting this man they would not accept?

Carefully she wrapped the round, sweet loaf in the cloth and fit it into her pocket. She finished her tea, then went out of the kitchen through the back door. She passed the conservatory, saw Mamma watching through the glass. She didn’t care. She would find Quillan and share the sweet.

But then she saw Papa. His pose and what he held stopped her. He stood at the edge of the vineyard, one entire grape stalk in his arms, its hairy roots dangling. Slowly she approached. “Papa?”

He turned.

“What is it, Papa?” But she saw the powdery yellow roots, knew already what he would say. “Phylloxera?”

He nodded. For over ten years the Sonoma vineyards had been plagued, whole fields destroyed by the parasitic insect that looked like sulfur powder on the roots of the vines. Papa had battled to keep his vines producing, trying one remedy after another. She looked at the rows of vines. Soon budbreak would begin, but the stalks looked sickly and weak. Could they even produce?

Papa sighed. “I think it’s time.”

“Time, Papa?”

He had resisted plowing the vines under, laying his fields to waste as so many others had been forced to do. “They will not survive another season. It’s no use.”

Carina’s spirit sagged. All their work, their heart, their care—for nothing. No wonder Papa had little patience for insults. She saw two of her brothers scattered among the vines, checking the wood with little pruning knives and shaking their heads. The financial loss would be substantial, the emotional loss far worse.

Growing grapes was not the same as growing wheat or corn. It required nurture and individual attention to each vine. Every pruning was gauged by the particular plant’s energy. How many canes were left and how many buds per cane would determine how that vine’s strength would be directed. The more wood that was removed, the fewer buds that vine would produce. Fewer grapes made deeper flavor, but less wine. It was a delicate balance.

Then there was weeding, suckering, and tying up the cordons, the care given to the fragile white blooms that came out in May and filled the fields with an intense sweet honey smell, turned pink, then brown, then fell to the ground like weightless snowflakes. The vines must make it through May without heavy rain or wind or the blooms would be lost.