The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  One wrong thought now could bring everything down on their heads. God would root out and reveal her darkness. And it was there. A deep-seated satisfaction that she had hurt Flavio as much as he’d hurt her. He might be home right now, brooding on his loss. His fury would have seeped away, leaving the bald pain of love spurned. Despondency would overwhelm him, and he would know that he had caused it. His unfaithfulness had caused it.

  “Signore, help me.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “I should not gloat, not feel such satisfaction. Let me not take pleasure in his pain. Don’t let me increase it.” For even now thoughts of twisting the knife came to mind. “Am I so wicked? Don’t I know what it is to lose what I love?” She pressed a hand to her belly where she had felt the life of her child and was seized with fear for Quillan. “Signore, protect my husband. Per favore, Dio.”

  Quillan then came out looking very presentable. His hair was tied back, revealing the fine bones of his facial features. His broadcloth vest and frock coat did not hide his strong shoulders and muscular form. How handsome and good he was! Surely they would see!

  Carina got up from her knees. Now she would dress. Dinner was always formal, but tonight she must show them how right she and Quillan were. She wished her wedding dress had not been ruined but chose it anyway. She had replaced the original lace with an inferior grade and brushed and cleaned all the mud and dust from the sea green silk. She shook it out now from its folds in the trunk and remembered the look in Quillan’s eyes when he’d first seen her in it. Her heart beat a sharp staccato. Signore, I love him so much!

  She went into the water closet to change, though she had dressed before him countless times. Here, in her home, she felt shy and young. She brushed her hair and twisted it back at the nape of her neck. When she came out, Quillan caressed her with his eyes. He must know how important this was, this first meal together. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, but before they walked down together she said, “I’ll be in the kitchen with Mamma and the others. You will have to wait with the men.”

  “All right.”

  She meant it as a warning, but he was trying hard to look unconcerned. Maybe nothing would happen. They went down and separated at the foot of the stairs. Already Carina heard her brothers in the smoking room. Papa would be there, too, but she didn’t hear him. She went through the narrow walkway to the kitchen behind the house and tied a stiff white apron over her dress. “What can I do?”

  Her sister-in-law Rosa handed her a knife and a bowl of peppers. Joseph’s wife had been the first to marry into the family and had fought the battle of acceptance because Mamma thought she wasn’t good enough for Joseph. Now, plump and familiar, she moved to a corner with two-year-old Giovanni on her hip and watched Carina as though she were the stranger.

  The kitchen was warm with redwood beams and creamy plastered walls. The lamps that hung at regular intervals sent a glow to the ceiling, which reflected back over the long marble worktable and stove. An icebox and pastry safe stood at opposite ends, but most of the beige tile floor was open, making it easy for many women to work together. Even those not working, Nonna in her later years and the mothers of infants, gathered in the kitchen at mealtime.

  “Gelsomina has taken a Chinese cook,” Tia Marta said to break the awkward silence.

  “No.” Carina glanced from Tia Marta to Mamma, who had stopped crying in order to cook, but made no effort to hide her misery. “Veramente?”

  Marta nodded. “It’s true. A male Chinese.”

  Carina tried to picture one of the pigtailed men in Tia Gelsomina’s kitchen. But then, her godmother had never liked to cook. She would think it a good joke on the rest of them. Carina would have to go and see for herself. Maybe Gelsomina could help with Quillan, as well. She was not as rigid as Mamma and Papa.

  Angelo’s wife, Renata, leaned close to Lorenzo’s petite wife, Sophie, and murmured something. Those two had experienced an easier time since Rosa took the brunt of Mamma’s disfavor, though neither was perfect. Maybe that’s all it was with Quillan. A little disapproval for a while . . . bene, a healthy disapproval. Then everyone would see he wasn’t so different.

  Or was he? Carina raised her head and listened. The voices from the back room carried, but they were moderate, tempered. Either they were ignoring Quillan, or he was holding his own.

  Mamma sniffed loudly and carried a pan of meat pastries to the oven. Already a pot of marinara sauce steamed on the stove with spaghetti drying over the chair backs. Plump purple sausages lay ready to fry in olive oil with the peppers Carina was cutting. Renata floured carp filets and laid them in a skillet already popping with oil. The aroma of crusty bread came from the oven. Mamma may be upset, but she was preparing a feast.

  Carina thought of Nonna. It brought a fresh ache to see the kitchen without her, but for the moment her tears were spent. She wondered what her grandmother’s reaction would have been. No, she knew. Nonna would have been shocked and angry that Carina had thrown away her match with Flavio. She had been partial to him from his youth, as she’d been to Carina. Nonna would have wept for her lost chance, but she would have seen Carina’s love for Quillan, would have accepted it. Wouldn’t she? Carina had to believe someone would.

  The back door opened, and there was Divina with a basket. A red shawl crossed over her chest and tied around her waist over the white blouse tucked into a gathered gray skirt. Carina had spent so many nights in painful fury over Divina’s betrayal, but now she felt only sisterly love. Spreading her arms, Carina went to hug her sister and felt the protruding stomach against her own empty womb. Divina seemed full for four months.

  She kissed Divina’s cheek. “Oh, Divina, I missed you.”

  Divina stepped back. “Nicolo says you’re married.”

  “Yes.” Carina released her.

  Divina’s face squinched up, and she hissed, “How could you?”

  Carina froze. Surely Divina understood? But her sister stalked past her to the marble table, laid out the apples from her basket, and set it aside. What right had she to bitterness, when Carina had stripped off her own and forgiven Divina’s betrayal? In what way had she hurt Divina? In what way caused the breach between them?

  Flavio. It was there in Divina’s face. Divina loved Flavio. Because he was the one she couldn’t have? But she had! Carina had seen them together, confronted them, and Divina had laughed. Carina’s heart seized with the memory. That was why she’d fled. And Flavio did not come after her. So there was Divina’s chance, yet she married Nicolo—solid, stocky Nicolo with a face like a bear. Bene. It was not Carina’s part to figure it out. She had her own troubles.

  The voices from the house grew louder, but Nicolo would have joined them and maybe another brother or two. Carina went back to cutting. She sliced the peppers into long thin strips and removed the stems, thick with seeds.

  “How are you feeling?” Mamma asked Divina.

  “Sick in the mornings. Nicolo has to fetch me bread before I can sit up.”

  Carina could just picture it, Nicolo panting by the side of the bed as Sam used to, tail wagging. Sam. Carina understood why Quillan left him with Alan Tavish, but she missed the dog’s warm eyes and wet nose. She carried the stems to the compost bowl but scraped the seeds into a bowl. They would be saved and planted in the garden.

  Now one voice rose up in the other room. Angelo’s, of course. The oldest son pushing his weight. He was always the loudest and most outspoken. What Ti’Giuseppe called a blusterer. His words sounded clearly through the open kitchen door. “How do you intend to support my sister?”

  Quillan’s answer was too soft to hear.

  “And you’ll live off the fat of our land until then?”

  All hands in the kitchen stopped. Carina held the knife suspended over the cutting board over the compost bowl. Some of the women looked toward the door, others at her. Carina could discern Quillan’s voice, but not his words.

  Mamma held out a papery bulb. “Crush the garlic, Carina.”


  But Carina set down her utensils and pulled off her apron. Tia Marta put a hand to her shoulder, but Carina hurried through the door.

  Angelo’s tone was more insulting than angry. “Can you read? Can you write? Do you—” He broke off when Carina came into the room, fists to her hips.

  “Of course he reads! And writes poetry. And memorizes books. You can’t claim as much!”

  Angelo reddened. He wasn’t stupid by any account, but neither was he a stellar student. Her brothers looked at Quillan, seemed to reappraise him, then dismissed that for their original assessment. Angelo sneered, “What has he to show for it?”

  Quillan looked wary, tense. She didn’t think the others could tell, but in his charcoal-rimmed gray eyes she saw something of Wolf. Carina waited for him to tell them about his mine, his fortune. Surely he’d made something from the sale? If not, he must have done well enough freighting? But Quillan said nothing, only stood with one hand holding his lapel.

  Papa leaned one elbow on the mantel, elegant in silk-embroidered vest and white sleeves, exactly as Carina had remembered him—except for his expression. He said softly, “Where is your family? Who are they?”

  Carina started to answer, but Papa sent her a scathing glare. “Let him answer for himself.”

  She clutched her hands together. What would Quillan say? Surely not the truth.

  “My parents are dead.”

  Papa waved his hand. “Grandparents, uncles, cousins?”

  Quillan shook his head a little stiffly.

  Papa frowned. “You have no relatives?”

  Carina’s breath caught. She pictured William DeMornay in his fine mansion, his slender fingers folded in his lap, his grim expression. “What are you after . . . money?”

  Quillan said, “No.”

  Carina’s breath returned. The DeMornays had denied him. Even though the locket proved otherwise—the diary, as well—in their minds, at least William’s, Quillan did not exist.

  “So you have nothing.” Papa extended his fingers disdainfully.

  For the first time Carina saw his arrogance, and Quillan saw it, too. She watched his fire ignite.

  Papa’s chin raised. “And you think you should live here with my daughter, with my blessing, when you bring nothing.”

  Quillan’s jaw tightened; the tendons stood out under his flesh. “I bring myself. Judge me on that.”

  Papa’s eyes locked with Quillan’s. “Then you have already failed. You stole my daughter, disgraced her and me.”

  Quillan said, “I have never disgraced Carina.”

  Papa’s fist came down on the mantel. Carina jumped. Never had Papa lost his temper publicly!

  “You contradict me? In front of my family?” He swung his arm to include all his sons.

  Quillan said, “I meant no disrespect.”

  The vein in Papa’s temple pulsed, but he contained his anger. “You found my daughter vulnerable and forced your attentions—”

  “It wasn’t like that, Papa!” Carina’s hands clenched at her sides. “He saved my life!” Now all eyes were on her. “In my letter I told you Crystal was lovely, but it wasn’t. It was hard and terrible. I went to Quillan for help.”

  Papa’s eyes narrowed. “And he used that to marry you?”

  Carina spread her hands. “It was all he could do to stop a man who was truly worthy of your disdain. You should thank him, Papa, for saving me from shame. I was the foolish one. Not Quillan.”

  Papa’s mouth pulled down. “You defend him, but that does not excuse—”

  Quillan stepped forward. “I ask your pardon for marrying without your blessing. If circumstances had permitted, I would have asked it.”

  Papa looked him up and down without speaking. Would he accept Quillan’s apology? Fervently she hoped so. He said, “I would have refused.”

  Quillan’s chin dropped just enough that Carina felt the blow.

  “You’re a stranger to our ways, our religion, our life. I would not have wished exile for my daughter.”

  “I can learn.” Quillan drew himself up.

  “He can, Papa. You should see how quickly he learns the language.” Carina leaned forward earnestly.

  “Then we’ll have to watch what we say.” Papa’s words were cruel, brutal in impact. He would not accept Quillan, not give him a chance.

  Carina looked around the room, every face hostile, judging. Her fists hardened again at her sides. “If you don’t accept Quillan, you don’t accept me.”

  Angelo exploded. “Be quiet, Carina. This is our father’s business.”

  Carina looked at Quillan. He stood stiffly, too proud to show the hurt she knew was there. It wasn’t Papa’s business. It was theirs.

  Quillan dropped his hands to his sides. “Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t impinge further.”

  Carina caught her breath sharply. “If you go, I go, too.”

  Quillan shook his head. “You need to stay here with your family.”

  “I’d rather sleep on the street.” She turned for the door.

  Angelo caught her arm. “Don’t you dare insult Papa.” His fingers dug into her flesh.

  “I won’t stay without my husband.” She shot her gaze to Papa.

  Her father raised a hand. “It’s your husband who leaves you.”

  The pain shot through her. Would he? Had Quillan brought her there only to leave again? She turned to him, beseeching. Quillan’s gaze softened. He wanted her to understand . . . what? Why he would leave her? She struggled against Angelo’s hold, but Lorenzo caught her other arm and held her firmly.

  Her eyes followed Quillan as he walked through the door. She heard his steps on the stairs. He was going. He would pack his things and go. Her heart thumped inside her. “No!” She fought off Angelo and Lorenzo and ran for the stairs, holding her side where the corset made hard breathing painful. She rushed into the room. “I won’t let you go.”

  Quillan straightened from the bag he had opened. She rushed to him, clasped him in her arms, and pressed her tear-streaked face to his chest.

  He returned her embrace with desperate force, kissing her head. “It’s only for a while, Carina, until I can find us a place or build one.”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  He caught her face. “I’m not leaving you. But I can’t stay under this roof.”

  “Then let me come.” She covered his hands, pressed his palms against her cheeks.

  He shook his head. “If you came now, it would destroy any chance we have. Show your father the respect he demands.”

  Carina shook her head. “Where will you be?”

  “In town somewhere. I’ll let you know.”

  A sob caught in her throat. “This can’t be right.”

  “You heard him, Carina. I have to prove that I’m no different, that I can be what you are.”

  “So prove it here!” She clung to his hand.

  He stood back. “Do you really believe that’s possible?”

  She looked up into his face. He was no fool, her husband. But it broke her heart to watch him go. He stuffed the rest of his clothes from the trunk into the bag, took up his leather pack and another satchel. He bent and kissed her lips, then left the room. His steps going down were like blows. She threw herself onto the bed and sobbed.

  How could they be so cruel? What had he done? Why must he always prove himself worthy? Would no one ever accept him? She punched her fists into the bed. She accepted him, loved him. But she was being denied even that.

  Had she committed some unforgivable sin? She thought of all the things she had hoped Quillan wouldn’t say, the things she wanted to keep hidden. Was she ashamed of him, of Rose and Wolf? Was she ashamed of the way their marriage had happened? Did she know inside it was wrong?

  No! She thrust herself up. She almost ran after him, but he was right. They had to make her family see, and they couldn’t do that if she made the breach so wide it couldn’t be healed. So Papa was human. So he’d been insulted. She wo
uld show him her love, her respect. Then she’d show him all the reasons he should love and accept Quillan.

  She snatched a handkerchief from the bed and wiped her face. Then one by one she hung her dresses in the wardrobe, then folded her blouses and undergarments into the drawers. She looked up at the knock. “Yes?”

  Divina opened the door. “Dinner is ready.”

  Carina seethed. She should go down now and eat with them? “I’m not hungry.”

  Divina advanced. “You deserve it, Carina. You’ve caused no end to misery. Flavio—”

  “What about him?” Carina clutched her gabardine camisole.

  Divina’s face was a knife. She had put on more weight than just the baby, but her face now looked sharp enough to cut. “You know he’ll never love anyone but you.”

  Carina huffed out her breath at the absurdity. “You can say that?”

  “You stupid baby.” Divina brought her face up close. “You think because Flavio dallies he doesn’t love you?”

  “Dallies, Divina?” Carina questioned. “Whose child is in your belly?”

  Divina’s slap numbed Carina’s ear and burned her cheek. Carina pressed her palm on the stinging flesh. She stood frozen as Divina stalked from the room, then she backed into the bed and sat down, covering her eyes with her hands. Could anything else go wrong?

  It was as if some evil had pervaded her family while she was gone. Everything that had been safe and good was gone. Everyone had changed. Or did she just see them differently? Had she been so self-centered and arrogant herself that she couldn’t see it in them? Had she been so coddled and petted that she blinded herself to reality?

  No. There was good. There had to be. She had brought distress to her family, but even in that they held together, stood as one. They were loyal to each other. It was just that she was now outside it. She dropped to her knees. “Signore, tell me what to do. I love my family. They are my people, my life. This land, this place—the moment I saw it again, my heart jumped inside me. I want to live here with my husband, raising our children.”