I am the vine, ye are the branches. He scowled, wishing he’d never committed that verse to memory. “Fine, Lord. You’re the vine. What am I supposed to do with that?”
Every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. How much more purging could he take? He’d been cut to the quick; if he lost Carina he’d be severed altogether. He stood up again, feeling more alone than ever. Before Carina, he’d been alone by choice. He didn’t expect to be accepted, so he didn’t try. He had learned that early.
“Keep him away from the others, or he’ll be the apple that rots the barrel.” And Mrs. Shepard was so convincing the headmaster had looked down his long chin and ostracized Quillan. With no chance for friendship, he’d built a wall, guarded himself, and learned to live that way.
I am the vine . . . Quillan slammed his fist into his palm, and two Chinese crossing the plaza jumped and grabbed each other instinctively. Their eyes searched him, and with a rush of sardonic amusement, he realized he had at last encountered a people as reviled as himself. Just like him, they anticipated the kick, the thrown rocks, the insults.
He spread his palms to show he meant them no harm. They spouted gibberish, bobbing like ducks, then hurried away. Quillan pressed his palm to his forehead, squinched his eyes shut, then tightened his jaw and looked once more at the Garibaldi House.
Somewhere in there his wife danced and mingled and drove men mad. And he was outside again, to avoid rotting the barrel. He stalked to his room in the Union Hotel, jerked the suitcase from under the bed, and threw in the clothes from the bureau drawers. He pulled out the heavy metal box that he had stowed under the seat of his wagon for long trips, and piled in his books until only his journal and Cain’s Bible remained.
He raised the Bible, picturing it in Cain’s veined and withered hands, resting on his stump of leg. “What tickles me is how the Lord chooses his instruments. Not the high and mighty who think they deserve it, but the lowly, the motley, the old cripples like me.” Quillan swallowed. How God chooses his instruments. The lowly, the motley—that one had resonated.
Had God chosen this for him? Was this God’s purpose, that he be separated from the one person who loved him, whose love he turned to in despair, whose love healed him? I am the vine. Quillan frowned. What, Lord? But God’s voice was drowned by another.
You’ll never amount to anything. You’re the devil’s spawn.
Something tore inside. No more! He belonged to Jesus Christ. He’d given himself over in the cave where his father had offered him to his best understanding of God, the eagle in the picture. He was no bastard son. Those were lies. But what was the truth? What did it mean that Jesus was the vine? Why did those words haunt him, provoke him?
Quillan dropped to his knees, dropped his face to his hands, and dropped his guard, letting tears wash the bitterness from inside him. God, I only wanted a family. Only wanted love. He had yearned for it from the Shepards, looked for it again from the DeMornays. His last hope had been the DiGratias.
He folded his arms, bent over the bed, and laid his face down. He was a grown man. But to never know a father’s pride, a mother’s love . . . to never be accepted into that loving circle, that devotion he saw in the DiGratias’ fierce loyalty to each other. How would it feel to belong?
I am the vine.
He had turned twenty-nine today, with no one to mark the day, no one to even know. He was so terribly alone. He was worse for having known Carina’s love. That one taste would forever haunt him. If Carina were lost to him, what would he have?
I am the vine, ye are the branches. Abide in me. Abide in me.
The tension left his neck. His fisted hands unclenched, the tears stopped. Quillan opened his eyes. He had God. He had Jesus. Cain was right. God called the lowly, the motley, the ones everyone else rejected. He gripped Cain’s Bible and opened to the verses. Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.
Quillan straightened on his knees and clasped his mother’s locket. He had been looking for approval from men, desperate for love and acceptance from people. But it was God’s acceptance he’d received, God’s approval he needed. As long as he fought for the DiGratias’, the DeMornays’, the Shepards’ acclaim, he would not bear fruit. It was God he needed to please. God was the father who could look down with pride and say, “Well done, my son.”
A powerful yearning filled him. More than anything this world could give, he wanted that. More than the forty thousand dollars in the concealed box beneath his wagon, more than the esteem of men, even more than Carina’s love—he wanted to know he had done right in God’s eyes.
Breathing deep gulps of air, he recalled the verses in his mind. Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit; so shall ye be my disciples. As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you: continue ye in my love. His body started to shake. The bitterness, the pride, the resentment, the hurt. He saw them all part of another creature, not himself.
“Thank you, Father.” His voice was hoarse with tears, but they were no longer bitter. They were the tears Tennyson had written of, the tears Carina understood. They came and washed away his wall. He had a father who loved him. And his purpose was to do his Father’s will, whatever it was, to accept his lot and be content because God willed it. Nothing mattered more. Christ was the vine, and he the branch. Only abiding in God would bring him peace and make him fruitful.
Now, on his knees, he didn’t pray for God to show him His will; he prayed to be made worthy of it. Before, he had surrendered to a powerful God, knowing his fight was futile. Now he found God longing to draw him in, a loving, merciful God. If his Father meant him to lose Carina, then he would cling to the vine, a weak and damaged branch. But apart from the vine, he was nothing.
Carina watched the musicians play the Veronese melody on violin, mandolin, cello, and guitar. A tenor, whom she had not seen before, sang in full voice, and the timbre of it resonated inside her. He had a corpulent neck that vibrated like the throat of a bird when he sang, and she wondered if the beauty of the sound was enhanced by it.
Thankfully they were not intended to dance while the soloist entertained them. She could lose herself in the music and for a time forget. Closing her eyes she let the rising and falling notes surround her, until she focused on the words sung in Italian, words of love. And then suddenly all her thoughts went back to Quillan’s face as he stood by the pavilion in the plaza.
How dashing he had looked. For a moment she had hoped he would come to her, sweep her out of Papa’s grip, save her this humiliating farce. Would he truly wait for Papa’s permission? It would never come. Never. Mamma made it worse every night as they ate, extolling Flavio’s virtues.
So he was an artist. So what? So he came from an important family. So he painted like Botticelli and sang like an angel. So . . .
“Stop pouting, Carina. You look like a spoiled child,” Divina hissed in her ear. “You insult Papa.”
“How?”
Divina pinched her elbow. “Everyone knows you think you’re wronged. You don’t have to make it so obvious.”
Carina tugged her arm free. “That’s Papa’s problem.”
“How quickly we change.” Divina’s tone grated Carina’s nerves. “Papa’s little favorite, his tigre. She’s grown claws and will use them the first time she doesn’t get her way.”
“Shut up, Divina.”
“I know you.” Divina pressed her lips so close her breath filled Carina’s ear. “It’s Flavio you want to hurt. And when you’re done, you’ll discard that handsome rascal you’ve used to torment him.”
Carina spun. “You know nothing, Divina.”
Divina laughed and splayed her hand across her belly. “Oh, but I do.”
Shaking, Carina watched her sister walk away. Was it possible Divina hated her so much? And what about Papa? If he loved her c
ould he do the things he was doing? Had they all turned on her? Even as she wondered, she saw Mamma with Tia Gelsomina, Carina’s own godmother, heads together, sharing the same pained expression. Like Mamma, Gelsomina held her age well; an attractive woman, though shorter than Carina by inches. Widowed six years, she was much pursued, but Carina suspected she enjoyed the pursuit too much to choose a favorite suitor.
Carina could stand it no longer. She crossed over to them in spite of the discourtesy to the poor man singing at the front of the long room. She bent and kissed Gelsomina’s cheeks. “Madrina.”
“Look at you, so beautiful.” Her godmother wrapped her tightly in her arms. “But, tesora, you’re so thin!” she whispered. “You’ve been ill.”
“Only for a while. I’m so much better now.”
Gelsomina grasped her arms and held her out. “How can you be, this terrible business.” There was true compassion in her eyes. Gelsomina understood, hurt for her. “But there, now. It will come right.”
“How, Madrina?” She gave her mamma a sorrowful look. “Everyone is against me.”
Gelsomina stroked her arm. “No, no.”
“Only you understand.”
“Of course.” Gelsomina’s eyes were clear blue skies. “I am your godmother. I love you.”
Carina’s heart soared. If Gelsomina could— “As soon as this trouble is behind you—”
“Behind me?”
“Your papa will figure it out. He is wise.”
Papa, wise? Didn’t Gelsomina know it was his stubbornness that was causing all the trouble? “He is proud.”
“Of course he is, friend to the king. Such an important man.”
Carina frowned. Oh yes, Angelo Pasquale DiGratia, physician and advisor to Count Camillo Benso di Cavour, prime minister to Victor Emmanuel II, king of Sardinia-Piedmont. And now all of Italy. She knew it like a litany, had recited it herself often enough. Now it irked her. “There is no king in America, Madrina.”
“In Italy, my love.”
“We don’t live in Italy.”
Mamma said, “It lives in us. Forever our home.”
The singer finished and all applauded except Carina. She fixed her gaze on Mamma. “Then why did Papa leave? If it meant so much and he was so important, why did Papa leave?” Carina had been a little girl when her family and entourage had left Italy for Argentina. She had thought it a great adventure. But if Papa were so important, why did he leave what he had?
Mamma and Gelsomina shared a glance, and Carina looked from one to the other. For all the stories bantered about, that one she hadn’t heard. She had unintentionally hit on something. “Why, Mamma?”
Mamma waved her hand. “He wanted something better.”
“Better than friend to the king?” She knew how it worked. There were those with pedigree and power, and others without.
“You were too little to remember. Things were hard, unstable.”
Mamma was lying. Carina had seen it many times. Mamma colored the truth, brushed over it whenever it suited her.
Carina looked at Gelsomina. “Madrina?”
“In Argentina there was great opportunity.”
Carina jutted her chin. “Then why did he leave there, too?”
Mamma said, “To be part of the great America. For you and Divina and your brothers especially.”
Carina flung up her hand. “What is so great about America?”
“Two things.” Mamma’s expression intensified. “Freedom and land.”
“Papa had land.”
Mamma shook her head. “You don’t understand.”
They could go on in circles all night. Mamma did not want to tell her. If Gelsomina knew, she, too, would keep it secret. Why did it even matter? What did it have to do with her and Quillan? She felt a hand on her waist and knew without turning it was Flavio. Mamma’s face had a beatific glow, and Gelsomina nodded knowingly.
The music started, and Flavio leaned his mouth to her ear. “Do you remember the first time we danced, tesora mia?” He took her hand in his. “At Joseph’s wedding.”
She remembered. How her heart had soared! They’d been playmates, but that, that had been a turning point. She turned, met his melting gaze. Why did he persist? She saw the people watching them. It would be a terrible insult to refuse. She would incite Flavio’s wrath if she embarrassed him now, in front of everyone. So she allowed him to escort her to the floor. His hand on her waist was warm as they began the saltarello with a skipping step.
As they danced, his hands never left her, nor did his eyes. “You are beautiful tonight, my love.”
She swallowed her retort. She must not make a scene. Had he not heard her, not understood? Did he forget she loved another? No, there was something dark and taunting in his gaze. She spun, trying to ignore the warmth of his touch, which once had left her dizzy with dreams. What was this magnetism he had over all her family?
“You are my angel tonight. My cupid. I am under your spell.”
Words like that, from his lips, from his pen, had captivated her once. He took her into a twirl with his lips at her neck. She thought of Quillan in the plaza, alone.
“I love you, Carina. It consumes me.”
Madonna mia! What am I to do?
“The flames burn my heart, and I am helpless to resist.”
“Flavio . . .” Her voice broke. She didn’t want to hurt him. What she had dreamed of once was painful now. Signore, help me. Had she set it all in motion with her vengeful desire to strike back, to make him pay? How far would he go, driven by such fire?
She said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You are the death of me.” He pulled her out onto the balcony. Had he maneuvered them across the floor to do so?
“Please, Flavio, try to understand.”
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her with all the ardor and arrogance in him. Carina struggled. How dare he make a spectacle of her? Or was that his intention? Was Quillan in the plaza? She strained to see, but Flavio would not release her. He pinned her to the railing, his mouth stopping her breath.
She pressed her fists against him, but he wouldn’t stop the kiss. She kicked him as hard as she could through her skirts. He staggered back holding his leg. Her breath came in gasps as she searched the plaza in the dark. She could not see far, but she was certain she could be seen in the festive lights.
Was Quillan out there? Then Flavio grabbed her arms. “You can fight all you want, but I will win. I have everyone with me.”
“Why?”
He smiled a slow, melancholy smile and moved in to kiss her again.
She shoved him back. “I am a married woman.”
“Sham marriage. Sham husband. And soon you will be a widow.”
Her spine went cold. “That’s how you win my love?”
“I already have your love. I always have.”
She glowered. “Once maybe. But you disdained it.”
“I guarded and protected it, waiting for you to grow up.”
“Beh!” She expelled her breath with the gesture from her chin. “You did no waiting at all.”
He closed in, catching her waist between his hands. “I waited for you. Do you think I could not have had you if I wanted? You were butter in my hands. If I had once tried, you would have surrendered, just as the others.”
She flushed with anger. Did Papa know? Did Papa approve?
“But you I kept sacred. You, I would marry.”
“For that I should be grateful?” His face was so close now she turned hers to the side.
“You will be grateful. You will thank me for the rest of your life.”
“I will not.”
His lips touched her neck. She stiffened. “If you don’t let go this minute I will scream.” Would Quillan come to her defense? Was he out there now, thinking she invited this amorous attack? She pictured Quillan the avenger. What would happen to him if he threatened Flavio now?
But Flavio drew back. “Play your games, Car
ina. It only makes my victory sweeter.”
She didn’t answer. Anything she might say would only draw his ire back to Quillan. With a supremely haughty smile, he held out his arm. She fought the revulsion as she slipped her hand into it. The dancing inside was gay and lively as ever. Would Flavio push for another time with her on the dance floor?
But he bowed slightly and released her arm. “Grazie, tesora mia. I will dream of your kiss tonight.”
Instinctively her fingers went to her lips. He laughed, winked, and left her.
Omaccio! Cialtrone! All the names she had called Quillan when he was none of that rushed to her mind. She had to get out. She searched the room for her papa and found him in conversation with General Vallejo, the Mexican official welcomed as one of them. His pleasant face and lamb-chop whiskers nodded to Papa’s comment.
She drew herself up and approached them. “Forgive me, Papa, General.” She bowed her head to them in turn. “Papa, I’m not feeling well. I want to go home.”
His physician’s eye assessed her, no doubt seeing the flushed cheeks and quickened pulse. “Take some air, Carina. You’re overheated.”
“I am not overheated, Papa. I want to go home.”
How Papa’s Roman nose nudged upward when he was challenged. “The evening is cool. Stand a minute on the balcony.”
She turned with a huff. She’d had quite enough of the balcony!
“A spirited young woman.” The general said behind her.
“My little tigre,” Papa answered.
For a moment Carina wished she had claws to slice them both. Bene. If they would not take her home, she would take herself. Not immediately, when Papa’s eyes would be on her. But at the first opportunity.
When Papa’s attention was caught by a new soloist, a soprano in satin and feathers, Carina slipped out the door of the hall and hurried down the stairs. Let them miss her. She was leaving.
Stepping out into the night, she considered going to Quillan. She could not see him among those lingering around the pavilion. He must have gone to his room. She was at once relieved and disappointed. At least he would not have seen her with Flavio.
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 27