The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (27 page)

Quillan looked out through the courtyard gate to the land beyond— terraced and lined with vines, smelling of damp earth and sunshine . . . Something stirred again like a tug inside his chest. He slid the trunk down and laid it on the cobblestones. Carina sighed. “What now?”

He straightened. “I don’t know.”

Carina’s brother Lorenzo, he thought, came into the yard and stood, arms crossed. Quillan gave him a nod. “Lend a hand?” He took one trunk handle.

Lorenzo just stood. Quillan couldn’t manage the trunk up the stairs by himself, so he set his end down and climbed into the wagon. He filled his arms with smaller bundles and bags, then jumped down. He passed Lorenzo near enough to sense the combative aura. Ignoring it, Quillan carried the bundles to the room, then returned.

Another brother had joined Lorenzo. Quillan wasn’t sure which one; Tony, he guessed, the youngest. Together they carried Carina’s trunk past him and up the stairs. Quillan took a crate that held books and met the two brothers coming down the stairs. They neither turned nor retreated, so he backed down and let them pass, then started up again, every tendon tense. He hoped Carina appreciated his restraint. But then he realized that wasn’t why he did it. Not for her approbation, but just because it was right.

She was still sitting at the fountain when he went back out. Both Tony and Lorenzo went up with a crate of books. Between Carina’s collection and his own, there were several trips’ worth. Quillan followed them up with another. They worked silently, emptying the wagon of all but the furniture—Carina’s bed, lamp, washstand, and table.

“Bring the mules, Vittorio,” Lorenzo called.

Quillan noted which brother that was and waited while he brought a pair of mules to pull the wagon. Quillan covered the bed again with the tarp, then tied it securely. He didn’t want any moisture to damage the wooden furnishings. He felt as protective of Carina’s things now as he’d been careless before. She didn’t seem to care. Her tears had left her listless.

When Vittorio led the mules and wagon to the barn, Quillan sat down beside her at the fountain. Even that much made Lorenzo bristle. Couldn’t a man sit beside his wife? Not if the man didn’t belong, was a usurper, an outsider. That was what Lorenzo’s glare said.

“Is all this land your father’s?” Quillan spoke as naturally as he could manage.

Carina stood up. “Come. I’ll show you.” She walked stiffly toward the gate.

Angelo materialized there. “The ground is wet.”

“We won’t go into the vineyard.”

“Go into the house. See what Mamma needs.”

Carina drew herself up. “Get out of my way. I want to show my husband our land.”

“It’s not his land.”

Carina’s hands tightened at her sides. Though he had enjoyed seeing her kick Lorenzo, Quillan touched her shoulder now. “Another time, Carina.”

“No.” She stamped her foot. “This is my home. I will go where I please.”

Angelo moved aside enough that Carina could pass if she wished, but Quillan was blocked. She turned and stalked to the house. Quillan held Angelo’s gaze a full ten seconds before following. He found Carina in their room. She had opened the trunk and thrown her clothing over the bed. “They are insufferable! They think—”

“I’m after what you have.”

She spun. “That’s the only way you would marry me? Is that what they think?”

“I doubt they’ve gone as far as rape and pillage. But they don’t put me past plundering.”

“It’s not funny, Quillan!” She stamped her foot again.

“I’m not laughing.” He pulled her into his arms, dismayed when she started to cry again. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh!” She threw up her hands.

Quillan caught them. “Give it time. They’re shocked and angry.” Especially Flavio, whom he noticed Carina avoided mentioning. “They’ll get used to me.”

“Oh, you don’t know.” She turned away and picked up a blouse from the bed. “Bearing a grudge is an art around here.”

Quillan raised her chin. “They can’t hate me forever.”

“This life and the next.”

Quillan reached for the blouse, draped it under her chin. “Isn’t this the one we fetched off the mountain?”

She nodded.

“You hated me then. But see, I’ve brought you clean around.”

She slid her arms around his waist.

He kissed her, whispering,
“T’amo.”
Saying “I love you” in her language gave him a warmth that smothered all other concerns. If emotion brought forth Italian, Italian definitely brought emotion. But now was not the time. “I think I’ll wash up.”

“How can you do this?” Her fists came up between them.

“Do what?” He caught her fists in his palms.

“Act as though nothing is wrong?”

What could he tell her? He’d spent most of his life acting as though things didn’t hurt, hiding his fear, his feelings. He wanted to be real with her, as she was with him, but he didn’t know how. He kissed the crown of her head and released her. Then he gathered up his suit and went into the water closet.

Carina stared at the closed door behind which her husband disappeared. Had she missed something? Failed to understand the brutal looks from her brothers, Ti’Giuseppe’s warning? Why did Quillan think this a lark? She had brought him into danger.

She spun and paced the room. She had thought Papa would be gracious even though she had insulted him by not seeking his blessing. She had thought Mamma might be difficult but would come around when she saw their love. She had imagined her brothers playful and adoring as they used to be. Had she changed everything so much?

And then she considered the heart of it. Flavio. She had expected him to marry Divina. Hadn’t she? Or had she known bringing Quillan would be a slap to him? She searched inside, trying to see if there was a motive she had ignored. Yes, she had left with impure intentions. But the Lord had bought her for a price. He had brought her through more than she wanted to think. Even now, when her mind touched all she’d suffered, the hurt was fresh and raw.

No, she hadn’t come home to punish Flavio, hadn’t brought a husband to flaunt in his face. She had only wanted the safety and love of her people. But she
had
taken wicked delight in Flavio’s shock. “Signore, forgive me.”

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.