Tangled Vines (19 page)

“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 limbs 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.

The scratchy horsehair sofa along the opposite wall was another of Sam's attic finds. A more uncomfortable piece of furniture had never been made. It was reserved for salesmen he didn't like and wanted to get rid of quickly. A pair of wing chairs, covered in burgundy leather and studded with brass, faced the desk, castoffs from the library at the main house. The walls were painted a soft green, picking up the colors in the sisal rug that stretched over most of the oak floor. Their bareness was covered by a collection of rare Audubon prints and botanical drawings of vinifera vines.

Sam crossed to the desk and hooked his hat on a modern sculpture that supposedly depicted Bacchus, the Roman god of wine. A stack of completed questionnaires and government forms occupied the center spot on his desk, awaiting his signature. The state and county ag reports and the questionnaire from the wine association he skimmed before affixing his signature and the date at the bottom. The monthly report for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, giving the amount of wine in cask and storage, the amount of bonded wine, and the amount Rutledge Estate paid taxes on, Sam took with him as he rolled his chair over to the computer terminal to verify the figures listed.

Satisfied with their accuracy, he rolled back to the desk. As he reached for his pen to sign the report, Katherine walked in. He raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

“At last I have caught up with you,” she stated in a cool tone that implied censure. “I have been through half the winery looking for you.”

It was rare for Katherine ever to seek him out. “What's wrong?” He motioned toward a wing chair, inviting her to take a seat, but she ignored the gesture and continued to stand.

“Gil has invited the baron and his wife to spend some time in Napa Valley. Emile has accepted.” Her words were clipped. “He feels he owes Gil the courtesy of inspecting his facilities and operation. While he is here, he naturally plans to spend some time at Rutledge Estate as well.”

“When is he coming?” Sam went ahead and signed the report.

“In two weeks.”

He lifted his head, frowning slightly. “Then he must intend to stay through crush.”

“Obviously.” She walked to the window by the horsehair sofa and looked out the panes at the view of the old brick winery, both hands resting atop the carved head of her cane. “You do realize that Emile will be specifically looking you over. Gil has planted doubts that you have the ability to run a large winery on your own.”

“He would have missed a good opening if he hadn't,” Sam replied dryly. “The whole valley knows you run Rutledge Estate. All the major decisions come from you. My role here is simply to carry them out.”

She turned her head to cast him one of her cool, challenging stares. “I expect you to remove those doubts while Emile is here.”

Amused, Sam rocked back in his chair. “How do you propose I do that, Katherine, when I have never been able to convince you of my ability?”

Startled by his frankness, Katherine stiffened. Her own lack of faith in him was something she had never discussed with him. Nor did she intend to address it now.

“That is not the issue here,” she insisted.

“But it is,” Sam countered. “If you truly believed I could run the winery on my own, you never would have contacted the baron in the first place, would you?”

“I have never questioned your dedication to your work. As a manager, you are more than adequate.”

“That's called being damned by faint praise, Katherine.” His smile was hard and cool.

Irritated that he should persist on this topic, Katherine retorted, “By nature, you are much too easygoing.”

“Easygoing.” He steepled his fingers in a pose of mock thoughtfulness. “I suppose I was too easy on Dougherty when I took his rifle from him and didn't ram it down his throat after he shot at my men. And last year when you were laid up after your fall, I filed suit against Rutcliff Winery in Sonoma and got an injunction to stop them from distributing wine they had bottled under a label that was all but identical to ours. You were upset when I dropped the suit after they agreed to make substantial changes in their label design. You wanted to continue the litigation, force them to pay damages, make an example of them to other wineries. In my opinion, there was no need to get involved in a costly legal battle.”