Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel

by Jannifer Chiaverini

  The next morning, Giuditta waited for Lars and Rosa to arrive before announcing her decision. She intended to resume deliveries to San Francisco, selling as much wine as they could as quickly as possible, reserving only the finer vintages whose quality would improve rather than diminish with a few more years to age. As for the autumn crush, Giuditta would discuss their options with Dante the next time she visited him and defer her final decision until a few weeks before harvest. Considering how their shipment of wine grapes had been allowed to rot in a train car parked at the station the previous year, she was reluctant to rely too much upon those estimated profits and would prefer to make new wine.

  Later, when Rosa and Lars could discuss matters privately, they discovered that they had both reached the same conclusion: They sympathized with the Cacchiones, but bootlegging obliged them to venture into the same circles as the police and the mob, the very people whose attention Rosa and Lars dared not draw. The longer they remained at Cacchione Vineyards, the more likely they were to cross paths with someone who could connect Nils and Rose Ottesen with Lars Jorgensen and Rosa Diaz Barclay.

  Then, two days after Dominic and Vince resumed their deliveries to the city, a letter arrived at the vineyard addressed to Rosa Barclay in care of Giuditta Cacchione. When Giuditta showed it to her over their morning coffee, Rosa went cold. “That ‘E’ looks like an ‘A,’ but the name could be Rose,” Giuditta said, puzzling over the words scrawled on the outside of the envelope. Rosa did not recognize the block printing, but one glimpse of the Ventura County postmark sent shock and fear coursing through her veins. “But ‘Barclay’? Does this mean anything to you, Rose?”

  “Barclay is my maiden name,” said Rosa faintly, taking the envelope and tucking it quickly into her pocket. It was all she could do to sip her coffee and discuss the day’s work with Giuditta, Francesca, and the others rather than bolting from the kitchen and tearing open the envelope where no one could observe her—or compulsively flinging it unread into the fire.

  It was midmorning before she could slip away unnoticed to the barn, where she opened the envelope and found a newspaper clipping within. Even before she unfolded it she knew it would show the photo taken behind the Cacchione residence on the day of the raid.

  Scrawled beneath the image in pencil, written with such force that the strokes sharply embossed the newsprint and almost tore it, were the words, “Damn you both to hell.”

  John had not signed the note, but she recognized his handwriting, and even if she had not, no one else hated her and Lars enough to have sent that message.

  Her stomach lurched. She staggered away from the barn, fell to her hands and knees, and vomited into the bunchgrass and yarrow. Head spinning, she sat down hard and fought to catch her breath. John had found them. He could not reach them, but he knew where they were, and he could tell anyone—the police, his gangster friends, anyone.

  She was not sure how long she sat there, dazed and reeling, before she heard someone shouting her name. She pushed herself to her feet, brushed dirt and grass from her dress, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and walked unsteadily around the barn. She found Giuditta and Francesca standing in the yard, shading their eyes with their hands and calling for her. Francesca saw her first and touched her mother’s arm, and then they hurried toward her. “Rose!” exclaimed Giuditta. “You’re as white as a sheet! Are you ill?”

  The sun seemed unnaturally harsh and bright, the air still and stifling. “I—I’m not feeling well.”

  “You should go home at once and lie down. Francesca, walk her back to the cabin.”

  Francesca nodded, but Rosa gestured feebly toward the house. “I have to fetch the children—”

  “They’ll be fine here until the end of the day,” Giuditta said firmly, studying her with concern, her brows drawn together over her dark eyes. “They’re all playing so nicely together and Mabel’s keeping an eye on everyone. Nils can bring them home when he’s done for the day. I’ll send him with a bit of supper so you don’t need to fix anything.”

  Tears sprang into Rosa’s eyes. “You’re too kind.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just the right amount of kind.” Giuditta smiled briefly and shooed Francesca forward. Francesca took Rosa’s arm, and Rosa, still dizzy, leaned on her as they walked slowly through the vineyard to the cabin, a blessedly cool sanctuary in the shade of the oak and walnut trees. How much longer would it remain their safe haven?

  When Francesca left her at the cabin door, Rosa slipped inside and lay down on the sofa that doubled as Lars’s bed. Her last thought before she sank into a restless doze halfway between sleeping and waking was that she wished she were bold enough to ask him to share her bed. What a comfort it would be to feel safe in his arms once again, to feel less alone, when night came and fear and worry enveloped her.

  “Rosa?”

  She opened her eyes to find the cabin dim and Lars kneeling beside the sofa, alone, gazing down at her with urgent concern. Distantly she heard the children shushing one another on the front porch.

  “Rosa,” Lars said again, gently brushing a lock of dark hair out of her face. “Giuditta said you were ill. What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep, shaky breath, sat up, and took the envelope from her pocket. He opened it warily, his face darkening as he read the scrawled curse, its every word sharp with hatred. “He’s still behind bars,” Lars said tightly, as he returned the clipping to the envelope and slipped it into his pocket. It was a relief to have it away from her, out of sight.

  “But he knows where we are,” said Rosa.

  “We’ll have to move on.”

  Her heart sank, although she had reached the same unhappy, inevitable conclusion. “Where will we go?”

  Lars shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know. We were planning to leave Cacchione Vineyards anyway. It’s too dangerous for us here.”

  She nodded, drawing her knees up to her chest and gazing around the cabin, missing it already. “We’ve been happy here. I hate to leave.”

  “Me too.” Lars hesitated. “Maybe we don’t have to go far, just far enough to throw him off the trail, John and anyone he might send after us.”

  She shuddered, imagining dark-suited men pursuing them, fedoras pulled low over their eyes, tommy guns held at the ready. “In other words, as far away as we can go, as fast and as soon as we can.”

  He placed a hand on her leg as if he thought she might bolt from the sofa and start throwing clothing into suitcases. “Not necessarily, and we aren’t going to run off without a plan. We need to think this through.”

  “We’ll need to think quickly,” she told him, as the door burst open and the children rushed in, breathless and sweetly concerned for Rosa’s health and hungry for the supper Giuditta had packed in the basket Marta carried.

  More bad news awaited them when they arrived at the Cacchione residence the next morning. Several days earlier, Salvatore Vanelli, whom Rosa had met at the harvest dance and at several other gatherings at the Cacchione home, had suffered a heart attack while working in his vineyard. Although his condition was serious, he was recuperating at home and his doctor expected him to pull through.

  “I wish I had known sooner,” fretted Giuditta as she packed an enormous basket with bread, fruit, preserves, hard cheese, and wine. “Bea and Sal weren’t blessed with children. They’re all alone on that remote place except for their foreman and the hired hands. Good people, all of them, but they aren’t family.” She regarded Rosa, Francesca, and Mabel with affectionate pride. “I’m off to see how I can help. I know I can trust you to look after things while I’m gone.”

  “Of course, Ma,” said Francesca.

  “Don’t worry about us,” said Mabel, holding out baby Sophia for a quick kiss. “We’ll tend the vineyards, we won’t sell any wine to anyone, we’ll fix lunch and supper for everyone, and we’ll be perfectly cordial to Mr. Crowell should he rear his ugly head.”

  “Maybe not perfectly cordial,” Rosa amended. “I think
we could manage to be coolly civil.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Giuditta, hurrying off.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Francesca turned to Rosa. “And how are you feeling this morning?”

  Aside from the lingering dread evoked by John’s note and the heartache of knowing that she must soon uproot her children and leave her new friends, she was fine. “Much better, thanks.”

  Francesca and Mabel exchanged a quick glance. “Really?” asked Francesca. “Even this early in the morning?”

  Rosa looked from one eager sister-in-law to the other before it dawned on her what they were thinking, and she had to laugh. “If you’ve been waiting for a big announcement of a blessed event, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I told you so,” said Mabel, swatting Francesca lightly with a dish towel. “It was just the heat after all.”

  Rosa nodded, relieved that they had found their own explanation. As Mabel teased her sister-in-law and Francesca protested that her first guess had been perfectly reasonable, Rosa smiled, but her amusement swiftly faded. She and Lars had had two children together, but they hadn’t welcomed news of either pregnancy with joy. Such beautiful, beloved daughters had deserved a happier welcome to the world than they had received. Rosa’s only consolation was that they didn’t know, and that she had done all she could to make it up to them every day thereafter.

  Even with Dante gone and friends suffering hardship, the work of the vineyard went on. The grapevines had flourished green and lush beneath the torrid skies of June in Santa Rosa, and the time had come to position the shoots so that the vines would concentrate their flavors in a select few, perfect bunches. Rosa, Lars, and the eldest Cacchione children walked the trellis rows, arranging the vines by hand so that the leaves would receive full sun exposure and not shade the growing clusters of small, green fruit and slow their ripening. The Cacchiones were satisfied only when a grapevine was in balance, which Rosa quickly learned meant that the vine supported a sufficient but not excessive canopy of leaves, enough to support the growing clusters and bring the fruit to perfect ripeness.

  Positioning the shoots was a time-consuming, laborious process, and they completed only a third of the vines before it was time to prepare supper. The men continued to work in the vineyard while the women went to the kitchen and prepared a tasty meal of gnocchi, sausage, tomato and mozzarella salad, and crusty bread. Giuditta returned home just as they were setting the table and pouring the wine. She looked pensive, but she assured them that Sal was on the mend and Bea was bearing up well, although she remained terribly worried about her husband. Before they could press her for more details, Giuditta went back outside to call the men in for supper.

  Giuditta waited until the children had finished eating and had run off to play before she shared the rest of the news from the Vanelli ranch. According to the doctor, Sal had suffered a mild heart attack brought on by stress, and it was essential for him to reduce his workload and rest until he had fully recovered. “The doctor didn’t seem to understand that if Sal spends less time in the vineyard, the work won’t get done, and his stress will only increase.”

  “Mr. Vanelli should visit Dr. Reynolds and get a second opinion,” said Dominic.

  “He absolutely should,” declared Rosa, although she had never met Sal’s doctor and had no reason to question his diagnosis. “Dr. Reynolds is a miracle worker.”

  “The Vanellis could use a miracle or two right about now,” said Giuditta ruefully. “They’ve decided to sell their vineyard.”

  “But they’ve farmed that land for almost forty years,” cried Francesca. “And his father before him. Mr. Vanelli swore he’d never give it up. Jack London offered him a fortune for it, and Mr. Vanelli turned him down again and again, remember? That’s one of his favorite stories, how he bested the famous writer and daring adventurer Jack London.”

  “I know, dear, but their circumstances have changed,” said Giuditta. “Now the Vanellis are asking far less than Mr. London ever offered. They’re getting on in years, and they have no children to take over the vineyard after them. If the uncertainty of farming is taking its toll on their health, it’s quite sensible for them to retire.”

  “Nonno and Nonna didn’t leave their land when they stopped working,” Francesca said.

  “They had your father and me,” Giuditta reminded her, and then she smiled fondly, wistfully. “And they never really stopped working, did they?”

  “The Vanellis have Daniel Kuo.”

  Giuditta laughed. “Yes, and he’s a wonderful foreman. No one grows a grape to perfection quite the way he can. But he’s not their son, and they don’t expect him to care for them in their old age.”

  “I bet he would, if they asked,” said Vince. “He’s a real stand-up guy.”

  “They have too much pride to ask,” said Dominic.

  Giuditta sighed. “I admit I’m torn. For their sakes I hope they’ll find a buyer who can match their asking price, but I’ll miss them so much that I’m tempted to steal their ‘for sale’ sign before anyone else sees it.”

  Rosa and Lars exchanged a look. Was this their cue, Rosa wondered, or was this the worst possible time to announce that they too intended to move away soon? Lars shook his head slightly, and she gave him the barest of nods in return to show she understood. It would be unnecessarily hurtful to mention their own impending departure at such a time, especially since they still had not settled on a plan.

  “I’d like to visit the Vanellis tomorrow,” said Francesca.

  Mabel’s eyebrows rose. “Your mother was only joking about pulling up the sign. It wasn’t a hint.”

  “I know that.”

  “Nor should you try to talk them out of it,” said Giuditta.

  Francesca looked deflated. “Oh.”

  “But it would be lovely if you’d stop by for a chat and to help around the house a bit,” said Giuditta. “The Vanellis have always doted on you children, and I think a visit would cheer them up.”

  “I’d like to go too,” said Rosa, on an impulse. “If I can be spared for a few hours, and if Francesca doesn’t mind the company.”

  Francesca and Giuditta both assured her she was welcome to go along, so the next morning, Rosa and Francesca set out in the car with another basketful of bread, prunes, preserves, and wine, and a packet of handmade get well cards from the younger children. Rosa drove and Francesca directed her south, in the opposite direction of Santa Rosa, past vineyards and farms to Glen Ellen, a small village in a forested valley just north of the town of Sonoma. They took a side road that wound uphill through a leafy wood, and just as they rounded a steep bend, Francesca pointed out a modest, hand-painted sign that marked the turnoff to Vanelli Vineyards and Orchard. If they had continued on a few miles past the turnoff, Francesca added, they would have come to Jack London’s famed Beauty Ranch, where his widow, Charmian, resided in a home called the House of Happy Walls, built a few years after Jack’s death. Elsewhere on their vast acreage stood the renovated mid-nineteenth-century winery where Charmian and Jack had lived together and where he had written several of his renowned books as well as papers on his innovative farming methods. Also remaining were the ruins of Wolf House, Jack’s magnificent dream home, which had taken three years to build and had mysteriously burned to the ground in 1913, just before the Londons intended to move in.

  “Arson?” asked Rosa, intrigued.

  “Who knows?” Francesca said. “Could be. Before you ask, I’m sure Mr. Vanelli had absolutely nothing to do with it, despite their ongoing feud.”

  Rosa laughed. “It didn’t occur to me that he might have, until you suggested it.”

  About an eighth of a mile farther along, the car emerged from the hilly woods into the vineyard proper, rows upon rows of trellises covered in lush grapevines. In contrast to the Cacchiones’ land, vast acres of relatively flat, level land framed by gently rolling hills, the secluded Vanelli ranch resembled a stream-cut valley surrounded by thickly for
ested slopes. A high, towering peak disappeared into a bank of low clouds to the northwest. “That’s Sonoma Mountain,” Francesca said, just as the road abruptly ended in a broad circle of gravel. “Park here. We have to walk the rest of the way, but it’s not far.”

  Rosa carried the basket as Francesca led the way down a cobblestone footpath that wound through the trees to a stone bridge spanning a wide, rushing creek. From the opposite bank Rosa spied a white Victorian farmhouse with gingerbread molding in a clearing up ahead, but as they drew closer, she saw that it was not one structure but two, one smaller and cozy, the other L-shaped and twice the size of the first. Together the two buildings formed a horseshoe with a garden courtyard between the wings. Partially hidden amid the surrounding trees were various outbuildings, and through the foliage Rosa glimpsed more even, horizontal rows of trellises climbing the steep hillsides. The stunning views of the sun-dappled hills with Sonoma Mountain rising just beyond them took her breath away. Birdsong and the burbling of the creek filled the air with the music of nature, and the breeze carried the scent of grass and fresh berries. It was as lovely and thriving as any farm Rosa had ever seen, and she could not imagine how the Vanellis could bear to leave it.

  They found Sal reclining on a daybed on the deep front porch, a green-and-gold Sunflower quilt draped over him despite the warmth of the day. A stack of Life and National Geographic magazines and a glass of iced tea, dewy with condensation, sat on a white wicker end table to his right, but he paid no attention to them, his gaze fixed instead on a yellow birdhouse on a post in the front yard. At the sight of Francesca and Rosa approaching, he smiled, pushed the quilt aside, and began to rise, but they quickened their pace and called out that he shouldn’t get up on their account. He nodded and waved, seeming relieved as he adjusted his pillow and settled back against it. His face was drawn and haggard, and although his silver-gray hair was neatly combed, he evidently had not shaved for at least two days. He seemed to Rosa to have aged a decade in the few weeks since she had last seen him, and the naked worry on Francesca’s face told her the young woman shared her shock and concern.