The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(89)

He folded his arms, bent over the bed, and laid his face down. He was a grown man. But to never know a father’s pride, a mother’s love . . . to never be accepted into that loving circle, that devotion he saw in the DiGratias’ fierce loyalty to each other. How would it feel to belong?

I am the vine.

He had turned twenty-nine today, with no one to mark the day, no one to even know. He was so terribly alone. He was worse for having known Carina’s love. That one taste would forever haunt him. If Carina were lost to him, what would he have?

I am the vine, ye are the branches. Abide in me. Abide in me.

The tension left his neck. His fisted hands unclenched, the tears stopped. Quillan opened his eyes. He had God. He had Jesus. Cain was right. God called the lowly, the motley, the ones everyone else rejected. He gripped Cain’s Bible and opened to the verses. Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.

Quillan straightened on his knees and clasped his mother’s locket. He had been looking for approval from men, desperate for love and acceptance from people. But it was God’s acceptance he’d received, God’s approval he needed. As long as he fought for the DiGratias’, the DeMornays’, the Shepards’ acclaim, he would not bear fruit. It was God he needed to please. God was the father who could look down with pride and say, “Well done, my son.”

A powerful yearning filled him. More than anything this world could give, he wanted that. More than the forty thousand dollars in the concealed box beneath his wagon, more than the esteem of men, even more than Carina’s love—he wanted to know he had done right in God’s eyes.

Breathing deep gulps of air, he recalled the verses in his mind. Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit; so shall ye be my disciples. As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you: continue ye in my love. His body started to shake. The bitterness, the pride, the resentment, the hurt. He saw them all part of another creature, not himself.

“Thank you, Father.” His voice was hoarse with tears, but they were no longer bitter. They were the tears Tennyson had written of, the tears Carina understood. They came and washed away his wall. He had a father who loved him. And his purpose was to do his Father’s will, whatever it was, to accept his lot and be content because God willed it. Nothing mattered more. Christ was the vine, and he the branch. Only abiding in God would bring him peace and make him fruitful.

Now, on his knees, he didn’t pray for God to show him His will; he prayed to be made worthy of it. Before, he had surrendered to a powerful God, knowing his fight was futile. Now he found God longing to draw him in, a loving, merciful God. If his Father meant him to lose Carina, then he would cling to the vine, a weak and damaged branch. But apart from the vine, he was nothing.





Carina watched the musicians play the Veronese melody on violin, mandolin, cello, and guitar. A tenor, whom she had not seen before, sang in full voice, and the timbre of it resonated inside her. He had a corpulent neck that vibrated like the throat of a bird when he sang, and she wondered if the beauty of the sound was enhanced by it.

Thankfully they were not intended to dance while the soloist entertained them. She could lose herself in the music and for a time forget. Closing her eyes she let the rising and falling notes surround her, until she focused on the words sung in Italian, words of love. And then suddenly all her thoughts went back to Quillan’s face as he stood by the pavilion in the plaza.

How dashing he had looked. For a moment she had hoped he would come to her, sweep her out of Papa’s grip, save her this humiliating farce. Would he truly wait for Papa’s permission? It would never come. Never. Mamma made it worse every night as they ate, extolling Flavio’s virtues.

So he was an artist. So what? So he came from an important family. So he painted like Botticelli and sang like an angel. So . . .

“Stop pouting, Carina. You look like a spoiled child,” Divina hissed in her ear. “You insult Papa.”

“How?”

Divina pinched her elbow. “Everyone knows you think you’re wronged. You don’t have to make it so obvious.”

Carina tugged her arm free. “That’s Papa’s problem.”

“How quickly we change.” Divina’s tone grated Carina’s nerves. “Papa’s little favorite, his tigre. She’s grown claws and will use them the first time she doesn’t get her way.”

“Shut up, Divina.”

“I know you.” Divina pressed her lips so close her breath filled Carina’s ear. “It’s Flavio you want to hurt. And when you’re done, you’ll discard that handsome rascal you’ve used to torment him.”

Carina spun. “You know nothing, Divina.”

Divina laughed and splayed her hand across her belly. “Oh, but I do.”

Shaking, Carina watched her sister walk away. Was it possible Divina hated her so much? And what about Papa? If he loved her could he do the things he was doing? Had they all turned on her? Even as she wondered, she saw Mamma with Tia Gelsomina, Carina’s own godmother, heads together, sharing the same pained expression. Like Mamma, Gelsomina held her age well; an attractive woman, though shorter than Carina by inches. Widowed six years, she was much pursued, but Carina suspected she enjoyed the pursuit too much to choose a favorite suitor.