Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “We couldn’t ask for nicer weather,” said Rowena as they reached the outskirts of Santa Rosa and slowed again to pass through the small city.

  “It is quite beautiful,” Saint-Germain agreed. “Geyserville is not much farther, is it?”

  Rowena laughed. “You saw the map.”

  “Yes, but you have actually been here,” Saint-Germain reminded her. “You know what’s ahead because you’ve seen it.”

  “Not for a couple of years. They’ve been improving the road. Another one of FDR’s projects, I believe.” She pointed to the line of hills ahead of them on the left. “There are still many stands of redwoods as you go along this highway.”

  “We have passed logging trucks in the south-bound lane,” he said as they stopped for a traffic light. “Not much farther.”

  “Do you know how to find the winery once we get there?” Rowena asked. She had taken stock of the dry, khaki-colored, velvety hills that framed Santa Rosa, with their occasional clusters of trees, and knew that once they were out of the town, they would be a long way from the usual comforts she was accustomed to have around her. This did not trouble her; she was prepared for roughing it a little.

  “I have the directions he gave me on the telephone last night, and he said, if we need better instructions, to call from Healdsburg. There’s a café in the middle of town with a telephone booth just inside the door, according to Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain. “Why are you so nervous? I hope you don’t regret accompanying me.”

  “No; it’s not that. You said he knows I’m coming,” she said. “I’m not the kind of surprise most hosts like to have.” She smoothed her tan twill slacks and touched her natural-leather handbag; she looked casually elegant, sleek, and informal at once, in the fashion made popular by Hollywood, her roan hair tied with a long scarf of soft, brocaded silk in a bronze shade that almost matched her dark gold eyes and complemented her olive-green linen blouse.

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I arranged to bring you with me this time; he knows you’re an artist specializing in land- and cityscapes. He was quite impressed. I’m fairly certain he’ll be delighted to have you visit.” Saint-Germain looked down at his gas gauge. “I think we should fill up the tank at the next opportunity.”

  “Shall I look for a gas station? There must be one along this stretch of road, for travelers. Out here in the country, they often have them at general stores or garages.” She adjusted the side-wing so that the dusty wind did not blow directly on her.

  “If you would, unless you recall where one was,” he said, starting ahead on the green light.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” she said.

  They found a Texaco station on the north side of town, and Saint-Germain ordered the scruffy young attendant to fill the fuel tank. After paying for the gasoline, they got back on the road, continuing on up the Redwood Highway. Thirty minutes later they entered Geyserville; Saint-Germain began looking for Geyser Creek Road, and turned right onto it, following out along a graveled two-lane way for three miles. The only signs of humanity, were the road itself, the barbed-wire fences, and the telephone poles.

  “He really is out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t he?” Rowena asked, then pointed. “Look. Grapes. We must be getting close.”

  “These vines have been recently harvested,” Saint-Germain observed. “If they are picking, it must be in another plantation.”

  “Then we must be getting near the place,” said Rowena, looking around more carefully.

  Saint-Germain nodded. “There should be a gate in the next half-mile.” He could see in the rearview mirror the boiling dust behind the Packard.

  “Which side of the road?” she asked.

  “The right,” said Saint-Germain, braking as a covey of quail burst from the weeds at the roadside and scurried across their path.

  “There’s the gate. It’s flanked by two stone lambs, just as he said it would be,” said Rowena, pointing. “Shall I get out and open it?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Saint-Germain, pulling the Packard to cross the cattle-guard that fronted the gate. He set the hand-brake and put the transmission in neutral, then got out and went to open the metal-framed gate. Returning to the car, he drove through, then braked again and went back to close the gate. “He said it’s half-a-mile to the house. It’s in a stand of oak, on the far side of the rise.”

  “With this one road, and the telephone poles, we can’t miss it,” she said, with an amused glance toward him, so nattily dressed in his black linen suit and immaculately white shirt; even his perfectly knotted dark red bow tie belonged more to a resort than a winery.

  They crested the rise and saw, almost directly in front of them, tucked into a hollow of the rising hill, a sprawling, two-story house painted a pale terra-cotta shade with white trim built in an Italianate version of Carpenter Gothic, an L-shaped structure with a broad flagstone terrace in the bend of the L. It was shaded by a half-dozen scrub oaks that hovered around the house like huge, anxious, dark green hens. There was a small barn a short distance from the house, and a cluster of small cabins on the far side of the barn. The winery itself was off to the side of the house on the side opposite to the barn, a large stone building built up against and back into the hill. From somewhere a short distance away came the sound of machinery and occasional imperative shouts.

  Saint-Germain pulled up in the circular drive in front of the house and stopped the Packard. “I assume we’re here,” he said to Rowena, and got out of the car.

  As he opened her door for her, she looked around her. “What a wonderful place. Just look at that house! I’m surprised Sunset hasn’t done a piece on it.”

  “They might not know it exists,” said Saint-Germain, cocking his head toward the road they had just driven. “It is not exactly on the beaten path.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said, and reached back into the car for her sketch pad. “Do you think Mr. Pietragnelli would mind?”

  “I have no notion. You will have to ask him when he comes.” Saint-Germain checked his watch. “We’re almost on time.” He started toward the front door, only to be stopped by a stentorian shout.

  “Il padrone!” A man in work-clothes surged across the yard between the winery and the house; he had a fringe of disordered, greying curls that made his pate all the more obvious; his eyes were small and black as raisins, very animated beneath his tufted brows. His face showed years of use, leaving it rumpled and friendly as an unmade bed. “Il signor’ Conte! Benvenuto a la casa mia!” He clapped his hands as he came, his grin infectious.

  “Signor Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain, for surely it was he. “Che piacer. I am delighted to meet you at last.”

  “Ed io lo stesso,” enthused Carlo Pietragnelli as he reached Saint-Germain and laid claim to his hand, shaking it vigorously. “You come in good time.” His English was excellent, almost without accent, but the cadences in which he spoke it were entirely Italian.

  “Your instructions were very clear and there were only two delays on the road.” He extricated his hand.” This is a fine place you have here.”

  “É tanto bene. It is well enough,” he said with required modesty belied by his stance. “But it will be better. I have bought a new plantation in Knights Valley, to the east of here, and another near Calistoga, in Napa County.” He pointed to the southeast. “My daughter Sophia and son-in-law, Ethan, live in Calistoga, and he is presently running that operation for me. So I have the best of the region—Sonoma and Napa Counties. In ten years, who knows what will be possible?” He bounced on his heels. “But enough of such matters. Let me welcome you to my house as if to your own; for without you, I would no longer have it.” He turned to Rowena. “And this is your ospide—your guest?” His smile found a way to broaden. “It is a real pleasure to welcome you, Signora Saxon, to my home. It is an honor to have you here. I am told you are a fine artist. I look forward to seeing your work and to the joy of your company.”

  Rowena held
out her hand to him, and had it kissed. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Pietragnelli.” She indicated her sketch pad. “I hope you won’t mind if I do a few studies of your marvelous home?”

  “Why should I mind to have such a kindness done for me?” he asked the world at large. “You must sketch to your heart’s content, cara doña.”

  “Thank you,” she said, a bit nonplussed by his relentless cordiality.

  “Well, come inside. It is time for lunch, in any case, and my men will be taking their hour of rest” He stumped up the four broad steps onto the covered verandah and made for the front door. “Come in. Prego.”

  The interior was cool and comfortably worn, nothing shabby, but everything having the unmistakable look of appreciative use. Most of the furniture was older, but the carpet in the entry hall looked newer than most of the furnishings. There were framed pictures on the wall, and a cluster of photographs on the Chickering cabinet grand piano in the parlor, which stood on the left side of the entry hall; the parlor had two sets of French doors leading to the terrace, but Pietragnelli led them straight ahead, past the broad staircase to the upper floor, and into a sunny dining room.

  “This is a beautiful room, Mr. Pietragnelli,” said Rowena, setting her sketch pad down on the window seat and looking at the fine bay window that made everything so luminous. Fine lace curtains filtered the light, making the room seem slightly hazy, and softened the three place-settings in white stoneware and good glass that were laid at one end of the long dining table.

  “It is the heart of a house, the dining room, don’t you think?” He went to hold a chair for her. “If you will be seated, I’ll bring you some wine in a moment. I have soup and bread and cheese for lunch. And, of course, wine. I hope you will join me for the meal.” After a short hesitation, he said, “My workers get soup, as well, and bread. On days like this, they are served in the field. When it is cold, I serve them in the winery.”

  “That’s generous of you,” said Rowena. “In these times, many employers require their workers to bring their own lunches.” She had read the arguments in the newspapers about such demands, and tended to favor the workingmen’s positions, especially now when money was so hard to come by.

  Pietragnelli shook his head vigorously. “I do not hold with such things. I was taught that if I hire men, I must feed them while they labor for me. And,” he added, “many of them cannot afford to feed their families unless I provide lunch for them. It is not an imposition for me. I have a large vegetable garden, and what I do not grow, my neighbor does; also, I trade wine for meat with my neighbors, so it is not difficult for me to offer good, simple meals.”

  “An admirable tradition,” said Saint-Germain. “I applaud you for it.”

  “I do not do it for applause,” Pietragnelli announced. He shot a questioning look at Saint-Germain. “Would you like to have me turn on the radio? Or show you to the piano and the sheet music? Our meal is almost ready. We’re going to eat, and if you—” He broke off and resumed in a slightly more conversational way, “Mr. Rogers informed me that you do not eat or drink in company. Can’t I persuade you to make an exception so that we can continue to become acquainted?”

  “I mean no offense, Signor Pietragnelli, but I fear I must decline the food and drink,” said Saint-Germain. “But do not let my eccentricity keep you from having a proper meal. And if it will not trouble you, I would like to sit with you while you eat. If you don’t find my abstention awkward, I won’t, either, for I am accustomed to doing this. So, if this is acceptable to you, there is no need to offer me other entertainment. And I do agree with you that the room where you dine is the heart of any home.”

  Pietragnelli sighed. “Very well.” He turned his attention to Rowena. “You will not refuse me, will you, signora?”

  “I have been looking forward to a good lunch,” said Rowena promptly. “Soup, bread, cheese, and wine. What could be better?” She put her napkin in her lap.

  “A woman of taste as well as art. Com’ è bella,” approved Pietragnelli. “If you will excuse me, I will ask the cook to bring our food and I will get a special bottle from my own cellar.” So saying, he bustled out of the dining room, calling as he went, “Mrs. Barringstone! Serve our meal, if you would!”

  Saint-Germain sat down opposite Rowena, leaving the head of the table free for their host. “It seems that they are still harvesting grapes.”

  “Apparently,” said Rowena. “Look at these soup-bowls! They must contain a quart at least. Does he serve as much to his workers, I wonder. They work hard, of course, and would need an ample meal. But—” She stopped speaking as Mrs. Barringstone came into the dining room carrying a large covered tureen; she was a raw-boned woman probably no more than thirty-five but with skin and hair and worry-lines that made her look ten years older. She said nothing as she put her burden down, wiping it carefully with a dish-towel. “Thank you,” Rowena told her.

  “I’ll bring the rest in a minute,” Mrs. Barringstone said in a flat Oklahoma twang. She went back to the kitchen.

  Rowena lifted the lid on the tureen and sniffed deeply. “She may not be forthcoming, but the soup smells delicious.” As soon as Mrs. Barringstone returned with a large loaf of bread in a basket, a tub of butter, and a round of cheese, Rowena complimented her on the soup.

  “It’s Mr. Pietragnelli’s recipe. Thanks anyway.” She put the rest of the meal on the table and left them alone.

  “The cheese is local, according to the impression on the rind,” Saint-Germain remarked. “All those dairy cattle must provide the milk.”

  “There are probably goats, as well,” said Rowena. “Not that this is goat cheese.”

  “Or sheep,” said Saint-Germain.

  Pietragnelli came bustling back into the dining room, a wine-bottle in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. “This is eight years old, a blend of Cabernet Franc and Cotes Sauvage, for the wine, a good year, but—Eight years ago was a hard time for us. Prohibition was the law, and if I hadn’t had contracts with Saint Laurence’s and Saint Thomas More, I couldn’t have stayed in business, no matter what you did for us, Conte. The government would have shut us down, as they did so many others—those who didn’t go bankrupt.” He held up the bottle, a happy grin returning to his face. “Still, it was a good year for reds.”

  Rowena tried to think of something to say as she watched Pietragnelli wield the corkscrew, and finally commented, “You must be proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”

  “Proud?” He set down the corkscrew and twisted the cork off it, sniffing it critically before pouring a little out into his glass. “We shall see.”

  “The color is intense,” said Saint-Germain.

  “A pity you cannot have any of it,” said Pietragnelli as he swirled the wine in his glass, inhaling deeply.

  “I must concur,” said Saint-Germain, watching Pietragnelli take a first, critical taste. “The smell is ambrosial.”

  “It will do,” he decided. “But it will need about fifteen minutes to open up fully.” He filled Rowena’s glass and then his own. “It will go well with the soup. If the food is the verse, the wine is the music.” He remained standing as he reached for the ladle and filled Rowena’s soup-bowl, and then his own. “Alla tavola non s’invecchia,” he said as he finally sat down and reached for his wineglass.

  “At the table, we never age,” Saint-Germain translated. “An excellent motto.”

  Rowena shot him an intense look, then lifted her glass to endorse his sentiment. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Pietragnelli.”

  Pietragnelli took the loaf of bread and tore off an end; he offered this to Rowena, then pulled another for himself. “You will pardon us, Conte, but we will eat now.”

  Saint-Germain inclined his head. “Please; don’t let me stop you enjoying your lunch.”

  “It is lamentable that you cannot join us,” said Pietragnelli as he buttered his bread. “I think you must miss a great pleasure in life.”

  “Oh, I agree that taking nouris
hment is a very great pleasure,” Saint-Germain said, and saw Rowena almost choke on her first taste of soup.

  “This is very good,” Rowena managed to say to Pietragnelli. “What is in it, besides chopped beef and onions?”

  “Beef stock, of course. Then zucchini—as you say, Italian squash—two kinds of bell peppers, chopped spinach, mushrooms, string beans, oregano, thyme, summer savory, basil, garlic, lemon peel, a little ginger, black pepper, salt, and, of course, wine.” He reeled off the ingredients easily. “It is simmered for five hours, and that gives it body and a good flavor. I have often made it myself. But now I have Mrs. Barringstone to manage the kitchen during the day. Her husband runs the crusher and so is busy today, with the current—”

  “The crusher? You don’t stamp the wine with your feet?” Rowena asked, oddly disappointed.

  “No, signora, we do not. In the early days we did, but as soon as I could afford it, I bought a crusher. The crusher does the crushing better and faster than feet can, and the men don’t get as drunk on the fumes as they do if they tread on the grapes themselves. With as large a harvest as we have here, every one of the crew would be drunk if we had to crush by feet.” He picked up his glass and took a sip of his wine. “It is improving.”

  “But surely, with the grapes just harvested, there would not be enough alcohol to cause drunkenness,” said Rowena.

  “The fermentation begins at once. There is sugar in the grapes, and it starts to become intoxicating as soon as the skin is broken, but it is raw, very raw.” He smiled. “In time, and with proper care, the rawness goes away, and the wine is ready.”

  Rowena tasted the wine and smiled. “The rawness is certainly gone from this. Very, very good, Mr. Pietragnelli.”

  He beamed. “It thrills my heart to please you.” He drank a little more, then turned to Saint-Germain. “My children will be sorry they missed you. When you come again, it must be on a weekend, so you may meet them. They, too, want to thank you for preserving our business and our family.”