Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel

by Jannifer Chiaverini

  But then a spark of defiance would flare up and she would think, well, why couldn’t she? Certainly not yet, and perhaps not for a long while, but why couldn’t she try her hand at winemaking? The law permitted households to make up to two hundred gallons for the family’s personal use, and she wouldn’t want to make even that much, since Lars wouldn’t drink it. Perhaps someday, if she had a few acres to call her own and Prohibition ended and if her vintages were good enough, she could even open her own winery to the public.

  But those dreams, as far off into the future as they were, bound her and the children to the northern California wine country. But Lars didn’t need to stay—and shouldn’t stay—now that their photo had been plastered on the fifth page of the San Francisco Examiner and reprinted in an unknowable number of other papers across the country.

  She told him so one night after the children had gone to bed, as they sat on the front porch talking and listening to the creek and the wind in the oaks.

  “You’re free to go your own way,” she said quietly, cupping her half-empty wineglass in her hands. “You probably should.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Lars mildly. “How could I not be, considering how often you tell me so?”

  “It’s dangerous for you to stay with us. It always was, but it’s even more so now that our picture was in the paper. What if John’s gangster friends see it?”

  “What are the odds that they will?”

  “I’d rather not gamble that they won’t,” Rosa retorted, frustrated by his inability or unwillingness to recognize the danger. “Not when your life is at stake.”

  “Some rather unpleasant folks are looking for you too, but you’re staying put.”

  “The only people who want to find me are John and the Arboles Valley police. John’s locked up and it’ll be years before I have to worry about him showing up around here. The police want me for questioning, nothing more, and they think I’m dead. The people looking for you want to kill you—” Rosa choked up, composed herself, and pressed on. “I couldn’t bear that.”

  “Rosa.” Lars sighed, took the wineglass from her, set it on the floor, and took her hands in his. “They aren’t going to kill me. They aren’t even going to find me. Anyway, you’re the one who took their money. You’re in just as much danger as I am. Either we all leave, or we all stay, but we’re going to do it together—you, me, and the children.”

  The children. Of course. They were the link that bound Lars to her. “I know you can’t bear the thought of leaving the children unprotected. You have to believe I’ll keep them safe.”

  “I know you will,” he said, his brow furrowing. As many times as she had reminded him that he was not bound to them, she had never pressed him so urgently, and she knew he didn’t like it. “But you won’t have to bear that responsibility alone. I’m not going anywhere, Rosa, not without you and the children.”

  “Be practical, Lars. You ought to think of your own safety.”

  “I’m their father. It’s my duty to think of their safety before my own.”

  “You’re Marta and Lupita’s father.”

  He studied her, incredulous. “Do you really think I care any less for Ana and Miguel?”

  “I—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I know you’d miss them—all four of them—and they’d miss you too. I know you love them—”

  “Rosa, I love you,” he broke in. “Yes, I love the children, but I also love you. If we had no children, I would still love you, and I would still stay with you. I’m where I want to be—with you. Don’t you realize that by now?”

  “I—you loved me once, long ago, but—”

  “I love you still,” he said firmly, tightening his grip around her hands. “That hasn’t changed. Come on, Rosa. You’ve always been the smartest girl in school. Think about it. Do you really think I’ve stayed out of obligation or out of love for the children but not because I also love you?”

  As he spoke, Rosa tried to blink away her gathering tears. “I can’t divorce John,” she choked out. “I would if I could, but the moment I file the papers he would know where we are. Everyone would know who we are. It’s too great a risk.”

  “I know that, Rosa.” Lars stroked her hair away from her face and caressed her cheek. “I know you’re married. I know you can’t marry me. I love you anyway. That’s not going to change. I’m going to love you, cherish you, honor you, and be faithful to you as long as I live. Maybe I won’t ever be able to make those vows standing beside you before a priest or a justice of the peace, but that doesn’t mean I consider them any less true.”

  “It’s too much. I can’t ask that of you.”

  “That’s fine, since you didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.”

  “But it’s not right for you to promise me so much when I have so little to offer you in return.”

  He studied her for a moment, searching her face for the secrets of her heart. “Are you really going to sit there, look me in the eye, tell me you don’t love me, and expect me to believe it?”

  “I do love you,” she said, her voice an ache in her throat. She should have told him sooner or not at all. “Of course I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

  “Then what’s all this nonsense about having nothing to offer me?” He looked pained, bewildered. “Your love is everything to me, Rosa. Of all the things I’ve lost in my life, your love is the only one I know I can’t live without.” He glanced away, cleared his throat. “I’m staying, Rosa. Stop telling me I should leave you.”

  She choked out a laugh. “That never works anyway,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Every time I tell you to go away, you always come back.”

  “And I always will,” he said, “but just the same, I’d prefer it if you’d stop asking.”

  She laughed again and agreed, nodding and wiping the tears from her eyes. Then his arms were around her and his lips were touching hers, and she knew that whatever dangers lay ahead, they would face them together.

  Two weeks after Dante’s sentencing, Giuditta asked Rosa and Lars to join the Cacchiones for supper. Dante’s absence cast a pall over the gathering, but the meal was excellent as always, the roast chicken and tender pasta and vegetables fresh from the garden as full of flavor as the wine Giuditta poured. Afterward, the younger children ran off to play tag, in the vineyard while their elders lingered at the table, refilling their glasses—all except Lars, who abstained despite the teasing and cajoling of his hostess. They savored the vintage wistfully, for when it was gone, they might not make any new wine to replace it. It was risky enough to steal away to the old wine cellar and retrieve a cask for the family’s use, never knowing who might be observing them through binoculars from a distant hill or when Crowell might suddenly appear for an impromptu inspection. When harvest came, they could not risk a crush. They would have to sell the entire crop as wine grapes, or try to, praying that the market would not be saturated that autumn, that their carloads would be unloaded immediately upon arrival at the train station in New York, and that they would avoid the multitude of other hazards that might befall them—frost, insects, hail, flood, drought.

  But when Giuditta sighed, rested her elbows on the table, and regarded each of them steadily and with new fire in her gaze, Rosa knew she had no intention of relying upon wine grape sales alone. “Thanks to the Del Benes, and to all our friends who threw money into their hat, we’re able to pay your father’s fine,” she said, looking at her children but then including Rosa and Lars with a nod. “However, we have nothing left over to see us through the harvest.”

  “We can still sell prunes, walnuts, and lunches to passing tourists as we always have,” said Mabel, shifting baby Sophia on her lap. “We can add eggs and plum preserves to the list too, and instead of waiting for customers to come to us, we can sell to some of the markets in Santa Rosa. If we economize, we’ll be all right.”

  “What about selling those twenty acres we talked about?” Dominic asked his mother. “The timber alon
e would fetch us a good price.”

  “No, son,” said Giuditta, shaking her head. “We’ve discussed this, and I haven’t changed my mind. I won’t sell any of the Cacchione family land except as a last resort. Your father entrusted Cacchione Vineyards to us while he’s away, and when he comes home, I want him to find it whole and thriving.” She made it sound as if her husband were merely away on a long but necessary journey from which he would soon return. “The old wine cellar is still full of wonderful vintages, but they won’t stay wonderful forever. We can’t wait. We have to sell it now before it turns, while we still can.”

  Stunned, Rosa sat back in her chair as Mabel and Francesca exclaimed in astonishment. Dominic said nothing, but a muscle worked in his jaw as if he had been expecting and dreading his mother’s announcement. Vince leaned forward, his face alight with eager determination, and said, “Now you’re talking.”

  “How can you suggest such a thing after all we’ve been through?” protested Mabel. Startled, baby Sophia whimpered on her lap. Mabel patted her soothingly and added in a gentler voice, “That Crowell wretch is watching us every moment. We’ll get caught, and we’ll join Papa Dante in prison.”

  “Not every moment,” said Francesca, although she looked apprehensive. “He spends a lot of time over at the Del Bene place pestering poor Alegra.”

  “Crowell has never come out our way before ten o’clock in the morning,” said Giuditta. “I can’t imagine he’ll suddenly start showing up before dawn. We can have the truck loaded and ready to go well before then, as we always have. He’ll never know.”

  “There are other Prohibition agents and police out there who keep earlier hours,” Dominic reminded her, “and other dangerous fellows on the roads between here and the ferry to San Francisco.”

  “I’m in,” declared Vince. “I can make three deliveries a week if you need me to, Ma, and I can start first thing tomorrow. Our customers might need a bit of sweet talking at first, since we left them in the lurch.”

  “They ought to understand that wasn’t our doing,” said Dominic. “We didn’t have any warning ourselves. We should have. We’ve paid enough in bribes.”

  Giuditta nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “Vince is right. It’s been a few weeks, and most of our customers have probably found other suppliers for the meantime, but they surely read the papers and know what’s been happening here. Our wines should win them back, but if that fails, knock something off the price to sweeten the deal. Not too much, mind you. We need to sell as much of our wine as we can, as soon as possible. I want every barrel in the old wine cellar empty by winter.”

  “I can’t believe we’re even considering this,” said Mabel, shaking her head.

  “We don’t have any choice,” Giuditta countered. “It’s sell the wine or sell the land, and I’ll be damned if I’ll sell a single acre without your father here to tell me that’s what he wants.”

  “We’ll sell all the wine, and we won’t hold anything back,” declared Vince. “We’ll make a bundle and be done with bootlegging once and for all.”

  Mabel sharply glanced his way, and then looked to Giuditta. “Is that true? After we sell all the wine, we can get out of the bootlegging business once and for all?”

  Giuditta smiled sadly. “Once we sell all our wine, we’ll have no more to sell, will we?”

  “You should still crush grapes this fall,” Rosa broke in. “Forgive me. I realize this is a family matter, but shouldn’t you make at least a small amount of new wine? Or hold back some of your younger vintages just in case?”

  “In case of what?” asked Vince.

  “In case Prohibition is repealed.” Rosa looked around the table and noted the range of expression from thoughtfulness to incredulity. “It could happen, and you ought to be prepared.”

  “Our license to store wine was revoked,” Giuditta reminded her. “If Crowell or any of his ilk discovers more than two hundred gallons of alcohol on our property, we’ll be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Dante’s case generated too much notoriety. No judge would show mercy for a second offense from the infamous Cacchione family.”

  “Then make two hundred gallons and not a pint more.”

  “I realize that sounds like a lot of wine,” said Dominic, “and it is, for a single family’s household use, but that’s not nearly enough to keep a winery in business.”

  “Two hundred gallons is better than no wine at all,” Rosa persisted. “The day Prohibition is repealed, customers will come from miles around to buy every drop of wine you have in your cellar. But that’s only if you have wine to sell. You’ll earn exactly nothing from every barrel of wine you decide not to make.”

  “She’s right,” said Vince. “We should keep back two hundred gallons of the vintages that’ll age well and sell everything else. That way we’ll be prepared.”

  “We should clear that cellar of every barrel, cask, and growler and not even think about replenishing them until it’s legal to do so,” Mabel countered. “And that day may never come. As long as there’s a Republican president in the White House, Prohibition will be the law of the land, no matter how many families it bankrupts, no matter how many gangsters it enriches. They don’t care what happens to people like us, as long as they get their share.”

  “Let’s all take a deep breath,” advised Dominic. “In the end, it’s Ma’s decision, and we’ll abide by what she says.”

  “No, that’s not how I want this to be,” said Giuditta. “If we do sell our wine, we’ll all take on the risks involved, so we should all share in the decision. That’s why I’ve included you in this discussion, Nils and Rose, for all that Rose insists that it’s a family matter.”

  “Well, you all know how I feel,” said Mabel wearily. “I think we should sell all the wine and be finished with bootlegging once and for all. We shouldn’t crush this fall or make any new wine until and unless it’s legal to do so. We can still grow and sell wine grapes. We still have prunes and walnuts, and in a few years we’ll have apricots. That will have to be enough.”

  “Even if we’re tightfisted, that probably won’t be enough,” said Vince. “The feds don’t know about the old wine cellar and they don’t ever have to find out. We should go on as we have been—except no more selling glasses of wine to passing tourists, Ma. We’ll sell to the hotels and speakeasies in San Francisco and nowhere else. As for new wine, I think we should make all we want. No two-hundred-gallon limit for me. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.”

  “Better not to be hanged at all,” said Francesca with a shudder. “I think we should keep all the wine in the old cellar locked up good and tight, and not crush this fall. I don’t think Pa would want any of us to join him in prison.”

  “We won’t get caught,” scoffed Vince.

  “Ma got caught.”

  “We won’t repeat her mistakes.”

  “No, we’ll make fresh new ones, especially now that the police are watching us more closely than ever.”

  “Children, please,” said Giuditta. “Don’t bicker.”

  “What do you think, Nils?” asked Dominic.

  Lars folded his arms across his chest, weighing his words carefully. “I think you should keep two hundred gallons of the vintages that will age well, so that you’ll have inventory on hand to sell should Prohibition end. Dump the rest of the wine and make no more.”

  “Dump it?” exclaimed Rosa. “Think of all the years of hard work and time and patience that wine represents. How would your family feel if apricots were suddenly declared illegal and Crowell and his men emptied out your drying sheds and ordered you not to grow any more? Would you cut down every apricot tree on the Jorgensen ranch?”

  Abruptly she fell silent, realizing she had said too much even before Lars shot her a warning look. “Apricots are not wine, and it’s a fallacy to compare the two,” he said. “I’m not suggesting the Cacchiones should uproot their grapevines. They can still grow and sell wine grapes. Anything else is too risky conside
ring they’re known bootleggers.”

  “Find me a grape grower in all of Sonoma County who isn’t a bootlegger,” said Vince.

  “The Del Benes and the Vanellis, just to name two,” said Francesca. “We should take a page from their book. How do they get by?”

  “With the help of a sacramental wine permit in one case and table grapes in the other,” said Dominic. “We don’t have those options.”

  The debate wore on until late in the evening, when everyone ran out of arguments and Giuditta said that she would sleep on it and let them know her decision in the morning. It seemed to Rosa that everyone left the table worried and dissatisfied in varying degrees. There was, simply, no perfect resolution for the problems they faced, and any path they chose would lead them through hazardous terrain.

  For her part, Rosa remained incredulous that Lars thought the Cacchiones ought to dump their precious stores of wine, but she shared his belief that it would be dangerous and imprudent to resume bootlegging. Rosa thought they should instead keep the old wine cellar well stocked with their best vintages, dumping wine under the cover of night only if it turned. They could make two hundred gallons of new wine each year, remaining within the legal limit, and as they emptied barrels taken from the old wine cellar, they could replace them with the new vintages stored in the winery. That way they would continue to replenish their hidden stores as older vintages failed, but an outside observer would never find more than the legally permitted amount of wine in their main cellars. When Rosa suggested this to Giuditta, however, Lars pointed out that her plan depended upon the old wine cellar remaining a carefully guarded secret. If Crowell or another agent strolled merely a few paces beyond the yard, he would stumble upon the footpath that would lead straight to the old wine cellar. The Cacchiones were fortunate that it had escaped notice thus far, but Lars doubted their luck would hold. If and when the old wine cellar was discovered, it must hold no more than two hundred gallons of wine, or the Cacchiones would be undone.