Sweeter Than Wine (27 page)

"Do you regret what we...did tonight?" he asked, not wanting to hear her
answer.

Alice nodded, and wiped at her lips with trembling fingers.

"I--I only want your happiness," he blurted, his tongue tripping over suddenly
unfamiliar English sounds. "If this has made you so unhappy, then I--we--can
pretend it never happened."

"You mean you won't--" She swallowed a hiccup. "We can still get an
annulment?"

Pain ripped through his chest. He was right. She did not really want him. His
throat turned dry with the effort to force out the word, "Yes, of course." He raised
his chin. "You see, I would never force you to--to--" He could not say the rest.

"Thank you," she whispered, twisting her hair into a coil, revealing the naked
relief on her face. "I'm sorry that I--I didn't mean..."

"Come," Siegfried said, putting his arm around her shoulders.

She flinched, and he leapt back as if burned.
Lieber Gott, what does she
think of me?

He escorted her down the hall to her own bedroom, moving with numb
decorum. The metallic scrape and click of the key, locking the door behind her,
sent his spirits plummeting even lower.

He returned to his own bed and spent the remaining hours of the night staring
at the dim ceiling, berating himself for his foolish nobility in renouncing the
consummation of their marriage.

He burned for her now, more than ever.

* * *

Alice crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over her head, trying not to listen
to the sound of Siegfried's slow, uneven steps retreating from her door.

Expecting to toss all night on the shoals of self-recrimination, she was
surprised when she opened her eyes to curtains glowing with gray dawn light. She
plumped her soft pillow, feeling wonderfully buoyant and languid, complete in
some indefinable way...and then she remembered.

Alice shivered, and drew the sheets tightly around her shoulders. She did not
want to recall sprawling on Siegfried's bed, wantonly urging him on, making
those
noises. Having those feelings.

The thought of having to meet his eyes across the breakfast table made her
cringe. So, for the first time since Bill's death, she did not rise with the sun to begin
the endless round of chores. Instead she rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Siegfried struggled awake, a foul mood hanging over him like the gray blanket
of fog outside. He dressed in his work clothes, then stomped down the hallway to
the stairs, pausing to glare at the closed door of her bedroom. Why had his
wonderful first time been so terrible for her? Alice's musky scent still filled his
senses. Her flavors lingered on his tongue like the delayed finish of a truly great
wine.

He had waited so long. At first, he had been abstinent from the knowledge that
he would have to marry any girl he got in the family way. As heir to the
Rodernwiller vineyards, his father had cautioned him to marry wisely. During the
War, the prostitutes repelled him; he could not stomach the idea of sharing a
woman with every soldier in a German uniform.

Outside, he began his walk alone through the Cabernet section of the
vineyard, pacing down the trellised rows, staring absently at the leaves and
tendrils.

Alice had been so responsive, so passionate. Afterwards, she had reacted as
if he had raped her. But he had not! He had given her numerous chances to pull
away, to tell him "no." She had been willing...more than willing. He would swear to
it.

A cloud of starlings soared over the vineyard, and landed a few yards away.
Siegfried picked up a clod of dirt, and desultorily threw it at them. Some of the
birds were startled into flight, but soon settled down again among their unruffled
companions. He gave a despairing snort, and continued walking without really
seeing the vines until the clanging of the kitchen bell summoned him to
breakfast.

In the kitchen, across from Peter, Siegfried munched steadily through a
plateful of scrambled eggs and potatoes fried with bacon and onions. The food
was flavorless and dry. He replied to Maria's cheerful prattle with monosyllabic
grunts as she refilled his coffee cup. He glanced up at the doorway several times,
but Alice didn't appear.

Maria, coffeepot in hand, followed his glance. "Is Mrs. R. still sick? It's not like
her to be late for breakfast."

"Yes. Let her sleep," Siegfried mumbled uncomfortably around a mouthful of
potatoes.

"The poor dear. I wonder if I should bring her some chamomile tea and
toast?"

"Let her be, Maria. You're not a doctor," Peter growled. "Er, sorry to hear that
Mrs. R. is sick," he apologized to Siegfried.

"M-mnh," Siegfried said, returning his attention to his plate. It was empty, like
his hopes.

* * *

Siegfried spent the next hour stalking around the winery, grumbling at his busy
workers and listlessly picking up tools to start a task then putting them down again
with not the faintest idea what to do with them.

Last night he had made love to his wife, had given and received in measure far
beyond what he could have imagined, and this morning he felt like hell. He wanted
to make love to Alice again and again, every night, every morning for the rest of
his life. He wanted to feel her supple skin, to make her giggle again, to hear her
soft cries, to taste her rich bouquet. He wanted her kisses, her warm breath in his
ear, the softness of her breast in his hand, the
rightness
of their joining.

He wanted to be her husband. Not just in name, but in fact.

And he wanted Alice to want all these things, too.

He
was
her husband, by God. He had only offered her the chance of
annulment to give her the time to realize it herself, so she would not feel like he
had stolen Montclair from her.
If she needs more time
, he gritted his teeth,
then she shall have it.

But he hoped she would not leave him burning long.

There must be some way to prove his good intentions, to demonstrate how
much she really needed him. At Montclair. In her bed.

He turned ideas over in his mind as his feet led him unaware into the vineyard,
through the riot of vines. The one scheme he came back to, again and again, was
the license.

She had wanted a license from the Archbishop of San Francisco to produce
sacramental wine, but La Fontaine got it instead.

In a flash of platinum and gold, inspiration struck Siegfried. He would show her
how useful he could be.

Opa
Roye had shared Charles La Fontaine's quest to make a California
Burgundy that would compare with the finest French reds. Siegfried would
presume on that acquaintance, and assure the fortunes of Montclair. He would
bring some of his wine to Mr. La Fontaine, and convince him to contract with
Montclair as a secondary supplier. He would return, triumphant, and lay his victory
like a laurel wreath at Alice's feet.

And she would take his hand, and kiss him, and draw him down to her soft
bed...

Fired with enthusiasm, Siegfried strode back to the door of the winery, where a
crate from the meeting still held three bottles of the 1911 vintage.

Peter, walking by with an armful of empty sacks as Siegfried loaded the case
in the back of the truck, cocked his head inquiringly. "You going somewhere?"

"I am going to run an errand. Please tell Maria that I will miss dinner, although I
should be back in time for supper."

"You--miss dinner? That must be some errand," Peter joked, dropping the
blue-stained sacks and hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets. He pointed at the
Ford with his chin. "You know how to drive?"

"Of course!" Siegfried replied, stung. "My father owned a Daimler."

"Oh, yeah? Well, this ain't no Daimler. You know why the man named his Ford
after Theodore Roosevelt?"

Siegfried shook his head, but Peter was already laughing. "Because it's a
rough-riding son of a gun! Know why another fella named his after his wife?
Because he couldn't control it!" Peter snorted, and came to the end of his short
burst of mirth. "Better get the seat off while I go get some gasoline for it. You'll
want to fill 'er up before you go."

* * *

The bedside clock read 10:00 AM. The wonderful languor of her earlier
awakening had disappeared. As she rose to dress, she felt sluggish and out of
sorts. She finished buttoning her blouse, opened her curtains, and saw that a
leaden sky perfectly accompanied her mood.

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of coffee and bacon. She entered
reluctantly, afraid of finding Siegfried there.

"Oh, Mrs. R., you're up at last. Mr. R. said you weren't feeling well and that I
shouldn't wake you. Are you better? Would you like breakfast?" Maria asked,
wrist-deep in bread dough. She stopped kneading and wiped her hands with a
dishtowel.

Alice sighed. "I don't know, Maria. Don't worry about me. I just want some
coffee and toast. I can make it myself."

"Coffee's on the stove," Maria said, sprinkling a fresh layer of flour on the
wooden kneading board and beginning to work the dough again. "You know, Mr.
R. didn't look so well, either. Did you two have an argument?"

Alice twitched as she picked up the enamel coffeepot from the stovetop and
poured herself a mug. "Not 'zactly." She opened the icebox and added a too-
generous amount of cream to her coffee. She couldn't control her hand, and she
hadn't meant to confide in Maria, but her next words tumbled out before she could
help herself: "It's only--he's so
different
...from Bill."

"He loves you, though," Maria commented with a worldly-wise smile. "I can
tell."

"No. He loves Montclair." Alice said bitterly. And why did that suddenly matter
so much to her? Yesterday, she had selfishly seduced him in order to keep
Montclair and her position in the community. By doing so, she had not only
betrayed Bill's memory, but confirmed her worst fears about her own nature.
Siegfried had done such things to her! She winced in embarrassment.

Maria, wide-eyed, had stopped kneading.

"Oh, never mind." Alice grabbed a slightly stale loaf of bread from the
breadbox and sawed off two slices for her toast. "Yesterday was a bad day."

Maria raised a skeptical eyebrow at this, but said in her most neutral tone,
"Well, then, I hope today's better, Mrs. R."

"Thank you," said Alice, fervently. "Where is my--where is Siegfried?"

Maria shrugged. "Peter said he went off on an errand."

He was gone! She wouldn't have to face him, yet.

Alice enjoyed a solitary breakfast in the dining room, but thoughts of Siegfried
kept distracting her: his boyish grin as he discovered her ticklish spots; his look of
intense concentration as he devoted himself to pleasuring her; the soft demand of
his mouth on her breasts.

At the memory of their lovemaking, arousal woke between her thighs again
and the warmth of the house became stifling. She rose hastily from the table,
longing for the coolness of the foggy morning outside.

"I'm going to fetch the mail," she told Maria, as she rinsed out her coffee
mug.

Once on the driveway, Alice drew a deep breath of the moist, eucalyptus-
scented air and hoped that the quarter-mile walk down the hill to the road would
calm her fevered recollections. Otherwise, how could she face Siegfried on a daily
basis? Assuming that he still wished to serve as her vintner.

Of course he does
, Alice reassured herself, fighting down a stab of
panic at the thought of losing him.
He won't give up Montclair that
easily.

The mailbox contained several bills, an advertising circular for Princess Hair
Tonics, and a white envelope bearing the return address of the Archdiocese of
San Francisco. She weighed the letter in her hand for a moment, knowing what it
must say, then shoved it in her skirt pocket.

There was one more item in the mailbox: a package addressed to "Mrs.
Siegfried Rodernwiller."

The return address on the package gave her an unpleasant surprise: Florence
Campbell O'Reilly, San Francisco.

Alice tore open the brown paper covering the package and soon balanced an
enormous, gaudy brooch in the shape of a dragonfly on her palm. The fluttering
wings, covered with a thin layer of blue-green enamel and outlined by a row of
diamonds, were cleverly attached to the gold body by tiny springs. Two large
diamonds set into the enamel head formed the insect's faceted eyes, and the legs
were heavy gold.

As she studied the wild glitter in her hand, Alice gave a despairing laugh. At
five inches across, it was the most vulgar piece of jewelry she had ever seen, the
sort of thing that a demimondaine might wear to the Opera, pinned to a gaudy
sash over a
décolleté
evening gown.

What in heaven's name had prompted her mother to send this?

At least she didn't deliver it in person
. Alice choked back another laugh,
this one edged with hysteria. She imagined her mother invading her Montclair
refuge. How would she introduce Florence to Siegfried? To Peter and Maria? To
the ladies at church?

A note, written with appalling penmanship, had been wrapped around the
brooch.

Dear baby girl,

The paper said you got married again, and I was thinking about you. I think
about you a lot. I know you dont want nothing to do with me, but I hope you are
happy and that you got yourself a good man. I hope the grape farm is doing well. If
you need anything, let me know. I love you, honey.

Your loving mother, Florrie.

Alice stood next to the mailbox for a long time, re-reading the note, sick at
heart. Last night, driven by desperation, she had betrayed everything that
mattered to her--her honor, her respectability, her chastity.

Like mother, like daughter. I can't escape her taint
.

Back at the house, she tossed the bills and the Archbishop's letter on the desk
in her office. Then she trudged upstairs to her bedroom and dumped the gaudy
dragonfly brooch in the jewelry box on her dresser. It was utterly out of place
among the scanty items already there: a pair of cultured pearl earrings, a simple
pendant on a silver chain. She touched one of the earrings regretfully, reminded of
her pawned pearl necklace.