The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  She made a considerable effort to sound lighthearted, but the sun streaming through the bay window betrayed her. Years of unspoken anguish creased the delicate skin around her eyes. Sara recognized the stigma of sorrow—it was the same as her own mother’s. During the day, when caring for her grandson, Luc, filled the cavern of her heart, Maman’s irises sparked with life. When night fell, sorrow brushed her eyes with its blue, merciless shadow. Sara suspected that in the stillness of the gloaming, every bereft mother prays to be released from her consuming ache—and to smell and cradle her lost child once more.

  One thing Sara knew for certain: the living need to reminisce about the dead. “Madame LeBlanc, would you tell me about your daughter?”

  She clipped some chives into a small glass bowl. “Did you ever meet Adèle?” A shroud seemed to lift as she spoke her daughter’s name.

  “No, but when I was a child, I saw her in church on Sundays, with Philippe and Bastien. I thought her the loveliest woman I’d ever seen.”

  Philippe’s grandmother smiled for the first time, revealing a string of pearly-white teeth. “She was, my dear. Her hair was spun gold, her eyes the color of the sky on a cloudless day—Philippe has the same. Adèle possessed a charm that drew people, and animals, to her.

  “Do you know that she had a parakeet named Trudie? Every morning, when that bird hopped on her shoulder, Adèle would dip her spoon in her café au lait and hold it out for Trudie to sip.

  “‘Wait, Trudie,’ Adèle would caution, ‘it’s too hot.’ She’d make a show of gently blowing the steam off the tiny spoonful, and when she was done, Trudie would lap it up. Each day before I kissed my daughter goodbye, I had to wait for that darn bird to finish her café.” She sighed. “One misses the simple, everyday moments.”

  Sara understood. She still missed the musty smell of Papa’s pipe and the bounce of Lydie’s tight curls.

  Madame LeBlanc interrupted Sara’s reverie. “Why did you travel to Eagle’s Run in California?” In spite of herself, Sara admired the woman’s candor.

  “Actually, I stumbled upon Eagle’s Run accidentally. I traveled to California with the hope of starting a new life—and running my own vineyard some day. I worked in many Napa vineyards, picking and pruning, but none as magnificent as Eagle’s Run.”

  “So you knew Philippe—when you saw him, that is?”

  “Yes, madame, but he didn’t remember me.”

  “Why did you stay? Weren’t you afraid?”

  Sara faltered, remembering both the terror and fascination she’d felt upon encountering Philippe. “Yes,” she answered, matching his grandmother’s directness. “But I also wanted Saint Martin back. I never expected that we’d form such a strong attachment.”

  She studied Sara intently. “You must indeed love my grandson, to marry into the family that fractured yours,” she said.

  “I do,” Sara said firmly. What Sara couldn’t share with Philippe’s grandmother is how she relished the memory of their wedding night and had craved the touch of his bare skin on hers all day.

  “Ah, the romance of youth.” Madame LeBlanc gave Sara a knowing look. “Years pass, romance fades . . .” She tugged the brittle, brown leaves off the basil plant and continued, “But loyalty—that is what remains in a good marriage.” She held a fresh green stem between her fingers. “See?”

  After a luncheon of filet mignon, stuffed potatoes and a full-bodied cabernet, and promising to return soon with Luc, Sara and Philippe began the walk back to their hotel. Storm clouds formed in the afternoon sky. They mirrored the mouse-gray color of the stone streets and buildings of Tours in wintertime. She could hardly discern where the city ended and the sky began.

  Sara flipped up her collar to keep out the chill. Her confidence was rattled. Philippe had excluded her from his conversation with his grandfather. She bristled a bit at this but chose to not to mention it. Her silence didn’t last.

  “You’re rather sullen. Did you enjoy your chat with Mémère?” Philippe asked cheerfully.

  “I’m not sure your grandmother approves of me.”

  “Darling, she’s just made your acquaintance. She doesn’t know you like I do. I think my grandfather took a shine to you.” Philippe squeezed Sara’s kid-gloved hand, but the gesture only provoked her.

  “How could he ‘take a shine’ to me? I barely finished a sentence.”

  Philippe stopped short on the rue des Halles. “What?”

  “You knew how nervous I was to meet your family, especially under these circumstances, yet you abandoned me.”

  “Abandoned you? You act like I fed you to the wolves, when I only suggested you walk down the hallway to see my grandparents’ herb garden. You’re being irrational.”

  “You were trying to get rid of me.”

  Philippe thought about that for a moment. “That’s true,” he conceded.

  “You admit it?”

  “My grandfather wanted to speak with me privately.”

  “About me?”

  “No, not about you—must you always be so suspicious?”

  Sara knew she was being paranoid. She walked past Philippe in a deep sulk. He caught her hand, turning her around to face him. “I’m ridiculous,” she pouted.

  He squeezed her shoulders. “You’re exhausted.”

  Sara slumped in defeat. Philippe ducked down, seeking her lips. The brims of their hats provided a reassuring canopy of intimacy. When Sara broke away, she remembered where they were: on the street, in broad daylight.

  “Philippe, stop!” Sara chided.

  “Why? We’re married.”

  “You can’t just grope me on the street.” Even in America, Sara never would have permitted it.

  “I wasn’t groping you—although I considered it.” Philippe laughed, tugged on her hand and broke into a run.

  She giggled and held on tightly to her hat as she navigated the tricky cobblestones in her short heels. “Where are you taking me?”

  Philippe winked. “Back to the hotel!”

  They burst into the room and Philippe kicked the door shut. Without a word, he slipped his hands beneath her skirts and lifted her from the floor. She wrapped her legs around Philippe’s waist and he slid her onto the empty desk.

  Sara was surprised by how easily he shimmied off her stockings and peeled off her cotton drawers. He didn’t bother to remove anything else.

  She pulled his shirt from his trousers and moved her hands upward, relishing the feel of his sinewy chest beneath her hands. As he gave himself over to her, every fear Sara held was stripped away.

  Philippe wouldn’t dare ignore her now.

  They fell upon the bed, mostly clothed, but completely sated. “What did you discuss with your grandfather?” Sara asked, chewing on her lower lip.

  “What? Oh, the World’s Fair is going to be held in Paris in 1900. Rather exciting, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Sara said absently. “Perhaps we should attend, if we have the means.”

  “And that’s the other thing. My grandfather wanted to discuss finances.”

  “Really?” Sara burned with curiosity.

  Philippe laughed. “Go look inside my coat pocket.”

  Sara reached over, extracted some papers, and unfolded what looked like a bank draft. Her eyes widened with shock.

  “Twenty thousand francs? For you?” she exclaimed, reading the document.

  “For us. Pépère sold his drugstores three years ago and he saved a portion of the profit for Bastien and me. When Bastien came to collect his share, he was soused, so Pépère told him to return when he cleaned himself up. He never did. Luc’s share is included.”

  “That’s four thousand dollars!”

  “Don’t get too excited; I need to use a portion of ours—almost three thousand francs—to pay back my father.”

  Sara had been so pleased when Philippe returned, she hadn’t asked about some important details. Sara’s mother had sold Saint Martin to the Lemieux family after Papa had died, but Philip
pe had returned the property to Sara just before she left California. He had also persuaded his father to drop the charge against her for the murder of his brother. “What arrangements did you make with your father?”

  Philippe shifted on the bed, rubbing his eyes. “All right, I’ll tell you, but please don’t comment until I’m finished.” Sara glared at him, dreading his answer.

  “After Bastien died, my father wanted no part of Saint Martin. He didn’t want the hassle of rebuilding from the fire and replanting the vines. He deeded the vineyard and dwellings to me, and offered to cover Bastien’s debts until I could repay him. Considering the house was burned to the ground and a third of the vines were useless, I thought it a fair bargain. By law, the property would have been half mine and half Luc’s upon my father’s death anyway. So he signed it over to me and I invited your mother and Jacques to stay and manage it.”

  Sara’s mind scrutinized every detail of Philippe’s story, but settled on the one missing link. “Why did your father drop the charges against me?”

  “I sent a telegram and explained that if he ever wanted to meet his grandson, he would write to the magistrate at once and explain your innocence—that you killed Bastien in self-defense.”

  “And he agreed?” Sara was shocked that Jean Lemieux ranked knowing his grandson higher than retaliating against her.

  “Yes.”

  “So you plan to introduce Luc to your father?”

  “What choice do I have? Otherwise you might stand trial. I won’t have that.”

  “Does he have to see him more than once?”

  “Luc will inherit half of my father’s estate some day. It would be beneficial for both of them.”

  “But Philippe, he’s such an awful man,” Sara blurted, then drew back.

  Philippe didn’t even blink. “He’s a miserable man, with no wife, no sons who love him, and only rancor in his heart. Sometimes children can be a tonic for such bitterness,” he added.

  “I don’t want Luc to be a ‘tonic’ for that man.”

  “I will supervise all the visits.” He wasn’t asking her permission.

  Sara sighed and fell back on her pillow. Philippe propped himself up on his elbow, a solemn vow in his voice. “I won’t let anything happen to our son.”

  A lump rose in Sara’s throat. Until that moment, Philippe had never called Luc his son. Sara stroked the stubble on his chin. “And so you are his legal guardian?” Sara recalled that, under French law, custody of orphans was usually awarded to the paternal grandfather.

  “Yes,” Philippe confirmed, adding, “We both know my father isn’t fit for the job, so I’m the primary guardian in my father’s stead. I named you as his secondary guardian.”

  He’d been so gracious, even in his grief. She could have been so easily cut from the boy’s life had Philippe not forgiven her. “Philippe?” she murmured. “I want to help repay some of the money you owe your father.”

  “No, Sara. This isn’t about money.” Philippe’s expression softened as he cupped her wrist and kissed it. “It’s about reparation.”

  Chapter 4

  CHRISTMAS EVE 1897, SAINT MARTIN

  Early in the morning, Sara knelt down and ran a wet comb through Luc’s hair, trying to flatten his tangled cowlick. The fire roared, heating their cave. It may have dated from the eleventh century, but it was furnished now with the comforts of two straw beds, a table and four chairs.

  “We’re not going to church yet,” Philippe said lightly. Sara flashed him a stern look. Was she still upset that he was bringing Luc to visit his father? Unfortunately, this was part of the deal. Sara’s freedom and Philippe’s guardianship of Luc depended on the success of this visit, and Philippe would not surrender either.

  She kissed Luc on the head and stood up, clad in her gauzy morning gown, her claret-colored shawl draped over her shoulders. Sara’s thick, chestnut hair cascaded loosely down her back. Philippe admired her ripe, pink lips. He could scarcely find the will to leave her, even for a few hours. He pulled her close before she could protest.

  “Be nice,” he teased, nuzzling her neck, trying to dissolve the frown on her face.

  “Don’t stay too long,” she whispered with a touch of melancholy.

  “We’ll go for an hour, and after Mass tonight, we’ll start packing for our trip home.”

  “Home . . . to California.” Sara smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

  While he drove the carriage to his father’s house with Luc seated upon his lap, Philippe’s thoughts ran back to Sara. Her green eyes reminded him of a sunlit meadow, and he couldn’t wait for the day when her belly would swell with his child beneath that nightdress.

  Luc shrieked with delight when they turned down the dirt road to Jean Lemieux’s home. Philippe guided the boy’s hands, helping him tug on the reins to slow down the team.

  When Philippe knocked, his father did not answer. Entering, Philippe was surprised to see piles of paper scattered about the room and soiled dishes stacked haphazardly. A faint sickly odor hung in the air. Had his father sacked his housekeeper, or had he simply given up?

  Père stopped rocking in his chair, looking a bit startled to see Philippe and Luc. Without a handshake or a word, he motioned to the nearby chaise. Philippe hadn’t been here in over six years, and now that he was, he couldn’t wait to escape to California.

  Philippe studied his hunched-over, withered father. Curiously, Philippe felt no anger. Instead, he wondered what the hell had happened to the man. Why had he ever feared him? When his father had cracked the strap, cutting his young skin, did he ever consider the possibility that the cowering child would grow into a strong man, capable of crushing his skull with one hand? Of course not. Jean Lemieux, who enjoyed tormenting the vulnerable, had assumed that his boy would snap under the strain. He hadn’t counted on Philippe’s resilience.

  Examining the cluttered room, Philippe was pleased to see his mother’s photograph, framed in pewter, on the mantel. Her sweetness had helped him endure his father’s cruelty so many times.

  Philippe sat on the edge of the sofa while Luc clung to his knee. Père ran his trembling hands through his thinning hair. “You are well?” he asked gruffly.

  “Very, thank you. This is your grandson, Luc Lemieux,” Philippe said evenly, trying to soothe his father’s obvious agitation.

  A forlorn smile lit his father’s face for a moment. “He’s like Bastien, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does resemble Bastien. Let’s hope we raise him better, though.” Philippe regretted saying it, though it was the truth. He didn’t want to argue; he just wanted to fulfill his obligation and leave. Intent on changing the subject, Philippe pulled an ivory envelope from his bag. “Here’s the money I owe you. We’re settled now, yes?”

  Père stretched forward, snatching the money from his hand. “I’m glad to be rid of that headache.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that Saint Martin will be Luc’s one day.”

  His father drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “May I say hello to him?”

  “Of course.”

  “May he have a chocolate? He looks like he’s got a full set of teeth, although I can’t say I have the same.” The old man chuckled, revealing a row of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

  Philippe was surprised. He didn’t remember Père ever offering anyone sweets. “Yes, a chocolate would be fine.”

  Luc took the chocolate, chomping and grinning. His grandfather’s face beamed, but then suddenly clouded with concern. His eyes darted to the kitchen door, and he wagged a finger at Philippe. “Don’t go telling Mère. She doesn’t like you boys to eat candy before dinner.”

  Philippe stared at his father.

  “Oh, and I bought Bastien a gift.” His father handed Luc a box of wooden ninepins, which the boy jiggled until the pins all dropped onto the floor.

  “You mean you bought Luc a gift?”

  “Yes, yes.” He pointed at the pins. “I used to play as a boy. I was the champion nin
e-pinner at school. You’re young, but you’ll learn.”

  While Luc sat cross-legged, rolling the ball and knocking the pins over, Philippe watched the man in the rumpled shirt and tatty shoes who was now a stranger. When his father grew excited, his left cheek twitched. Something was very wrong.

  Père flinched, observing Philippe with unblinking eyes. “How’s the California vineyard? Any phylloxera? Prohibitionists?”

  Maybe the man was starved for conversation. “Thankfully, the vineyard is thriving, and California’s 1897 vintage was a huge crop. I don’t anticipate we’ll see one of its size in the next five years.” What Philippe didn’t tell his father, and had not told Sara, was that he stood to lose half of his annual income every year the price war continued. If prices remained low, he wouldn’t be able to cover his expenses.

  His father persisted. “I keep reading about those pesky prohibs in America.”

  “Their campaign is gaining followers, but nothing to be concerned about yet. Although they recently fell victim to a convincing prank.”

  “Really?”

  “A rumor circulated that the California winemakers were going to install a Niagara Falls–like exhibit at the Paris Exposition, one that would feature a hundred thousand gallons of wine instead of water, surrounded by beautiful gardens and places for young men and women to drink their fill without payment.” Philippe smiled at the absurdity of the image.

  His father rubbed his palms together expectantly. “That must have whipped those prohibs into a proselytizing frenzy!”

  “Indeed. The temperance union traveled door-to-door, collecting thousands of signatures to protest. The poor gents at the exposition headquarters sifted through piles of letters expressing outrage at something that was never proposed.”

  “And I bet the prohibs still think it’s a government conspiracy, right?” Rather than waiting for Philippe’s response, Père began picking at his shirtsleeves and mumbling under his breath.

  Philippe rose abruptly. His father’s bizarre behavior unnerved him. One minute he can’t remember his grandson’s name, and the next he’s talking lucidly about the prohibitionists? Philippe thought of his wife, waiting for them at Saint Martin while he was here offering up Bastien’s son to the man who’d never cared for them. What was he thinking?