The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(87)

“I know nothing of that.” Dr. DiGratia turned his gaze briefly on Carina. “I only know that my daughter begged leave for a time, distraught, yes. Against my better judgment, I let her travel. But nothing was said about breaking a valid contract to which I gave permission. As far as I’m concerned, that’s grounds to annul your claim.”

Annul his claim? After last night, after all their nights, their days, their struggle, their love? Annul the fact that they were one flesh, inseparable, indivisible except by death? “I request permission to see my wife.”

“I deny it. You have no business with her. I spoke with the priest. He’s looking into it.”

“Papa!” Carina’s voice broke. “How could you?”

“It is my responsibility.” He held himself stiffly, in firm control of his emotions.

Quillan admired his determination, and the irony was not lost on him. Hadn’t he told Carina again and again that the marriage was flawed, as he was flawed? Here was yet more proof. Quillan dropped his chin. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. But Carina is legally my wife.”

“There are things beyond the law. Moral codes.”

Quillan bristled. There was nothing immoral in his love for Carina, and it inflamed him to hear it.

Dr. DiGratia drew himself up imperiously. “I suggest you go.”

“Why, Papa?” Carina caught her father’s arm.

“Because you are my daughter. Now go inside.”

Quillan saw Carina stiffen, knew she would refuse. He said softly, “Go, Carina. This isn’t over yet.”

She looked up at him, confused and torn. He didn’t want her to be hurt. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what else to do. Carina went inside. Dr. DiGratia only looked at him, then followed his daughter inside and closed the door.

I am the vine, ye are the branches.

“I don’t understand,” Quillan said to the closed door.





NINETEEN

Matthew 8:20:

The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. What man am I to long for that which Christ himself denied? What right have I to hearth and home when Jesus bled and died?

—Quillan

FIFULLY, CARINA DRESSED. It was two days since Quillan had brought her home. Papa had willfully ignored her pleas and arguments, and now she was expected to accompany them to the Garibaldi Hotel for a ball in honor of some accomplishment of its namesake. Since everything Giuseppe Garibaldi, the unifier of Italy, had ever done was considered grounds for celebration, there was hardly a date that couldn’t suffice for some gala.

She looked at the dress Mamma had lovingly provided. Carina had to admit its stylish cut and lace-flounced bustle would set her off elegantly. If she could walk in on Quillan’s arm, she would be the happiest woman of all. But of course that was impossible.

Frustrated, she slid her arms into the dress, bowing inside it, then swooping up to let it descend over her in a white lacy cloud. She reached behind and started on the buttons. “Come in,” she called at the tap on the door.

Maria, the maid Mamma had retained from the mission, came in. Silently, she finished the row of buttons to Carina’s neck, then seated her at the maple vanity—no easy trick with the volume of her bustle. Then Maria brushed her hair, drawing out the tangles until it shone and crackled. Carina suffered it silently, upset by the attractive twists and rolls that Maria formed to enhance her beauty.

She didn’t want to look beautiful if Quillan were not there to see. What did she care that the other men would find her so? The other men and Flavio. She burned at the thought. She had not spoken with him since he made his threat, but she knew he would be there tonight. Was there any chance she could avoid him?

It was all so absurd. She should leave. Yet the thought of losing all her family was more than she could bear. Quillan had said it; to know she had broken Mamma’s heart, pained Papa, to never see Ti’Giuseppe, just as she had missed Nonna’s last days . . . She couldn’t do it. They were too much a part of her.

But wasn’t Quillan? Of course he was! And more. Oh, Signore, it’s too much for me.

“Miss is unhappy?”

Maria’s voice startled Carina. But she looked at her own face in the mirror. As Quillan said, it was there for all the world to see. She sighed. “Unhappy and frustrated and confused.”

“I will pray for you.” Simple words from a simple heart.

“Maybe God will hear you.”

“God will hear.” Maria’s hands brought up the last strands of hair, worked them into a braid, and intertwined the braid with the roll on one side. She tucked it in with pearl hairpins. The effect was masterful and lovely.

Carina wanted to cry.

“It will be all right, miss.”

Quillan’s words. But it wasn’t all right. She should be with her husband, and more and more she knew it.





Since Solomon Schocken had not needed him that evening, Quillan perched at the picnic pavilion in the plaza and watched the goings on at the Garibaldi House, the arrivals of the Italian powers-that-be. He was coming to realize they held more sway than he’d imagined. Tuscans and Sardinians, used to their elite roles in the old world, had set up their miniature kingdoms in the new.

He was feeling bitter. They weren’t all that way, but unfortunately the others seemed cowed and followed their lead. The men at the quarry had turned distinctly cold and gave him dark glares when he tried to communicate. The men loaded his wagon sullenly, making his team stand longer and his loads fewer. He found himself doing the bulk of it himself, and he felt it now in his back. But it was better to work alone and be effective than stymied by the others.