“Well, I can certainly promise you that. We weren’t planning to accept the other offer unless nothing else came along before the end of the harvest season.” Bea reached out and clasped Rosa’s hand in both of hers, beaming. “Bring Nils by as soon as you like, and bring your children too. I know the Cacchiones hold your family in the highest esteem. I can’t tell you how it would comfort us to know we’re entrusting our land to worthy stewards.”
They settled on Sunday afternoon for the next visit, and after agreeing to keep the matter between themselves and their husbands for the time being, they walked back to the house, their footsteps quickened by hope and anticipation.
For the rest of the day Rosa felt as if she might burst from keeping her secret, and as soon as the children were tucked into bed, she took Lars by the hand and led him outside to the creek, where already the ocean fogs were rolling in. There she told him all about Vanelli Vineyards and Orchard and the unexpected outcome of her visit. The property was secluded and yet still accessible to schools, markets, church, new friends, and the train to San Francisco. There was a vineyard and winery for her and an orchard for him. The farmhouse seemed cozy and charming—from the outside, anyway—and the new kitchen and laundry room in the adjacent building sounded ideal. It was far enough away to throw any pursuers off their trail, but close enough that the move would not be too disruptive for the children. Most important, it offered them what they most wanted and needed—a home and land of their own—and they could afford it.
Lars mulled over her words, tempering her enthusiasm with cautious questions about the wisdom of buying a vineyard in the midst of Prohibition—or whether someone with his history should have anything to do with a winery in the first place.
His unexpected reluctance caught Rosa entirely off guard. “I’m not worried that you’ll fall back into your old ways.”
“Maybe I am.”
“I know you won’t. I know you have more willpower than that.”
“Rosa—” He ran a hand over his chin. “It’s not a matter of willpower. It—it’s more than that. The temptation to drink, the craving—it’s always there. I just…do my best to ignore it.”
“But I’ve seen the Cacchiones offer you wine several times a week since we came here, and you’ve never once taken a sip.”
He smiled crookedly. “Well, I was always more of a gin man.”
She seized his hands. “Then we won’t make gin. Lars, I know you can stay sober. I know you can, for me and the children. I know you won’t let us down.”
“I don’t know how you can be sure of that. I’ve let you down before.”
“That was years ago,” she said vehemently, her hands tightening around his, hard and callused from a lifetime of ranching. “You’ve changed.”
“Maybe I haven’t changed enough.”
He looked so stricken, so full of self-doubt, that her heart ached for him. “I’ll never offer you wine with your meals the way Dante and Giuditta always do.” They not only offered, they urged, barely stopping short of putting the glass in his hand. “You can tend the orchards and the grapes, and never set foot in the winery. I’ll never make more than two hundred gallons. I won’t even make that much, just enough to learn how.”
“It would be better if we made no wine at all. Rosa—” He hesitated and pulled away from her, emotion contorting his face. “My drinking cost me a lifetime of happiness with you. Lately I’ve felt as if we’ve been given a second chance. I don’t want to risk losing you and the children again.”
She took a deep breath. “Very well. If that’s the way it has to be, we won’t make any wine. We’ll sell the wine grapes instead.”
He eyed her, uncertain. “Are you sure?” When she nodded, he said, “Don’t forget, the money’s yours, not mine. You don’t need me to buy this vineyard and winery and do whatever you like with them.”
“What I’d like to do with them is make a home for us and our children. Whether we make wine or grow table grapes and prunes, or…or pumpkins and onions is inconsequential.” She grasped his arm and turned him to face her. “It’s not my money. It’s our money. I don’t want to do this without you.”
He grimaced. “It’s John’s money. It’s the mob’s money.”
“It’s ours now, and that’s only right. We’ll do better things with it than they would have.”
Lars surprised her with a laugh. “I’m not so sure they’d look at it that way.” He sighed as if setting down a heavy burden and held out his arms to her. “Let’s take a look at the place on Sunday. If it’s all that you say it is, let’s make the Vanellis an offer.”
On Sunday they borrowed the Cacchiones’ car and took the Sonoma Highway south to the Vanellis’ ranch. Sal was determined to show Lars his prized vineyards and orchard himself, so he brushed off Bea’s admonitions that he should rest and led Lars away. While the children romped in the yard with the Vanellis’ two frisky collies, Bea showed Rosa the house and the adjacent building. The farmhouse was small, but more spacious than any home Rosa had ever lived in, and the newer building had all the modern conveniences she could possibly want. After Rosa had seen all she needed to see of the building and grounds, she delicately, almost apologetically, asked to review the books, and when Bea graciously granted her request, Rosa found no irregularities. When Lars and Sal returned from their tour of the grounds and outbuildings, Rosa knew at once that Lars was pleased and impressed. He made a quick, perfunctory survey of the farmhouse and work building, trusting Rosa’s opinion that it suited her and the children. Then Rosa and Lars excused themselves and went off alone to stroll through the gardens, where they could speak privately.
They quickly confirmed that the estate was indeed all that Rosa had described and more, and so they returned to the farmhouse and made the Vanellis an offer. They offered all that remained of their savings, knowing the property was worth much more.
Rosa could scarcely believe their good fortune when the older couple accepted.
In the weeks that followed, Rosa and Lars were swept up in a whirl of activity. First they informed the astonished Cacchiones of their intentions, and within a day they opened an account at the Bank of Sonoma so they would be able to pay for their new home with a cashier’s check instead of two satchels full of cash, which would surely raise eyebrows and provoke rumors. They arranged to keep the Vanellis’ workers on, especially the invaluable Daniel Kuo, who seemed to Rosa to be disappointed that the Vanellis had sold the vineyard so quickly, which she hoped said more about his affection for the Vanellis than his impression of the Ottesens. They took care of the various legal documents and planned for the move from the cabin into the farmhouse, a task made far easier by their small number of possessions and the Vanellis’ willingness to leave most of their furniture behind. All this they took on in the midst of their usual responsibilities, working for the Cacchiones, caring for their children, and in Lars’s case, assisting with the Vanellis’ prune harvest to prepare him for the following year, and all the years that would follow, when it would be his harvest, their harvest.
The Vanellis departed for Cloverdale the week after the prune harvest ended and their fruit was shipped off to the dryer and then to market. Soon thereafter, only a few days before grape harvest was expected to begin on both the Cacchiones’ vineyard and the Ottesens’, Rosa, Lars, and the children moved into their new home.
The Cacchiones treated Rosa, Lars, and the children to a farewell feast the night before they moved away, and the following morning, Giuditta came down to the cabin to see them off. After packing their few belongings, Rosa had swept and scrubbed the cabin from cellar to attic, a small gesture of thanks to the Cacchiones for offering them a safe haven.
When it was time to go, Rosa and Giuditta exchanged tearful good-byes, laughing at their own foolishness because they knew they would see each other again soon. Rosa couldn’t help feeling that they were abandoning the Cacchiones when they were most needed, even though Giuditta assured her that wasn’t so.
Giuditta was delighted that they had found a place of their own where their family could thrive and prosper, and she was also relieved that the Vanellis’ beautiful, fertile acres would be in the care of good, capable, trustworthy ranchers. Giuditta promised to offer whatever advice and assistance the Ottesens needed, and Lars in turn offered to help the Cacchiones with the young apricot orchard he had planted for them. They would be so close and in touch so frequently, Giuditta declared, it was hardly as if the Ottesens were moving away at all.
Rosa hung back while Lars helped the children into the ten-year-old Chevrolet Series 490 the Vanellis had included in the purchase. “We’ve kept your secrets,” she told Giuditta, “and now I need you to keep one of ours.”
From her pocket she took the newspaper clipping John had sent, unfolded it, and handed to Giuditta, who inhaled deeply as she read the penciled curse. When she looked up from it, she said nothing, but her expression was wary and questioning.
“If anyone comes around here looking for us,” said Rosa, “please tell them we passed through on our way to Canada and you have no idea where we are now. Invent new names for us. Tell them we didn’t stay long and you never really got to know us.”
“All right.” Giuditta folded the paper and returned it. “I knew you were in some trouble. I didn’t think you’d leave your home and come so far just to see Dr. Reynolds, but I didn’t want to pry.”
Rosa smiled apologetically, wishing she could confide in Giuditta completely. “The less you know, the better. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you have good reason to be cautious.” Giuditta hesitated before adding, “You should know that Lupita has been insisting to the other children that Nils isn’t her father.”
“Is that so?” Rosa had to laugh. “Well, whether Lupita likes it or not, he’s definitely her father.”
Giuditta smiled, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes. “Even so, if she’s spreading tales, it might attract unwanted attention your way.”
Rosa thanked her for the warning and gave her one last quick embrace before joining her family in the car. As they drove away, Rosa glanced over her shoulder and watched Giuditta closing up the cabin. She wondered how long it would stand empty before another family in need benefited from the Cacchiones’ kindness and generosity.
The children chattered excitedly in the backseat as they drove south along the Sonoma Highway. Rosa took off her hat, closed her eyes, and let the sun and wind caress her face, tousling her dark bob. She could not remember when she had last felt so relieved and hopeful, so content. She thought of the ripe, late-summer produce awaiting her in Bea’s kitchen garden and wondered what to prepare for the family’s first meal in their new home. The day called for a celebration. If she had more time, she would make her abuelo’s tamales. Perhaps tomorrow—
“What’s going on?” Lars suddenly said under his breath, and Rosa felt the car slow down. She opened her eyes and threw him a questioning glance before noticing the dark sedan approaching from the opposite direction. First it straddled the lanes, and then it turned to block their way.
Rosa felt a jolt of alarm. “Drive around it.”
“Can’t. Shoulder’s too steep.” Frowning, Lars pulled over and brought the car to a halt just as the other driver climbed out of his car. As the man strode toward them, Rosa’s eyes locked with his, and she gasped in recognition. Dwight Crowell hesitated, confusion clouding his expression for the barest of moments before he continued forward. He knew the car, Rosa realized, and he thought he had pulled over the Vanellis.
“That’s the bad man,” said Lupita, wide eyed. “The one who took Mrs. Cacchione and dumped out all their wine.”
“Yes, it is. Don’t say another word,” Rosa warned, instinctively holding Miguel tighter on her lap. The children fell instantly into a tense silence.
“Is there something I can do for you?” asked Lars through the open window, curtly civil, when Crowell reached them.
The agent’s searching gaze came to rest on the family’s belongings, packed into the backseat with the girls. “Leaving town right before the harvest?”
Lars shrugged. “It’s time to move on.”
“In Salvatore Vanelli’s car?”
“He sold it to us,” Rosa said, dislike and mistrust putting a cutting edge to her voice.
Crowell nodded, thoughtful, as he opened his jacket and planted his hands on his hips. “Where you folks headed?”
“South,” said Lars. “And we’d like to get going, so we’d be much obliged if you’d move your car out of the way.”
“It’s just a routine stop. Don’t get jittery.” Crowell strolled around the car, peering into the wheel wells and beneath the chassis as if he expected to find jugs of moonshine strapped to the axles. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you don’t have any reason to be nervous.”
“We’re not nervous,” said Rosa, ignoring a warning look from Lars. “We’d just like to be on our way.”
“Long drive ahead of you?” Crowell inquired as he completed his circuit of the car and halted by Lars’s window. “Driving all the way to Stavanger?”
“Not quite that far,” said Lars.
“And you’re all going together, just one happy family—the man of the house, his doting wife, and their four great kids.”
“That’s right.”
Crowell grinned sharply. “It’s an odd sort of happy family, what with the loving husband sleeping on the sofa every night.”
Rosa went cold. The agent had been peering through their windows, or he had broken into the cabin in their absence. What else had he seen? What more did he know?
“What’s the matter, Nils Ottesen?” Crowell asked, brow furrowed in feigned sympathy. “What did you do to offend the little woman? Why have you been in the doghouse all these months?”
“I snore.”
“Every night?”
Lars held his gaze, unsmiling. “So I’m told. I’m lucky enough to sleep through it.”
“Funny thing about Stavanger.” Never before had Crowell’s resemblance to Lars been more revolting, a cruel distortion of the features Rosa adored. “It’s very convenient, isn’t it, that you hail from a town whose records were destroyed in a courthouse fire three years ago?”
“It’s wasn’t at all convenient for the people whose vital records were lost,” Rosa retorted, “or for the clerks who had to sift through the ashes salvaging what they could.”
“Why don’t you just tell us what you want and let us move on,” said Lars. “Have I broken any laws?”
“None that I know of, but I’m still looking.” Crowell smiled. “And I’m going to keep looking.”
“Do as you see fit,” said Lars. “It’s your time to waste.”
Crowell’s smile hardened. He nodded to Rosa and waggled his fingers at the children, who shrank back and looked away. He headed back to his sedan, and a few moments later he roared past them, making haste, no doubt, to pester the Cacchiones.
“Lars,” murmured Rosa, her voice trembling. “In the new house, perhaps we should, just in case—perhaps the sofa isn’t—”
“If we ever share a bed again,” Lars broke in harshly, “it won’t be to keep up appearances for the likes of him.”
Stung, Rosa said nothing more.
Lars started the car and drove on, but the happy mood had been shattered, and no one spoke another word until they turned off the Sonoma Highway onto the winding side road that climbed the forested hills toward their new home. After rounding the steep bend, Lars stopped the car at the turnoff and nodded toward the sign that announced they had arrived at Vanelli Vineyards and Orchard. “We’ll have to change that,” he remarked, studying the sign before driving on.
“Ottesen Vineyards and Orchard?” said Rosa, dubious. It was the obvious choice, but it felt wrong, since Ottesen was not their true name.
“Ottesen Orchard and Vineyards?” said Marta.
“That’s not any better,” said Ana.
“How about, Mama’s
Grapes and Prunes?” suggested Lupita.
Marta shook her head. “That sounds like a roadside fruit stand.”
“I like it,” piped up Miguel. “Or Mama’s Fruits. That’s good too.”
Everyone laughed, and Lars said that if they didn’t come up with anything else before he had time to make a new sign, they’d flip a coin—heads for Mama’s Grapes and Prunes, tails for Mama’s Fruits. When Rosa protested that they should name their new ranch after the whole family, not her alone, Lars joked that unless she came up with something better herself, and soon, she would be stuck with the results of the coin toss.
Daniel Kuo awaited them on the front porch, a well-read edition of The Call of the Wild in one hand and a heavy ring of keys in the other. Rosa accepted the honor of unlocking the front door, and the children raced past her into the house, bounding up the stairs and claiming rooms and beds. Unpacking and settling in took up most of the day, with Rosa in the house and Lars mostly in the barn and stables and nearest outbuildings. Once, in the middle of the afternoon, Rosa and Lars both found themselves in the hallway outside the largest bedroom at the same time. Rosa carried her mother’s last quilt, the one Elizabeth Nelson had repaired and named Arboles Valley Star, the one pieced of scraps that carried a lifetime of memories, of hope and regret.
“Help me make the bed?” Rosa asked, suddenly shy. He nodded, and together they smoothed the sheets over the mattress, lay the quilt on top, and plumped the pillows along the headboard.
The task complete, Lars started to leave. “It’s not for appearances,” Rosa blurted. He hesitated in the doorway, his back to her. “It’s not because I’m worried that the sofa will give you an aching back. It’s because I love you.”
After a moment he turned, but when he merely stood silently looking back at her, she felt tears spring into her eyes and she wished she hadn’t spoken. Then he came to her and took her hands. “Rosa, would you marry me if you were free to do so?”
Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel Page 31