Sweeter Than Wine (41 page)

He had to find a way to make things right.

* * *

The gilt-and-enamel French clock on the office bookcase chimed ten o'clock.
Alice took a slender brass key from the top desk drawer, and reached up on tip-
toes to wind the clock, putting off the inevitable moment when she would have to
go upstairs and face another night of her husband's stony presence. She had
dreaded what might happen if Siegfried ever found out about her mother and her
past. Why had she told him that she had worked there as well as lived there?

But he believed me
. And that made her feel worse than she ever could
have imagined.

She finished straightening up her office, and then went outside on the porch,
searching the veiled glitter of the summer stars vainly for any hint of cool air.

When she was unable to delay going to bed any longer, she went back
inside.

It was dark as she cautiously pushed open her bedroom door. Alice fumbled
along the wall until she reached the switch to turn on the electric chandelier. When
the light came on, the first thing she noticed was the open wardrobe.

All of Siegfried's belongings were gone.

She felt nothing, and the lack of sensation frightened her a little. She went out
into the darkened hallway. There was a line of light coming from under the guest
room door.

She undressed and climbed into her solitary bed. Perhaps the pain would start
tomorrow. For now, she just wanted to sleep, and forget everything.

* * *

I used to love this so much. I lived all year for this moment. And now it
doesn't mean anything.

Alice stood on the porch, watching the pickers work their way rapidly up the
slope of the vineyard, sunlight flickering from the sharp, curved blades of their swift
knives.

She surveyed Montclair, and found it barren even as the bountiful harvest
began. Why did Montclair's success no longer matter to her? It was all she had
lived for, since Bill left. Before Siegfried came.

Peter drove the Model-T slowly between the rows of vines, letting the men
empty their full thirty-five pound lugs of grapes into the big bin mounted on the
truck bed. She knew most of the pickers by sight if not by name. They came back
to Montclair year after year, arriving at her gates when the apple harvest ended.
And they'll be back again next year, and the year after. But where will I
be?

She watched Siegfried as he tried doggedly to be everywhere at once. He had
filled out on Maria's good food, and his shoulders were quite breathtakingly broad
and well-muscled now. His skin glowed amber in the sun, and his blond hair shone
bright in the dimness of the winery.

And she knew, without wanting to, whenever he was near. Her nerves had
become morbidly sensitive, acted upon directly and subtly by his presence. She
didn't have to see him to know he was there. Her skin would begin to tingle and
the constant ache in her center would erupt into a blaze of need.

She suffered for the lack of him in her breasts, in her palms, and all up and
down the insides of her thighs. She wanted Siegfried with every part of her,
despite his rejection of her, whether he wanted her or not. And how had she gotten
so involved, that his withdrawal from her hurt this much?

The solid railing under her hand was suddenly insubstantial. All of Montclair
seemed no more solid than a cartoon drawing in the newspaper, which might
crumple and blow away in a stiff breeze.

* * *

Friday, October 3

A cloud of bees and wasps buzzed inside the winery, attracted by the sweet,
sticky grape juice flowing from between the slats of the press. Siegfried rubbed at
a welt where he had been stung, and breathed the fragrance of the golden-green
juice as Herculio tightened down the screw another half-turn.

Essence of honey and pears. If he were a bee, he would be after it too.

"Enough!" he called, and Herculio stopped. The flow of juice began to lessen.
"The rest is to go in the press tank."

"Bill used to get twice that from a ton of grapes," Alice observed worriedly from
behind him.

"As you may recall," Siegfried snapped as a bee lighted on his wrist and stung
him. "Bill's wine tasted like piss." He scratched away the stinger and collected his
temper. "He never cared that the last gallons of the pressing are the harshest,
because the skins and seeds are bitter, when bruised. The best wine is made from
the free-run juice of a gentle pressing." As is the best loving, Opa Roye had taught
Siegfried, ages ago. Too bad he had been such a poor student.

Alice sucked in air, and visibly calculated the volume of this pressing. He knew
she was figuring how much they needed to charge for each gallon; he could
practically hear chalk squeak as she did sums in her head. And every dime of
future payment a fantasy, as he knew too well.
If Alice does not already hate
me, she will when she discovers the truth.

"Peter, switch the hose to tank number four!" he ordered.

As the foreman complied, he gave Siegfried a hostile look that communicated
clearly:
Why are you bothering
?

Siegfried cursed himself for a coward, and rushed to inspect the next load of
fruit for the press.

"Well, I'm sorry to have interrupted you," Alice said to the empty air, and
left.

It was difficult for Siegfried to concentrate on the grapes when he was blinded
by the memory of afternoon sunlight striking copper sparks from her tightly coiled
hair.

Montclair, Thursday, October 9

"Why are you all dressed up?" Suspiciously, Siegfried eyed Alice's black frock
and the dark coat she was wearing despite the evening's warmth.

"Father Moran's funeral Rosary, of course. Don't you remember? We
discussed this over dinner." Alice's voice was cold.

He had spent the day finishing up the white grape crush. He had twenty
thousand gallons which might possibly metamorphose into drinkable wine if he
was lucky, and vigilant. Had he eaten dinner? "I--ah--my mind was elsewhere,"
Siegfried admitted as Maria knocked on the back door.

"Are you ready? Hello, Mr. R!" Maria entered, also dressed for church. "Oh.
You're not going? I know Peter isn't, but--"

"Please, go without me. I should not leave the wines."

Alice skewered her straw hat to her head. "Certainly. After all, it's not as if you
ever met Father Moran." Her gaze, meeting his in the hallway mirror, pierced
him.

Maria clucked her tongue at the sight of a gap between Alice's buttons. "Mrs.
R., if you didn't have time to alter that old dress, you could have asked me to."

Alice pulled the coat tight. "I didn't want to trouble you."

Holding the screen door open, Maria grumbled, "I keep telling you it's no
trouble--"

Then they were gone. He was fiercely glad when the noise of the Model-T's
engine receded in the distance. Siegfried went to the phone in the alcove under
the stairs. His hands shaking with nerves, he cranked the phone, and asked
Florine Lynch, the night operator, to connect him to Samuele Sebastiani. It was his
first chance to use the 'phone alone since crush had started, because Alice was
always near it.

On the third ring, Mr. Sebastiani answered in his Italian accent. "Yes? I am late
to the Rosary. What can I do for you, Mr. Rodernwiller?"

"You know what fine grapes we grow here at Montclair," Siegfried began,
breathlessness robbing his voice of any power. "Might you need some white wine
in the near future? I have five thousand gallons each of very promising White
Riesling and Sylvaner, with ten thousand gallons of Traminer--"

"I wish you had called me earlier this summer!" Sebastiani interrupted,
regretfully. "I just bought all the crop of white wine from your neighbor, Carl Dresel.
And Montclair always had such fine Sylvaner, too. What a shame! I'm so sorry I
can't help you. Have you tried Wente Brothers or Concannon in Livermore?"

"I shall 'phone them tomorrow. Thank you for the suggestion." Siegfried's
stomach turned over. Something cold and heavy had settled in it.

"Good bye! I must go--See you at the Rosary!" He rang off.

Siegfried stumbled outside to the porch. The cool breeze blowing in from the
Pacific was fresh. He inhaled deeply, trying partly to calm his driving pulse, and
partly to exhale his despair.
God, why did you let me live through the
War?

His wine would not be ready for its first tasting until the middle of November,
but Siegfried felt an imperative need to go to the winery to check on its
progress.

Inside the building, he was momentarily taken out of himself, overpowered by
the fruit and yeast scent of fermenting wine. He stepped carefully over a large
puddle on the concrete floor, which was damp from being hosed down before
dinner, and climbed a ladder to one of the vats.

He hung his head, gripping the legs of the ladder, suspended ten feet above
the hard floor, mesmerized by the slow rolling boil of the fermenting must, so
agitated it sounded as if a hive of bees was caught in the vat. The miracle in
motion, work of his hands. Sweet water transforming itself into wine.

He watched it for a long time, fatigue settling over him like a warm, heavy
blanket. Sebastiani had been his last hope. He would have to tell Alice the truth
about their situation when she returned from the Rosary.

When the rattle of the Model-T echoed up the hill, he climbed down the ladder.
But he didn't return to the house. He sat down on the wet floor, his back against
the slightly vibrating bulk of the giant redwood tank, and closed his eyes. He'd get
up in a minute. He just wanted to feel his child kicking...

The sharp scent of something burning woke him. Siegfried opened his eyes in
alarm. Was one of the brandy stills being used?

He ran up the stairs to his grandfather's room and unlocked the door. At first, it
seemed as if nothing but the ladder was missing. There was the heavy desk, the
green leather chair, the small still on the corner of the table. Then he saw: the spot
under the missing ladder was also empty. The large still was gone.

He cursed. Only two other people at Montclair had keys to this room.

He picked up the scent of smoke again as he came downstairs. He tracked its
source slowly around the inside perimeter of the building, and found it strongest by
the door leading into the wine cave. He followed the smell of burning wood, spirits,
and pungent fermenting fruit down the dark tunnel, until the faint yellow glow of a
kerosene lamp appeared up ahead.

He paused behind a pyramid of stacked barrels and peeked around the
edge.

Peter sat on a low wooden stool in the alcove at the end of the tunnel, nursing
a fire under the pot of the still. Crates filled high with oozing mounds of pomace--
the discarded crushed grape skins--competed for space with dozens of oak barrels
bearing a red chalk "X." Siegfried's jaw tightened. Now he knew why Peter had
volunteered last month to dispose of all the discarded cooperage.

The stink of fermenting pomace was augmented by the steel-sharp reek of
pure grape spirits leaking from several of the old barrels. A case of green wine
bottles, four of them filled with liquid and corked, sat by Peter's feet. Whistling
tunelessly, he began to fill a fifth bottle with clear liquor.

Siegfried's face heated, and his temples throbbed. The fool--had he really
thought his activities would escape unnoticed? "What are you doing?" he barked,
stepping into the light.

"What the hell--?" Peter sprang up, startled, kicking back his stool and
knocking over the green bottle. As liquid gushed, a metal funnel rolled free,
clattering on the limestone floor. "Jesus Christ, Sig, you scared the daylights out of
me!" He twisted a small spigot, turning off the flow.

"What are you doing?" Siegfried repeated.

"Making
grappa
," Peter replied, trying unsuccessfully to match
Siegfried's cool tone. "Like I always do. Your grandpa gave my father permission
to use the pomace any way he wanted, and Alice never said contrary."

"And did you tell her what you were doing?" Siegfried gritted. "I think not."

"Tell her?" Peter gave a short, derisive laugh. "Now there's the pot calling the
kettle black!"

"So, you were going to sell it, and pocket the money," Siegfried growled,
suppressing the urge to overset the still and throttle his boyhood friend.

Peter put one hand on his hip and gave a derisive sigh. "You're going to lose
Montclair, Sig. I'm just trying to salvage what I can, before Maria and I have to look
for a new place."

Siegfried reached out and grabbed the front of Peter's shirt. "It is illegal, what
you are doing! With your greed, you are endangering us all!"

Peter shoved violently at Siegfried. "Let go of me, you Kraut bastard.
Everything around here was fine until
you
showed up."

Siegfried regained his footing and clenched his fists.

"So, what now? Are you going to try and beat the tar out of me?" Peter
taunted.

"No." Siegfried pointed towards the exit, damping down his anger. "I am
dismissing you. You have until tomorrow morning to vacate the foreman's cottage.
Go."

* * *

When she returned from the Rosary with Maria, Alice went to her office,
although she didn't want to look at her ledgers tonight. Instead, she scribbled
speculative sums on sheets of paper. If La Fontaine paid them only ten cents a
gallon for their 52,000 gallons of white and red wine, that would be enough to keep
Montclair running until next year's harvest. If he paid twenty cents a gallon...

She straightened up as a little cramp--more of a flutter, really--in her abdomen
reminded her that she would need a nursery soon. Would there be enough money
for a cradle?

She rubbed her tummy, barely rounded yet. She didn't want her child to grow
up having a mother and father bitterly at odds with one another. That pain was too
familiar.