The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (33 page)

Quillan called for his wagon and team. “It’s not that you’ll melt. I don’t want to return you looking like a drowned kitten. Hold on a minute.” He went back and helped the liveryman harness his team, checking the animals and giving Jock a pat as he crossed to the bed. He pulled out his extra tarp. It was an ungainly cover at best, but he’d used it a time or two.

“Fine animals.” The man said.

“Yep.” Quillan laid the canvas tarp on the seat. Once he had Carina seated he’d arrange it.

“What did you say your name was?”

Quillan turned. “Quillan Shepard.”

“Well, Mr. Shepard, if you ever look to sell them, look here first.” The man held out his hand. “Corbaley’s the name.”

Quillan shook. “Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be looking to sell. These animals have been with me awhile, except for the gelding. Picked that one up when I lost this black’s twin.”

“A real twin?”

Quillan nodded. “Lost him in an avalanche.”

“Darn shame.”

Quillan felt a twinge, but the ache had passed. Together they led horses and wagon to the doors where Carina waited.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Miss DiGratia,” Corbaley said.

“Actually, she’s with me.” Quillan gave Carina a hand into the box that replaced the spring seat. “And it’s Mrs. Shepard.”

“Well.” Corbaley smiled. “I hadn’t heard. Felicitations.”

Quillan had to smile. If only. He mounted the box and snapped the lines. They lurched forward and he remembered the canvas. “Pull that canvas up over you, Carina.”

She did, and it tented her well enough. When they arrived at the DiGratia house, Quillan stopped outside the courtyard. The gates were closed, but he jumped down and unfastened the wrought-iron catch. Instead of taking the team and wagon in, he helped Carina down and gave her his arm. Together they walked through the courtyard to the door.

Dr. DiGratia opened it himself, reading the situation clearly enough. His frown was infused with indignation and grudging respect. He had to know Quillan could have kept her.

Quillan spoke first. “Dr. DiGratia, I’d like permission to see my wife.”

“See?” He quirked one arched eyebrow.

“See.” Let him read into that anything he liked.

Carina’s father stood a long time without speaking. Then he said, “It was also for your sake that I denied you before. You’re the cause of a broken contract.”

“The contract was broken before me, with better cause.”

“I know nothing of that.” Dr. DiGratia turned his gaze briefly on Carina. “I only know that my daughter begged leave for a time, distraught, yes. Against my better judgment, I let her travel. But nothing was said about breaking a valid contract to which I gave permission. As far as I’m concerned, that’s grounds to annul your claim.”

Annul his claim? After last night, after all their nights, their days, their struggle, their love? Annul the fact that they were one flesh, inseparable, indivisible except by death? “I request permission to see my wife.”

“I deny it. You have no business with her. I spoke with the priest. He’s looking into it.”

“Papa!” Carina’s voice broke. “How could you?”

“It is my responsibility.” He held himself stiffly, in firm control of his emotions.

Quillan admired his determination, and the irony was not lost on him. Hadn’t he told Carina again and again that the marriage was flawed, as he was flawed? Here was yet more proof. Quillan dropped his chin. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. But Carina is legally my wife.”

“There are things beyond the law. Moral codes.”

Quillan bristled. There was nothing immoral in his love for Carina, and it inflamed him to hear it.

Dr. DiGratia drew himself up imperiously. “I suggest you go.”

“Why, Papa?” Carina caught her father’s arm.

“Because you are my daughter. Now go inside.”

Quillan saw Carina stiffen, knew she would refuse. He said softly, “Go, Carina. This isn’t over yet.”

She looked up at him, confused and torn. He didn’t want her to be hurt. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what else to do. Carina went inside. Dr. DiGratia only looked at him, then followed his daughter inside and closed the door.

I am the vine, ye are the branches
.

“I don’t understand,” Quillan said to the closed door.

N
INETEEN

Matthew 8:20:

The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. What man am I to long for that which Christ himself denied? What right have I to hearth and home when Jesus bled and died?

—Quillan

F
IFULLY, CARINA DRESSED
. It was two days since Quillan had brought her home. Papa had willfully ignored her pleas and arguments, and now she was expected to accompany them to the Garibaldi Hotel for a ball in honor of some accomplishment of its namesake. Since everything Giuseppe Garibaldi, the unifier of Italy, had ever done was considered grounds for celebration, there was hardly a date that couldn’t suffice for some gala.

She looked at the dress Mamma had lovingly provided. Carina had to admit its stylish cut and lace-flounced bustle would set her off elegantly. If she could walk in on Quillan’s arm, she would be the happiest woman of all. But of course that was impossible.

Frustrated, she slid her arms into the dress, bowing inside it, then swooping up to let it descend over her in a white lacy cloud. She reached behind and started on the buttons. “Come in,” she called at the tap on the door.

Maria, the maid Mamma had retained from the mission, came in. Silently, she finished the row of buttons to Carina’s neck, then seated her at the maple vanity—no easy trick with the volume of her bustle. Then Maria brushed her hair, drawing out the tangles until it shone and crackled. Carina suffered it silently, upset by the attractive twists and rolls that Maria formed to enhance her beauty.

She didn’t want to look beautiful if Quillan were not there to see. What did she care that the other men would find her so? The other men and Flavio. She burned at the thought. She had not spoken with him since he made his threat, but she knew he would be there tonight. Was there any chance she could avoid him?

It was all so absurd. She should leave. Yet the thought of losing all her family was more than she could bear. Quillan had said it; to know she had broken Mamma’s heart, pained Papa, to never see Ti’Giuseppe, just as she had missed Nonna’s last days . . . She couldn’t do it. They were too much a part of her.

But wasn’t Quillan? Of course he was! And more.
Oh, Signore, it’s
too much for me
.

“Miss is unhappy?”

Maria’s voice startled Carina. But she looked at her own face in the mirror. As Quillan said, it was there for all the world to see. She sighed. “Unhappy and frustrated and confused.”

“I will pray for you.” Simple words from a simple heart.

“Maybe God will hear you.”

“God will hear.” Maria’s hands brought up the last strands of hair, worked them into a braid, and intertwined the braid with the roll on one side. She tucked it in with pearl hairpins. The effect was masterful and lovely.

Carina wanted to cry.

“It will be all right, miss.”

Quillan’s words. But it wasn’t all right. She should be with her husband, and more and more she knew it.

Since Solomon Schocken had not needed him that evening, Quillan perched at the picnic pavilion in the plaza and watched the goings on at the Garibaldi House, the arrivals of the Italian powers-that-be. He was coming to realize they held more sway than he’d imagined. Tuscans and Sardinians, used to their elite roles in the old world, had set up their miniature kingdoms in the new.

He was feeling bitter. They weren’t all that way, but unfortunately the others seemed cowed and followed their lead. The men at the quarry had turned distinctly cold and gave him dark glares when he tried to communicate. The men loaded his wagon sullenly, making his team stand longer and his loads fewer. He found himself doing the bulk of it himself, and he felt it now in his back. But it was better to work alone and be effective than stymied by the others.

He rubbed his back. So Carina was right. Flavio held sway with the men at the quarry. Or the community at large accommodated her father in refusing to acknowledge him. A depressing thought. Again rejection was becoming a goad.

Another carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. With a flourish, Flavio emerged, followed by a shorter man—Nicolo, wasn’t it? They’d been together in the courtyard when Quillan first brought Carina home. Yes, because Nicolo now helped Carina’s sister from the conveyance. Would Carina be next?

A rush of fire inside warned him he was at a dangerous point. But Carina did not get out of that carriage, and it was led away. The next held an older couple, very elegant in bearing, he in a black Prince Albert coat and walking stick, and she bearing so much fabric it was amazing her back didn’t snap.

The next carriage to arrive came from First Street East. It was open to the air, and as it approached, he saw clearly Dr. DiGratia’s head and shoulders. His wife was beside him, and Carina must have been facing backward, hidden by the driver and team.

What would they say if he walked up to greet them, took Carina on his arm, and went into the hotel? He wore the getup he’d assembled for his about-town times, beige ankle-length pantaloons, white shirt, green quilted vest and cravat, with a brown broadcloth coat over all. He looked passing fine, if he did say so. He’d tied his hair back, which in his opinion, looked as pirate as leaving it loose, but drew less attention. And though his mustache was as brazen as ever, he’d removed the beard that had accumulated over the last four days.

He stood up as the carriage halted before the doors of the imposing front of the Garibaldi House with its red, white, and green flag and the motto
Italia Unita
proudly across the front. United Italy. Yes, indeed, they knew how to unite. His throat tightened painfully as Mr. DiGratia handed Carina down. She looked like an angel in white lace.

As she lighted, she looked about . . . for him? He stepped out from the pavilion, and for a moment their eyes met. Then her father put his hand to her elbow, and they went inside the doors beneath the ornate balcony upon which several young men stood with mandolins and guitars, serenading the partygoers’ entrance.

Stiffly Quillan sat back down. What had he expected? That she would run to him and desert all else—the trappings, the patriotic music that carried across the plaza and promised dancing within. His gut wrenched. What was God doing?

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?