Tangled Vines

by Janet Dailey

  With the approach of spring, both went to the vineyards for the second pruning, the green pruning, the critical one both in timing and extent. Albert Girardin, the chateau’s horticulturist, took them from plant to plant, and taught them to imagine the bare cane fully grown. From that mind picture, the plant was pruned so the branches and leaves matched the root area.

  Albert later told Claude’s grand-pere that he wished the other workers learned as quickly as these Americans. He also admitted, with some embarrassment, that the madam showed a remarkable affinity for the vine, unusual in a woman. Claude was very proud of that.

  That summer was a joyous time. There were many guests at the chateau, many parties. Sometimes at night, when he was sure his grand-pere was asleep, Claude would sneak out of the cottage and slip through the moon-silvered vineyards to the chateau, aglow with elegance from dozens of windows.

  Lively music from within filled the night air; jazz, they called it. The guests would be assembled in the grand salon, the men resplendent in their black tailcoats, worn open over double-breasted white waistcoats and sharply creased black trousers, their hair gleaming with brilliantine. And the ladies in their slim gowns shimmering with beaded fringe and trailing satin ribbons and chiffon scarves, ropes of pearls hanging from their necks to below the waist. How beautiful they all looked, how sophisticated with their long cigarette holders and crystal glasses of champagne. Always, always Claude was relieved when he located the madam among the guests, and saw again that none were as beautiful as she. Only then did he sneak back to his cottage and his bed.

  Autumn came, with no hint of the tragedy it was to bring. On a crisp September morning, the monsieur drove away from the chateau. He waved to Claude and shouted that he was off to select cuttings to take home to America with them. The madam was not with him. Their youngest son, Gilbert, was ill with a fever; a doctor was coming to treat him.

  How unfortunate to be unwell on such a glorious day, Claude thought, looking at the mist sparkling on the Gironde. Somewhere a lark trilled a greeting to the rising sun, its golden light glinting on the dew-wet leaves in the vineyard and casting deep shadows between the rows. The air smelled good, fresh. It was indeed a glorious day.

  It wasn’t until late that afternoon when Claude returned from school that he learned the terrible news the American monsieur had been killed in a motoring accident. He had swerved to avoid a horse-drawn cart and lost control of his vehicle. It had careened off the road-and overturned, killing the monsieur instantly.

  A pall hung over the estate that not even the bright sun could penetrate. That evening, when the day’s work was done, the workers gathered, men, women, and children collecting in small groups, tongues clicking at the tragedy of it, heads shaking, everyone remembering....

  “The monsieur, he must have been traveling too fast. He was always in a hurry, wanting to know everything, wanting to know it immediately.” “Oui, the monsieur and his endless questions.” “The poor madam, how she must be grieving. She went with him everywhere.” “Oui, they were always together...until today.” “If she had gone with him, their children would have lost both their parents. It was the will of God that her youngest should be sick this day of all days.” “The malady is not a serious one. Already the fever has come down.”

  Claude stood among them, listening. He was too big to cry. But he wanted to, for her, his beautiful madam. Who would look after her now? Who would protect her and keep her from harm?

  A private Mass was held the following day for the American monsieur Clayton Rutledge. The families of every Worker assembled at the pebbled courtyard of the chateau’s front entrance and waited for the madam to return. Shawls covered the women’s heads, their clothes as somber as the gray skies above. Like the other men, Claude wore a black arm band around his sleeve as a symbol of mourning.

  He saw the cars pass through the iron gates and make the long, and slow, return trip down the white graveled drive to the chateau. When they stopped in front of the assemblage, he respectfully removed his cap.

  The patron himself assisted the madam from the car. She was draped in black – shoes, dress, gloves, veil, and cloche hat. She paused when she saw the workers who had gathered. She took a tighter grip on the hand of her oldest son, a boy of eight or nine in short pants, his hair a lighter shade of yellow than his father’s. He looked confused, and frightened. The youngest, it was said, was still in bed but greatly improved.

  Claude passed over the young boy to dwell on his beautiful madam. When she stepped forward to face the large crowd, she didn’t bow her head, but lifted it higher. Her shoulders were not curved in grief but squared and proud. Yet, through the veil, Claude could see the shine of wet cheeks, and his heart went out to his poor, brave madam.

  When she spoke, her voice never wavered, never broke, but reached out to them clear and pure. “You do my husband a great honor by coming here today. The days he spent with you, learning from you, were among the happiest of his life. I thank you for that. In the days and years ahead, when I remember these times, I promise I will remember the happiness we knew, not the grief, for I have memories I shall treasure always. And when you think of my husband, I hope you will remember him with fondness, as I shall remember all of you.”

  Then she went around and shook each hand, save for Claude’s. Soon she would be leaving and he could not bear that. He slipped away, unnoticed, and hid in the vineyard. There, among the vines and the purple-black grapes, he let the tears stream down his cheeks and his broad shoulders shake with silent sobs.

  Every morning for a week, Claude woke up with a sick feeling of dread that this would be the day she would leave. But the week passed and she was still there, though he had not seen her venture from the chateau once in all that time.

  He kicked a rock in front of him, walked dully after it, and used the scuffed toe of his shoe to send it flying again toward the winery, lifting his head only to look at the black spires of the chateau rising above the wall of poplars. It was the eve of vintage, yet Claude felt none of the excitement he’d experienced at previous harvests.

  He saw his grand-pere outside the winery, talking with the patron, not a particularly noteworthy event for this time of year. He slowed his steps even more. His grand-pere would not welcome an interruption now, and the evening meal, prepared by the wife of Albert the horticulturist, would stay warm on the cooking range back at the cottage.

  Thinking of the madam in seclusion at the chateau, Claude stared at the baron and idly shoved the dry, pebbly soil around with his toe. The baron looked stern, and a little sad. He seemed to be the one doing all the talking; Claude’s grand-pere responded with little more than an occasional curt nod. This was not a normal exchange, Claude thought, and looked more closely at his grand-pere. How rigid he held himself, and his face-it was stiff with anger.

  This was a curious thing. His grand-pere was frequently impatient, frequently irritated, but angry? Claude could not recall that.

  His grand-pere made a stiff bow to the baron and walked off. He came straight toward Claude and walked past him without a word, without a glance. Tears. Were those tears he had seen in the eyes of his grand-pere? For a moment, Claude was too stunned by the sight to move. Then he ran after him, to make certain his own eyes hadn’t deceived him.

  When he caught up with him, one single tear laid a wet track down his grand-pere’s craggy cheek. “Grand-pere. What is wrong? What has happened?”

  But he received no answer as his grand-pere opened the door to the cottage and gave it a violent push, sending it banging into the wall. It swung back toward Claude. He caught it and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. His grand-pere stood at the trestle table in the kitchen, his hands braced on the top of it, his head bowed.

  “Grand-pere.” Claude took a cautious step toward him, then stopped.

  His grand-pere pushed off the table and stalked to the small window, looking out
with a scowl on his face. “As of today, I am no longer maitre de chai.” His voice was low and gruff, thick with outrage. “Andre Paschal is to take my place.”

  Claude stared at him. This was not possible. “Wh-what?”

  “The patron” – he almost sneered the word – “says I am too old. That for the good of the wine it is time for me to step aside. Too old!” He slammed his open palm on the worktable that held the washbasin, and Claude jumped at the explosive sound it made. “My father was maitre de chai when he was eighty. I have many more good years left in me. But he cannot see that.” He swung around and shook his finger at Claude. “This would not happen if the old patron were still alive.

  The old patron had died before Claude was born. He had never known any patron but the baron he now served. He stared at his grand-pere, wide-eyed, struggling to take this all in, to figure out what it meant.

  “What will happen?”

  His hand dropped to his side and he again stood stiffly facing the window. “I am to be pensioned off. For my years of service, I have been given a cottage and three acres of vineyards -“ He paused and started to tremble. “- in the fifth growth district! I, Girard Stephen Louis Broussard, who was born in the Medoc, in the first-growth district.” He bellowed the words and punched a fist against his chest in emphasis. “I, who have spent a half century of years making the finest of wines, I am now relegated to spending my final years making vin ordinaire. Not because I have lost the knowledge, the skill, or the experience to make a premier Bordeaux. Non, it is, because the patron thinks I am too old.”

  His grand-pere fell silent and they both stood motionless for a long time, thinking their own thoughts. For Claude, this was the only place he had ever known, the only home he had ever had. Soon he would be leaving it, just as the madam would. He had thought he would grow to manhood at Chateau Noir, that one day he would be maitre de chai, that he would make wines in which he could take pride. Now...now, he didn’t know what would become of him, of them.

  At last his grand-pere turned from the window, a sound of disgust coming from his throat. “The food grows dry. Let us eat.”

  He dished the food from the warming pots, slapping it onto the plates. They sat down at the table and each went through the motions of eating, but most of the food had to be scraped from their plates when they were done.

  Later that evening, after the sun went down, Claude sat at the table, his schoolbook open in front of him, a lamp burning beside it. His grand-pere sat in the dark by the fire, its flickering light playing over his face, giving it the look of old leather, all cracked and dry. Hands that had known the purple grape stains of fifty years of harvests dangled limply from the ends of the chair’s wooden armrests. Tonight he looked old, old and broken in spirit. Claude wanted to say something to him, but he didn’t know the words. Finally he turned back to the blurring print on the pages of his schoolbook.

  There was a knock at the door. Claude started to scramble from his chair, but his grand-pere waved him back to his schoolwork and went to answer it himself.

  It was the madam! Claude gaped when she walked through the doorway. With a snap of fingers and an impatient wave of a hand, his grand-pere sent Claude scurrying to light more lamps and chase the night’s heavy shadows from the room. He was embarrassed by the humbleness of their kitchen and common room, recognizing the poorness of the wall’s whitewashed plaster after having glimpsed the silk-covered walls in the chateau.

  When his grand-pere pulled out a wooden chair for the madam, Claude raced to get a clean cloth to cover it. But when he came back with one that he had found in his mother’s trunk of things, Madam was already seated, speaking quietly to his grand-pere. Claude stood just beyond the pool of light from the lamp and stared, still unable to believe the madam was here in his cottage.

  She wore the black of mourning, but no veil screened her face. It was composed and pale, without a trace of rouge on her cheeks or red on her lips. Yet she was beautiful. And her eyes, their look fixed intently on his grand-pere, they seemed to burn. Not with anger or temper. It was something different, a kind of power perhaps.

  Her words drifted to him. Claude stepped closer to catch all of them.

  “. . . the dream my husband and I shared to one day make wines as fine as any in France. I am going to fulfill that dream, but I cannot do it alone. I shall require help. I need your help, Monsieur Broussard.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes. I will require your assistance to help me select strong, healthy cuttings. I will need you, and your grandson” – she glanced briefly at Claude – “to come to California with me to help plant the vines and take care of them. Until the day comes when Prohibition is repealed, you will be able to make wines only for the church and medicinal uses. We – I have a permit that allows that,” she inserted, then continued. “In the meantime, it will take several years for the vines to grow and mature to the stage where they produce grapes with the potential to make a fine wine. Will you do this, Monsieur Broussard? Will you go to America with me and become my maitre de chai?”

  Claude waited for his grand-pere to speak, afraid to hope, afraid to breathe. For a long time his grand-pere was silent, then he nodded and lifted his head.

  “I have heard much about America and the bad wine you make,” he said and Claude nearly moaned aloud at the trace of contempt in the voice of his grand-pere. “Perhaps you need a Frenchman to show you the way to make a good one.”

  A small smile lifted the corners of Madam’s mouth. “Then you will go with me?”

  “I will.”

  Claude could have whooped for joy, but he contained his excitement until the madam had departed. His grandfather closed the door, then turned to Claude and winked.

  “Too old, eh?”

  “We are going to America. We are going to America!” Claude threw himself at his grand-pere and hugged him fiercely.

  There was much to be done, cuttings to be purchased, arrangements to be made, belongings to be packed, passage to be booked. It was late winter before they sailed from Bordeaux.

  Claude stood among the shiny fermentation tanks, no longer the husky young boy he had been when he first arrived at Rutledge Estate, but an old man, as weathered and lined as his grand-pere had been..

  How odd that he should remember the place of his birth so vividly after all these years. The jutting towers and spires of the chateau, its blackened walls, a lark spiraling toward the sun, the chirrup of the grasshoppers, the vineyards along the banks of the Gironde, the taste of the stew made by Albert’s wife, the scent of lavender and roses from the formal garden at the chateau the music, the beaded dresses – what had brought the memories back so sharply to him? Had it been the madam’s reference to the new baron? Or the mention of her youngest son, Gilbert?

  Did it matter? It was all so long ago. This was his home now, his true home. He looked about him, a contented smile cracking his face. He knew every inch of this old building, every corner and every crevice, every sound and every smell. He knew its every secret, and kept them.

  He had a small stone house on the property, where he slept. But this winery was his home, this was where he spent his waking hours, where he ate his meals, where he made wines every bit as fine as those from Chateau Noir.

  Wine. He must prepare his home to receive this year’s vintage. Time. Where did it go? It seemed to pass so quickly now, he thought, and hurried off to check the new cooperage.

  The low building a short distance from the brick winery had once been a stable for the draft horses that had pulled the wagons and plows on the estate. Twenty years ago it had been converted into offices, the stall doors bricked halfway up, the openings framed in, and windows installed. The stall partitions had been knocked down and sturdier ones erected to divide the building into comfortably sized rooms. Oak flooring covered the old concrete.

  An ancient live oak stood outside, its great li
mbs arched over it to keep the building in shade most of the day. Sam passed beneath it and entered the former stable.

  Gaylene Westmore, a buxom brunette who acted as receptionist, secretary, mail clerk, file clerk, and general do-everything, was on the phone. Without a break in her conversation, she picked up a sheaf of messages from her desk and handed them to him, tapping the top one. It was from a distributor in the Northwest pleading for five cases of the ‘86 Reserve cabernet. Sam doubted they could send him more than one but he’d check the inventory on his computer.

  He heard the clack of a computer and headed down the old stable corridor to the accounting section. He stopped in long enough to give Johnson’s time card to Andy Halsted and let him know Claude had fired Johnson.

  “We’ll have to document this, Sam. List the cause and circumstances.”

  “Leave the necessary form on my desk. I’ll fill it out and sign it,” Sam told him, fully aware that Claude didn’t do forms, certainly never in any timely fashion.

  Retracing his steps, Sam headed down the corridor to his own office at the opposite end of the building. The stable’s old, hand-hewn beams had been left exposed, giving the room a slightly rustic look. A scarred and battered mahogany desk sat by the window.

  Sam had run across it seven years ago when Katherine had sent him up to the attic to bring down the Christmas decorations. He’d dragged it downstairs, along with an old tintype of his great-great-grandfather George Simpson Rutledge, the first Rutledge to own the estate, seated behind this very desk.

  When Katherine realized he intended to put it in his office, she’d taken one look at the desk and said, “You are going to have it refinished.”

  “As soon as I can get around to it,” he had replied.

  Of course he hadn’t. He liked the scratches and gouges, the ink stains and cigar burns; they gave the desk character. The old tintype held a prominent place in the bookcase on the wall behind the desk, tucked between volumes on viticulture and enology while sharing space with an old spectrophotometer, a broken wine thief, and some calibrated glass tubes.