Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  “Of course, but price is the major consideration. Without the right price, we won’t be able to finance the shipments.”

  “Up until now, only a few Napans, like you, have been progressive enough to bottle some of their wine. Even then, most of those bottles make it only as far as the Embarcadero, not even out of California. You and I both know that the California Wine Association has five million gallons sitting in the warehouse, waiting for the shippers to agree to the twenty-cent price they’re demanding. Why shouldn’t we arrange our own shipments and secure a higher price right now directly from the buyers, instead of waiting for the CWA to negotiate on our behalf? The key to securing business will be to offer the buyers an assortment of our wines. Their clients can choose the wines they prefer and reorder accordingly. We just have to make it more appealing for them to work with us and buy the bottles.” In Philippe’s mind, the possibilities were limitless.

  “So what you’re saying is that we need to form some sort of cooperative to get the Carneros name out there, into the restaurants and stores, and then the orders will follow?”

  “Exactly. I have associates in Chicago and New York who have already agreed to sample our wines and store what they don’t purchase until we find buyers. Up to 100,000 bottles to start with.”

  “What would our cost be?” Lamont still sounded skeptical.

  “To store them? One cent per gallon annually.”

  “Not bad. But isn’t that why we formed the Napa Corporation in the first place? To arrange these types of things?”

  “Perhaps, but then why do you have so much wine sitting in your cellars? They’re too big to make efficient decisions. Let’s form our own smaller group of Carneros vintners.”

  “Hmm.” Lamont took one last swig from his drink and stood up. Philippe was worried he was going to reject the idea before he’d even heard him out. Lamont settled the tab, throwing two silver coins on the table.

  “I’m damn tired of sitting in this hole and wasting the afternoon away. Let’s ride over to the depot and take a look at this newfangled machine of yours. I want to make sure you didn’t get swindled.”

  Philippe took his words as a good sign—he was willing to listen to more. Philippe found it amusing how Lamont, a squat, balding man of forty, seemed to fancy himself Philippe’s mentor. Truth be told, Philippe was grateful to him for it. Having lived here just over five years, and now on the cusp of running a full-scale winery, Philippe appreciated the ease with which the Napans took an interest in him and his business, although, at times, the scrutiny could be overbearing. Philippe chuckled to himself, for he knew that was just their American nature. He grabbed his hat, and followed Lamont outside to the horses.

  Philippe hitched his team to the wagon and Lamont joined him up in the seat, instead of riding his own bay. Once they started down Main Street, Lamont resumed his analysis of Philippe’s plan.

  “It sounds smart, Lemieux, but let me get something straight. You’re proposing that the ten or so vintners here in Carneros, including myself, who have bottles in supply, sell these bottles just to make inroads for you, so that when you’re ready to sell yours, you have the connections. We will stake our reputations and the money we spend to ship the wine—what do you stand to lose? You have no reputation, no real business to lose.”

  Philippe cracked his riding whip and the team lurched forward. “I stand to lose my future bottle sales. But here’s my real offer: I will pay a third of your shipping costs. I’ll reimburse myself from the profits. This fall, I’ll travel to Chicago with the wine to make sure it reaches the merchants. You can provide me with letters of introduction to the merchants who have placed orders with you in the past. If there’s any excess, I’ll go door to door to sell the remaining bottles and make new contacts. All I ask in return is for you and the other wine men to front two-thirds of the shipping costs and deliver your labeled bottles on time to the depot the day I depart.”

  Lamont’s eyes narrowed. Philippe could not tell if it was skepticism, or a response to the brilliant sunlight.

  “Why should we go to all this trouble just to sell our inventory, possibly at a loss?” Ah, definite skepticism.

  Philippe thought that, for such an accomplished vintner, Lamont was not much of a salesman. “Because we’re not selling wine. We’re selling Carneros.”

  Philippe’s conversation with Lamont had ended successfully. Lamont had agreed to arrange a meeting of the most prominent winegrowers in Carneros within a fortnight, so Philippe would have a captive audience to whom he could deliver his pitch. Lamont claimed he could bring the others around to seeing things their way. All in all, it had been an afternoon well spent.

  Philippe turned his thoughts to a hot bath and a warm meal. After sitting in the darkness of a tavern losing at five-card draw, he enjoyed the warmth of the evening sun on his skin. He guided his wagon down Main Street, watching the people bustle by. Ladies strolled down the sidewalk, clutching baskets filled with vegetables, bread, meat and poultry, and men steered horses and buggies down the dirt street, all beneath American flags flapping in the breeze high above the buildings. Philippe noted with great satisfaction that the butcher, wearing his stained apron and locking up his store for the night, was missing a sizable haunch of pork from his window.

  The white hand-painted direction signs nailed to poles on each side of the street pointed to the right for plows, freezers, camp stoves and tinware, and to the left for the hotel and bar. Philippe always turned left. The three-story Palace Hotel, the largest in Napa City, was where he always rented a room. He lingered in the stables, which held forty-five horses, to ensure that Red and Lady were properly groomed and fed. He left his wagon, with the new machinery, in the capable hands of the hotel stableman.

  Philippe made his way through the lobby to the stairs, taking them two at a time to the third floor. He rapped twice on the door at the end of the hallway. She opened the door quickly. He rested his shoulder against the doorjamb, taking a moment to appreciate her delicate features. She was wearing a pale yellow dress of airy fabric with sleeves that ruffled demurely over the curve of her fair shoulders. Her hair cascaded down to her mid-back like a golden cape. The warmth of intimacy flickered in her eyes, and he thought she might be planning to seduce him right there in the hallway. A mischievous smile on her lips beckoned him closer.

  “Linnette.”

  At the sound of her name, she moved her face close to his. Philippe could feel her petite hands glide down his back. Her kiss reminded him of biting into a ripe strawberry. He stepped in and she closed the door behind him without a word.

  She helped him remove his riding boots, breeches and shirt, and eased him into the steaming tub of water she had prepared for him. Within minutes, Philippe felt his thigh and calf muscles begin to relax. Linnette sat on the edge of the tub and dangled her fingers in his bath. She soaped up a cloth and rubbed it down his chest and back. He was not modest, but even if he had been self-conscious, she had a way of looking at a man that made him feel like he was the most desirable in the room.

  Their conversation was comfortable. Linnette never pried into Philippe’s business.

  “So, what’s the talk in town?” Philippe rested his head against the tub.

  “Molly Reynolds is happy the Italians are here,” Linnette chirped, and described how the arrival of several new families in town, settling in before the harvest began, had spurred a run on supplies at Molly’s grocery store. “She’s going to start selling their homemade gravy and pasta in the store.”

  Philippe doused his face with water. “She’s happy for the Italians because she hates the Chinese.”

  Linnette put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side to mimic Molly. “Them Chinese want darn near five dollars a week for working the fields, and they don’t even have the decency to spend any of it in here. They take their slanty eyes and cone hats on over to Sam Kee’s, fer sure, but the day they condescend to spend any of their cash in my store, I’ll swallo
w my own tongue. What are they doing with all those greenbacks anyhow? Hoardin’ ’em, I say. I tell you one thing,” Linnette wagged her finger, and Philippe laughed at the accuracy of her impression, “they ain’t spendin’ it on food, ’cause all they eat is rice and sticks and that stinky water soup. Maybe if they bought some meat at the butcher’s once in a while, they’d grow a foot or two.”

  Philippe chuckled. Linnette’s mockery of Molly’s prejudices was spot-on. It probably never occurred to the shopkeeper that her bigotry was the reason the Chinese didn’t frequent her store in the first place.

  Linnette recounted the past month’s big news: the local suffrage conference held at the Napa Opera House in May, and the upcoming California ballot measure to give women the vote. “Philippe, it was inspiring. Right on the heels of Susan Anthony’s visit, the most influential women favoring political equality rallied support for the ballot measure.” Linnette held up a finger. “I remember one in particular: Mrs. Taylor, I believe, said, ‘We cannot claim that our Constitution is of the people, for the people and by the people when one half of them are disenfranchised.’” Linnette wrung out the soapy sponge, leaned over and began to wash Philippe’s arms. “How’s that for common sense?”

  As she scrubbed, his eyes wandered down to the beribboned edge of her thin chemise, which strained under the weight of her ample breasts. She was a beauty who could have had her pick of men, but she had made it clear from the moment Philippe had met her, while strolling past the infamous Clinton Street House, that she had chosen him, not the other way around. Philippe was comparatively well-off, it was true, but Linnette had also revealed to him that he was the only man she knew under forty and over seventeen who understood the finer workings of a woman’s body.

  After they retired to the bed for an unsurprisingly satisfying liaison, Linnette drifted into a deep, untroubled sleep. Philippe looked out the window to watch the last rays of sun disappear behind the distant mountains. He was happily preoccupied by the feel of Linnette’s flesh upon his and the tangy taste she left on his tongue. She gave him what he craved: an evening’s escape from the weight of his responsibilities. Theirs had always been an affair of convenience. He provided Linnette an allowance for food and clothing, and a room at the hotel. She, in turn, provided only for him. He was glad he’d been able to help her out of the Clinton Street House and give her more independence, though it still upset him that for years she’d had to entertain other men to survive. She didn’t deserve that kind of life.

  Their arrangement had been in place for well over a year now and had proven satisfactory for both of them. Before he arrived in town, Philippe would send a note to Linnette, and she would book a room for him in the hotel. He was very cautious about their liaisons, for he was well respected in Napa and wanted to make sure that the appearance of propriety was maintained. Linnette understood this, and he appreciated her practicality. She was youthful and lovely, but she did not subscribe to the theatrics enjoyed by so many of the younger girls in town. She did not cling when he left her; she did not discuss their relationship with anyone. If he passed her in the street, he did not tip his hat to her, as he would to other female acquaintances. He held eye contact and smiled, their silent acknowledgement. Philippe did not care if his fellow Napans suspected the truth of his relationship with Linnette. He only sought to avoid its confirmation. As far as he knew, most people accepted Linnette’s story that a wealthy uncle from San Francisco had discovered her working in the parlor house and come to her rescue, setting her up in grand style.

  Although Philippe considered the restraint of one’s physical desires to be a virtue, he had no wife and, at twenty-seven, no aspirations to enter into a lasting union. His ambition was to create the largest-producing and most profitable vineyard in the valley by 1900. The arrangement with Linnette kept his libido from becoming a distraction.

  Linnette stirred beside him. Philippe felt her fingers twine through his chest hair and her leg stroke his beneath the bedcovers. Clearly, she was ready for another round. He had no choice but to comply.

  When in town, Philippe always made a stop at the post office to retrieve his mail, the bulk of which came from his solicitor in New York or his merchant contacts in the East. Content after a night of physical exertion, Philippe walked out onto the wide veranda of the post office and sifted through several weeks of letters.

  He was surprised to find that a large envelope from his solicitor, William F. Briggs, contained another letter within. He recognized the large scrawl at once—his father’s handwriting. Correspondence from his father in France had been scarce, limited to occasional notes such as the one announcing the marriage of his brother, or apprising him of new business contacts his father had established in America. The communication was always perfunctory and displayed little sentiment. Jean Lemieux had never been an affectionate man. This note was brief and typical of his father:

  May 25, 1896

  Philippe:

  I regret to share with you this news. Bastien is dead. Come to New York at once. Briggs has the details and papers for you to sign.

  Your father,

  Jean Paul Lemieux

  Philippe reread the note, struggling to comprehend its meaning. The words scattered on the page. How had Bastien died? Why? Philippe tried to see Bastien’s face before him, but the picture was hazy. Slowly, the memories of his family edged forward, loosed from their carefully constructed hiding place in the back of his mind. Grief for Bastien gripped his heart. He mourned not only for Bastien’s lost chance at a good life, but for their shared childhood.

  It had not been an easy one. Philippe remembered how the winter of 1880 had raged hard upon their family, with the root cellar depleted by year’s end. Eleven year-old Bastien had been the hero that night in early January when, after a day’s work on the half-frozen lake, he had proudly offered five pike to Mère for the evening meal. They ate like kings that night, thanks to him, and Philippe could still remember his father’s booming laugh, fueled with food and brandy, and his mother’s face glowing like an angel’s in the firelight while they feasted on the fish. But Bastien made a mistake that night. Père had caught him feeding Chance, his hound, the leftover table scraps. Bastien should have known better. Mère pleaded with their father, but he shook her off, commanded her to stay put and marched outside holding Bastien with one hand and his rusty Enfield in the other.

  Philippe could still hear the shot as it pierced the frigid night air. He could smell the curl of acrid smoke rising from his father’s rifle, and feel Bastien’s weight as he caught him up in his arms. Philippe remembered gently lowering Bastien to the ground and coaxing the rifle from his shaking hands. He looked to his father for help, but Père only grumbled, “A worthless mutt—that’ll teach you to steal from my table!” and walked away from his sons. Philippe was the only one to see Bastien crawl across the dirt yard to cradle Chance’s head in his lap. Looking back, Philippe realized that was the only time in his life he’d seen Bastien cry—for the dog, his best friend, whom his father had forced him to kill.

  Mère cared deeply for them and did her best to counter their father’s brutality with a lullaby, a slice of warm bread or a bedtime embrace. Philippe could now appreciate his mother’s emotional strength, tireless work and the keen interest she took in other people and their concerns, and understood how much she had endured for the love of her two boys. Although Philippe was formed, in part, by her kindness, it had never seemed to take hold in Bastien. Even before Mère’s death, their father had forbidden them to see their mother’s parents—good, honest people who might have protected them, or lent a compassionate hand to their upbringing. Years later, Philippe had discovered that they had tried to communicate with their grandsons, but with little success.

  Meanwhile, Philippe stayed out of his father’s way. He learned about grape farming and the wine trade from books and his apprenticeship with a wine broker in Tours. Bastien, as the oldest and favorite son, worked with their father. Under hi
s tutelage, Bastien had become wily and self-consumed. Philippe had been surprised to learn that he had married one of Luc Thibault’s daughters. Thibault’s reputation was impeccable. The daughters he knew less of; he recalled little more than seeing them occasionally at Sunday services. He was shocked that Bastien had managed to charm his way into such a fine family and secure such expansive property for himself.

  Philippe crumpled his father’s note in his fist and tossed it in the rubbish bin. He was not prepared to sort through the details right now. He would write to his father and explain that he couldn’t possibly leave the farm until after the harvest; he would make the trip to New York after the fall crush was complete. He tucked the rest of his letters in his bag and climbed up into the seat of his wagon.

  After the previous afternoon’s tête-à-tête with Lamont and the night with Linnette, Philippe welcomed the solitary five-mile journey back to the vineyard. He had named it Eagle’s Run because on the very day he’d taken ownership of the property, he’d spied two eagles soaring back and forth over the length of the vineyard. They looked like they were racing, and their cries of exhilaration had echoed through the vale. Philippe had wanted an American name for his vineyard because he viewed this new endeavor as the beginning of his transformation into a true citizen of this country. He had found freedom here, not only from his father and brother, but from his former self. He had been able to give Marie and her daughter a fresh start in New York, and now he was reinventing himself out here in California. Here he’d finally found the space to breathe deeply, as though every breath he’d taken before had been shallow and stunted.

  Philippe had chosen this part of the country carefully. He could have sought property in upstate New York, where he’d heard the grape farming was superb, but he had a wanderlust that a day’s train ride would not quell. Once he laid eyes on Napa’s rolling hills, lively city streets and friendly faces, he simply couldn’t bring himself to leave. The valley itself had everything a farmer could want. It ran the full length of the county and was thirty-five miles long by five miles wide, bounded by mountain ranges on its eastern and western sides and irrigated year-round by the Napa River, which wound along the valley’s eastern foothills. Five years ago, upon his arrival in Napa, Philippe had taken a train ride up the western side of the valley and a wagon ride back down the eastern side to survey the vineyards.