Sweeter Than Wine (8 page)

At the end of the hallway a screened door led out to the porch. A wraith of
wind bore scents from the vegetable garden. A wide, finely molded archway
opened between the hall and the kitchen. In the afternoon light, buttercup-yellow
cupboards and crystal knobs brightened the room. Copper-bottomed pans hung
like shields over the modern, spindly-legged stove. Gray icebox by the stove, plain
table along the hall wall, cupboard toward the dining room--Alice had not changed
a thing. Joy surged up in him.

This house had escaped the War unscathed.

In the pantry, Siegfried lowered the coffee sack next to a nearly depleted twin
sagging in a corner. He spent a moment worshipping the bounty stored in the
closet-like chamber with its clean linoleum floor and tiled counters. Mason jars on
the shelves gleamed with peaches, plums, apricots, raspberries, tomatoes,
pickles, and carrots like polished gems. Jars of dark honey glowed like a king's
ransom in Baltic amber. The spicy perfume of cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and
nutmeg wafted from small ceramic bins fastened to the wall above bulging sacks
of sugar, rice, and potatoes.

His stomach growled, reminding him of the long hours since the sandwich
eaten on the ferry from San Francisco. Siegfried forced himself to leave the pantry
and go back outside to finish unloading the remainder of Alice's supplies from the
truck.

But before he picked up the next sack, the breeze brought a faint, heady whiff
of wine and oak from the square stone building about a hundred feet up the
hill.

Tati had said Alice had nearly ruined Montclair, but he had seen no sign of that
yet. Perhaps his grandmother had been mistaken.

On his next trip past the kitchen, he saw that Alice had tied on a large apron.
Steam was beginning to rise from a pot of water on the gas stove. Thick pale-ivory
quarters of peeled potato tumbled into a bowl after each definitive thunk of her
broad-bladed knife against the cutting board.

"Peter and his wife Maria--our cook--are away at a family wedding, but I think I
can manage supper for the two of us," Alice said. "It's the least I can do for making
you work before dinner."

"Work? This is nothing," Siegfried assured her, depositing his burden in the
pantry. He made two more trips out to the truck to fetch the remaining items and
his valise, which he set at the foot of the stairs.

When he returned to the kitchen, the potatoes were boiling and a wooden bowl
filled with bright green asparagus sat next to the stove. He felt a rush of
homesickness. Asparagus in Alsace was white, but he wasn't in Alsace anymore.
He set down the last armful of Alice's purchases and looked for her.

She was in the adjoining dining room, positioning plain white dishes and
ornate silverware on a spotless tablecloth. A cluster of heavy-headed pink roses in
a crystal vase at the center of the table filled the room with fragrance. Siegfried
stood by the swinging door, just watching.

He remembered how his mother had loved her rosebushes. In the summer
months, every vase and bowl in their house had overflowed with pink, white, red,
and yellow blossoms. He wondered if Rodernwiller's new owners would take
proper care of the gardens, and if the rosebushes would bloom for them with the
same abundance.

The thought gave him a chill, raising prickles between his shoulder blades. He
shrugged uncomfortably. It did no good to dwell on something now forever beyond
his reach.

"Oh," said Alice, hastily putting down the linen napkin she had been folding. "I
didn't see you."

"I did not mean to startle you." Siegfried apologized, hoping she would speak
more. Her voice was like good cognac: smooth as velvet or honey, with a bite of
spirit underneath.

"Let me show you to your room," Alice offered after an awkward moment.
"Dinner will be ready in a half-hour or so, and I'm sure that you would like a
chance to wash up and unpack your things."

Alice led Siegfried up the carpeted staircase and opened the third door down
from the landing. "This will be your bedroom. I hope that it's to your liking--if there
is anything you need, please let me know."

Her tone and manner were those of a hostess to a guest, not of a wife with her
husband. When Siegfried smiled at her, his split lip smarted. He hoped that she
would not hold the unfortunate circumstance of the fight against him. He had only
been defending himself, after all.

As Alice preceded him, drawing back the drapes and opening the window to
let in the freshening late afternoon breeze, Siegfried stepped into the guest
bedroom. He had slept here during his apprenticeship with Opa Roye, and the
room looked just the same.

It was furnished with a heavy walnut wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a
writing table with chair. A narrow stencil of roses marched around the walls just
under the plaster moldings, matching the dark-green rug patterned with pink
cabbage roses. Near the window, an armchair upholstered in dark green leather
overlooked the vineyards.

No, there was one difference. The old gaslight hanging from the ceiling had
been transformed into an electric chandelier, and a small electric lamp stood on a
night table next to the walnut bedstead.

The bed, plump with goosedown pillows and a quilted comforter, looked like
heaven to a man accustomed to the bedroll of a soldier. "This will do
wonderfully."

"I couldn't make you sleep in a wine barrel," she said, roses blooming in her
cheeks. She backed away, smoothing down the front of her apron, and left him in
possession of his new quarters.

Dropping his valise onto the bed, Siegfried removed his jacket and hung it
precisely in the empty wardrobe. He extracted his shaving kit, then rolled up his
shirtsleeves and walked down the hall to wash his bruised face and hands with
soap and warm water. Drawing a wet comb through his hair, he scowled at the
face in the mirror. He must appear the perfect villain to Bill's pretty little widow. He
would have to work very hard to change her impression of him.

He returned to his bedroom and unpacked his few belongings--underclothes,
socks, some clean shirts, an extra suit cut down from one of Opa Roye's, and two
pairs of work trousers--no, jeans, he corrected himself--that Oma Tati had bought
him from Levi-Strauss.

The last item he took from the valise was a photograph. He set it down on the
night table, and twisted his father's gold signet ring around on his finger as he
studied it. Taken just before the War started, Mother, Father, Tante Hilde, Ernst,
and a painfully young Siegfried sat formally posed among the leafy vines and fat
grape clusters of midsummer. Despite the warm sun, all of them were dressed in
their best dark clothes. He remembered the heavy heat and the naive resentment
he had felt at the prospect of returning to classes in Heidelberg that fall.

Now, of all the people in the portrait, Siegfried and Tante Hilde were the only
survivors. He had a chance for a new life if he could convince Alice to forgo her
plans for an annulment. He would make a new life for himself at Montclair.

As he stored the empty valise in the wardrobe, the divine scent of broiling
meat drifted up the stairs, redolent with the promise of tender brown flesh and rich
drippings. The smell brought a rush of juices to his mouth. Oma Tati's charity
meals had failed to take the edge off his hunger, but here at Montclair, he would
be expected to work for his supper. He could eat his fill with a good
conscience.

After what seemed eternity, he heard Alice's voice calling him to dinner. He
came down before the echoes of her voice died, and was greeted by an angelic
vision: a beautiful woman presiding at a bountiful table. There were platters and
bowls of cooked food, as well as a silver filigree basket with a loaf of sourdough
bread, a ceramic crock mounded with butter, and a crystal decanter of garnet-red
wine.

Alice took in his rapturous expression. "Good. You're hungry. Please sit down
and eat."

He pulled out her chair for her. "This looks delicious," he said. Was he so
transparently famished? He must try not to look too eager.

As she sat, a bit stiffly, he lifted the decanter and filled first her glass, then his
own. The wine had good legs. It might be potent, or sweet. He mustn't drink it too
fast on an empty stomach. He needed a clear head.

He moved to his chair at what he hoped was an unhurried pace, and sat down,
dropping his napkin to his lap with painstaking correctness. He raised his
wineglass to her. "To the hospitality of a generous hostess," he saluted, then took
a sip. Instantly, he regretted it. There was a faint but distinct hint of mercaptan in
the bouquet of the Cabernet Sauvignon, and the finish proved it, bitter and
astringent.

He sniffed the wine incredulously. Montclair Cabernet--mellow flavors of oak
and blackberry, overlaid by a hint of vanilla--sullied by the unmistakable odor of
poultry manure? God, yes. It was definitely there, the most grievous of winemaking
sins. He studied Alice, wondering if she had noticed at all.

She was swirling the wine gently in her glass and breathing deeply. A tiny
frown marred the serenity of her expression.

"Bill made this, yes?" Siegfried inquired, not needing to ask.

"This was his last vintage," Alice answered. "He was so proud of it. I don't--that
is, do you smell...something odd?"

"Too much hydrogen sulfide."

"Ah," said Alice, as if that explained all, and went a long way toward repairing
the fault. She took a sip, and instantly grimaced. "I can't understand it!" she
exclaimed. "I remember when he bottled this; it was a little tannic then, but nothing
like..."

Siegfried ran through the possibilities in his mind. "Which sort of fungicide are
you using?"

"Bordeaux mixture."

"So it wasn't for lack of copper on the grapes," Siegfried mused, half to
himself. "Did Bill change the brass piping?"

"No," she said uncertainly.

"Then he used too much sulfur while disinfecting the barrels, although I am
surprised that Signor Verdacchia overlooked it."

Alice shook her head. "Bill insisted on doing everything his own way that year.
He tried to get Mr. Verdacchia to retire." Remoteness overtook her. "I'm so sorry. I
want you to enjoy your meal. Let me find something else." She stood up before he
could speak, and headed for the kitchen.

Siegfried knew he ought to wait for her to return and say grace, but he could
not allow this magnificent food to grow cold. He served himself a portion of the
beefsteak and potatoes, then took a generous serving of the asparagus. He closed
his eyes in ecstasy as he chewed the first, tender bite of steak, its salty liqueur
banishing the foul taste of Bill's wine. The sourdough bread was fresh and crusty,
the butter smooth and sweet as a benediction, and the asparagus, although the
wrong color, was superbly tender.

* * *

Alice watched Siegfried from the shadows of the kitchen, noting the
determined set of his mouth, his dark blue eyes--so serious, not like Bill's eyes at
all, although Siegfried's hair was the same shade, gold as summer grass. She
wasn't sure what to make of him. He seemed very gentlemanly and certainly eager
to help her. But the afternoon's events had left her wary. Was he like some men
she had known, hard-working and industrious during the week, hard-drinking hell-
raisers on the weekend? Time would tell.

In the meanwhile, she needed a minute--at least--to recover her composure
and allow a wave of disconcerting sympathy to ebb. Tati's fears for her grandson's
future had become horrifyingly real. He had been starving.

She recollected herself, got fresh glasses, and opened a new bottle of
Cabernet from a different vintage. As Siegfried poured, she served herself a
modest portion of steak and potatoes, and then passed Siegfried the platter for a
second helping. He accepted it with a grateful smile.

When he finished eating, he laid his cutlery across a polished plate and poured
them both another glass of wine. He savored it, then set the empty glass down.
"Thank you. That was the finest meal I have ever eaten."

"You're welcome." She couldn't help adding a light rejoinder. "I'm glad you
enjoyed it. But wait until you've tasted Maria's cooking."

"I am sure I will not enjoy it half as much. Your mother taught you well." His
face was rosy now from the effects of food and wine.

Alice's heart began to pound heavily. Her chest became a reverberating drum,
and her temples throbbed with the force of her pulse. Had Tati told him after
all?

"She must be very proud of you." Siegfried continued, busily pouring himself a
third glass, and indifferent to her fear. "More wine?"

Alice released the fold of skirt she had been clenching. It was just an innocent
remark. She hastily changed the subject. "I hope you left room for dessert."

"Dessert," he echoed. "With coffee? Port?" He sounded like a child offered his
choice of the presents under a Christmas tree.

It was a good thing to know: if the subject of her mother came up again, his
attention could be easily diverted by food. She smiled deliberately: "Both. If you
like."

He nodded eagerly, then rose to help her clear the table. Alice quelled her
momentary gratitude. Siegfried was obviously just trying to make a good
impression.

But I like it
, whispered a traitorous little voice. Bill had never shown the
least inclination to help her. On Maria's days off, he used to sit talking through the
open doorway while Alice washed up by herself.

Brusquely, Alice directed Siegfried to place a glass bowl under the spout of the
brass and walnut grinder fastened to the counter edge. While a kettle of water
heated, Alice scooped coffee beans and Siegfried turned the long crank, watching
with deep concentration as the dark grains rained down.

Fetching a pitcher of cream from the icebox, Alice poured some into a creamer
and the rest into a large bowl, adding a teaspoon of vanilla extract and several
spoons of sugar. As she spun the handle of the eggbeater and whipped the cream
into froth, she studied Siegfried.