The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  “Sorry you didn’t catch anything. I didn’t know you fished,” Sara said, forcing herself to start a conversation, something she rarely felt like doing these days.

  “Not with a pole and line, but yes. I’d just netted a ten-inch trout when I slipped and he made his getaway! I suppose I’ll just finish the ham tonight.” Aurora squeezed out her waterlogged skirt. She looked up with pink, watery eyes. “I’m terribly upset over your loss. I do know how you suffer.”

  “It’s not the same as your son, René, I know. My daughter never drew breath in the outside world.”

  “No, but with her died all that you hoped for her,” Aurora said with such conviction that Sara’s heart ached anew, knowing her friend had endured the same agony. Sara’s mind filled with the memory of her tiny daughter, and her face crumpled. The truth was, she hadn’t wished for Philippe’s child, hadn’t wanted her. Yet now, she’d do anything to have her, alive and fluttering inside her again.

  Aurora patted Sara’s knee. “I’ve lost a spouse and a child. Losing a child is worse.”

  “Why is that, do you think?” Sara sniffled.

  “Because we’re supposed to protect them, and it doesn’t matter if they’re stillborn, two years old or thirty-five years old with a family of their own. They’re our own flesh, forever bound to us—like your daughter is bound to you.”

  Sara hung her head. “I was afraid, Aurora. After watching my sister die giving birth to Luc, I didn’t want a baby.” Sara picked at the threads on the quilt. She confided softly, “I didn’t want to die.”

  Aurora leaned in. “And so you think it’s your fault? Oh, my dear, the baby most likely died because of the illness Luc contracted, and then passed to you. There was nothing to be done.”

  Sara’s mouth formed an oh but no sound emerged. Even if this were true, it still didn’t change the fact that now she and her daughter would be apart forever. The familiar feeling of nausea washed over her.

  “The priest said—”

  “I know what the darn priest said.” Aurora peered over her shoulder, then whispered, “That priest doesn’t know his head from his arse! Limbo is something invented by the pope to scare the living daylights out of folks, so they’ll have their children baptized. Matthew 19:14, ‘Jesus said, suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’” Aurora bobbed her head defiantly in conclusion.

  Sara ran her fingers over the thick, braided grapevines of the picnic basket. Her head throbbed, her back ached and goose bumps sprang up. Death had crossed their threshold four times in the last four years—what was to prevent it from crossing a fifth?

  Aurora stretched out on the grass, her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. She spoke softly to Sara. “I know what it’s like to be afraid, anticipating every disaster that might lurk around the corner—your heart palpitating, palms perspiring, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Her eyes opened, and she squinted at the cumulus clouds rolling like balls of cotton above them. “Strange enough, the day I decided to stop fearing death was the same day I stopped fearing life.”

  Later that afternoon, when a stranger rapped loudly at the front door, Sara practically jumped out of her skin. “Mr. W.H. McNeill of San Francisco at your service, ma’am,” the visitor announced. He was short and wore a suit and bowler hat. He proffered a business card and asked, “Is Mr. Philippe Lemieux at home?”

  Sara turned the card over, running her fingertips over the black embossed lettering—very fancy. “Yes, he’s in the winery.” She untied her apron and moved to the door. “I’ll take you to him.”

  The man trailed two steps behind her. “This is a fine operation you have here. How long have you been growing grapes?”

  “This will be our third substantial vintage.”

  “You’re kidding, really?”

  “My husband and I take our business very seriously, sir. I suppose you sell equipment? I think you’ll be disappointed. We’ve already installed modern machinery in the winery, and don’t require any more.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m here for a much more important reason.”

  Sara twirled around to face him, hands on hips, at the entrance to the winery. “What may that be?”

  “To extend an invitation.”

  Probably another Wine Makers’ Corporation function. “Oh, very well,” she muttered, unimpressed, as she ushered him to the cellar door.

  “Philippe,” she called down. “Mr. McNeill of San Francisco is here to see you.”

  Philippe’s head popped around the corner. He bolted up the stairs and extended his hand. “Mr. McNeill, it’s an honor,” he said deferentially. Sara was stunned; he must know the man.

  “The honor is mine.” Reaching into his bag, he slid out an ivory envelope and handed it to Philippe. “You have been selected to represent the United States of America at the Exposition Universelle in Paris this spring. I’ve come to collect your wines.”

  Chapter 13

  OCTOBER 1899, SAN FRANCISCO

  Linnette sat on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly chewing the cap of her fountain pen and holding a single sheet of paper. If she wrote him, he would either ignore her or respond. She didn’t know which would be worse: the sting of another rejection from Philippe, or the pain of seeing him again, not as her lover, but as her daughter’s father.

  She must write, for Pippa’s sake.

  Taking care not to give any details that might alarm his wife if she happened to read the letter, Linnette penned every word as if her life depended upon his reply.

  Dear Mr. Lemieux:

  I have in my possession something that belongs to you. Kindly visit me between the morning hours of ten and twelve o’clock on the 29th or 30th of November.

  Mr. L. Cross

  2390 Lombard Street, San Francisco

  Chapter 14

  NOVEMBER 1899

  Philippe hopped off the crowded omnibus five blocks from Scott Street. He wanted to walk down the rest of Lombard Street, to clear his head before meeting Linnette. He felt like a cad, sneaking out to see his former mistress. Perhaps he should have told Sara, but she was so depressed after losing the baby, he didn’t want to worry her. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

  What could Linnette possibly want? Her note was cryptic, probably for his benefit. Something that belongs to you could mean only one thing: Linnette was in love with him and wanted to revive their liaison. She had been a lovely distraction during his bachelor days, but Sara and Luc were his world now.

  Linnette answered the door, as beautiful as ever, with shining blond hair and opal skin, although she looked a vast deal thinner. Dark circles underscored her eyes, which shimmered with relief when she saw Philippe.

  “You came! I knew you would.” She extended her hand, as if to touch his sleeve, but quickly recoiled.

  “Your letter was unexpected.” Philippe entered the foyer at her invitation. His heart sank when he saw the peeling paint, sparse furnishings and dusty wood floors.

  “I know, but I wouldn’t have written if it wasn’t urgent.”

  “What is it, Linnette?” Philippe was worried now.

  She hesitated, glancing furtively at the closed door at the hallway’s end. Finally, she spoke. “I’ve no wish to unsettle your life. I tried everything, Philippe, before writing you.”

  “Yes?” he asked warily.

  There was a scratching at the door, then a muffled sound. “Mommy?” The pronunciation was garbled. “Mommy?” Linnette walked down the hall, opened the door and swept a small, straw-haired girl up in her arms. She was no more than two years of age. Her appearance startled Philippe: she possessed a split lip, and his own bright blue eyes.

  Linnette pecked the child’s cheek. Philippe froze. “This is Philippa, or Pippa, as I call her.” She searched Philippe’s face, and then confirmed his worst fear. “She is your daughter.”

  Her words were a punch to the stomach. How could this be? He studied the child with the dar
k, thick lashes, and the abrupt cut of her mouth—as though God had nicked her upper lip with his paring knife. She was tender, patting her mother’s face affectionately, blissfully unaware that her appearance was anything out of the ordinary.

  Philippe suddenly felt hot and dizzy. He’d always assumed his first daughter would be a beautiful miniature of Sara. Never in his wildest imaginings did he consider that she would be the deformed child of his ex-mistress.

  Linnette watched him stare at the child, waiting for him to say something, no doubt. When he looked at her, he felt as if he were seeing the true Linnette for the first time. In the past, he’d always viewed her as an amusement, a plaything. She was a mother now—stripped of her silk finery, her flirtatiously coiffed curls and her violet-scented skin—clinging to her daughter. The heat of shame spread through his chest. This was not the man he’d intended to be.

  Linnette offered him a seat. He must have looked as ill as he felt. She sat across from him, releasing Pippa to toddle around the room while they spoke.

  “Pippa was born on December 9, 1897.” Philippe was stunned. That was days before he had married Sara. “When you came to see me that April, I didn’t know I was with child. I found out weeks later, but decided to keep quiet. You had made your choice,” Linnette said. She examined her clasped hands, no longer adorned with silver bracelets and gold rings. “I didn’t want to burden you.” Philippe felt like a heel.

  “We did well for awhile, but Pippa’s cleft lip causes ear infections, which require medicine. Some days, it’s medicine instead of food.” Linnette shrugged. “I tried other ways to make money,” she added, shifting her eyes to the window, “but I can’t carry on like I used to, now that I have a daughter. That’s when I decided to ask you to . . . to pay for her care,” she said squarely.

  “Can she . . . may I talk to her?” Philippe leaned forward, watching Pippa intently.

  “Yes, but you may not understand her. She can’t form all her words properly. It takes some getting used to.” Linnette smiled feebly.

  As Philippe sat on the floor opposite the child, she handed him a threadbare cloth doll, then snatched it right back with a laugh that bubbled up from her belly. “What? Now you’re taking it away?” Philippe asked playfully. The child had a twinkle in her eyes that drew him right in. “May I shake your hand, miss?” Pippa obliged him immediately, and he was surprised that she understood him. Her hand was a ball of warm, soft dough, and he marveled at the daintiness of her fingers between his. He thought of Luc and his lost daughter. Guilt washed over him anew.

  “Is she healthy? What does the doctor say?”

  “She’s normal in every way, except for the ear infections, and the slurring of words caused by her cleft. She’s smart as a whip,” Linnette said proudly.

  “Of course she is. You’ve done a fine job with her, Linnette.” He and Linnette had always had frank discussions in the past. “Is there any way to repair her lip?”

  Philippe had never seen Linnette tear up before. “Yes, but the operation will cost hundreds of dollars, the doctor said.”

  Philippe didn’t have hundreds of dollars to spare. He had used most of his savings to plant the orchard, hire Mac and pay Lamont the money he owed. And he needed to pay for the journey to Paris. “So it can be done?”

  Linnette nodded. At least there was hope for the girl, Philippe thought.

  “I can’t afford the surgery right now, but I’ll send you what I can afford each month.”

  “Thank you, Philippe.”

  “Linnette,” he said staunchly, “you know I love my wife.”

  “I know,” she replied softly.

  “Things are complicated right now.”

  “Have you told her about me?” Linnette fussed with the moth-eaten pillow next to her.

  “Yes, before we were married.”

  That didn’t seem to satisfy her. “She doesn’t know you’re here?”

  She. Her. My wife. Why couldn’t he name Sara to Linnette? Because they were from two separate times in his life, and he could never introduce them. Linnette was his past, but Sara was his present and future.

  He sprung up and hovered near the window, glancing down to the alley below. A white-haired old man sat on a bench, puffing a cigarette and scratching his short beard. When the man met Philippe’s eyes for just a moment, Philippe inhaled sharply and turned back toward Linnette. The man had his father’s blue eyes and critical gaze.

  “Philippe?”

  He focused on Linnette. She looked small and tired. He knew he had to explain things properly to her, so she would understand.

  “My wife is in a very fragile state right now.”

  “We’re all in a fragile state, Philippe,” Linnette persisted.

  Was she threatening him? Philippe was firm. “We just lost our daughter—a stillbirth. I will tell her about Pippa, but not yet.” His voice softened. “You understand, don’t you? Why I need your cooperation in this?”

  Linnette shifted as though she were sitting on pins. “I suppose so.”

  Pippa tugged on her mother’s skirt, and Linnette pulled her onto her lap and hummed a melody in her ear. Looking at the two of them—his other family—Philippe was touched by their happiness, but disgusted with himself. He would tell Sara this happened before they met, before they married. But nothing would soothe the sting when Sara discovered that he had a living daughter, born of another woman.

  He could not tell her.

  Philippe was absent overnight. Sara had asked to accompany him to San Francisco for the day, hoping to buy Luc a new pair of black leather shoes with blue buttons, and a new suit for Sunday best. Philippe had refused. Without further explanation, he’d just saddled Lady and galloped off into the dissipating fog.

  At noon the next day, Sara heard the stable door slam. Lady’s whickers and snorts confirmed his arrival. She ran out to greet him. “Where were you?” Sara had pictured him dead in a ditch.

  Philippe removed his hat and raked his hands through his disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, Sara.” He kissed her forehead absentmindedly. “I should have sent word that I’d be away overnight. It was thoughtless of me.” The whites of his tired eyes were pink, and his irises shone with intensity. Whatever business he’d conducted in the city hadn’t gone well.

  Sara tightened her arms around her weary husband, who smelled of sweat mixed with dust from the road. Resting her head on his chest, she felt his heart thudding. He stroked her hair and sighed, “Sara.”

  Though her body craved his warmth, she pulled away, fearful that she might not be ready. Touching a hand to his scruffy cheek, she chided, “You need a bath, and a shave.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait here.” Sara swung open the kitchen door and called to Rose to fill the tin tub. After doing so, Rose discreetly disappeared with Luc for some cool fall air and exercise.

  In the kitchen, the stove heated the room, but the bathwater remained so tepid, Philippe bathed for only five minutes. With her back to him, Sara spied Rose and Luc out the window, skipping between the vine rows.

  After he toweled off and pulled on clean breeches, Sara seated him at the kitchen table. She expertly honed his steel razor blade on the stone, just as Maman had done for Papa, ten times in each direction. She stropped the razor on the leather twenty times, until it could split a mouse hair. She dropped a dollop of shaving cream into the mug and worked it into a fine lather by swirling the wet brush. The clean, fresh smell of the soap relaxed her.

  When she looked up, Philippe was watching her. “Come here,” he said hoarsely.

  With the mug and brush in one hand, and the sharpened razor in the other, Sara settled herself between Philippe’s legs.

  Philippe placed his hands on her hips. She ignored the bare need in his eyes, and instead brushed lather over his beard. She held the razor at a slight angle, and her strokes were light and even. She pulled his skin taut, shaving in the direction of the day’s growth.

  “Hold still,” she bid him
. She knew the skin under his chin was especially prone to cuts, and she wanted a smooth finish, not a smattering of red bumps. When she was done, Sara dipped a towel in the hot water basin. She gently wiped the remaining slivers of shaving cream away and admired her work.

  “There,” Sara said, satisfied that she’d been able to complete a task.

  Without a word of thanks, Philippe pulled her down onto his lap. His moist lips teased her neck, while his fingers moved like a silk scarf up the back of her thigh. He moved carefully, handling Sara like a glass figurine. For months she’d drifted, disconnected from her body, but with each caress, he coaxed her back to life.

  She stroked his shoulders, built to bear so many burdens, and allowed her lips to linger on his, reacquainting herself with his taste, his feel, his scent. When she edged away, breathless, he touched his palms to her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. In that excruciating moment, Sara confronted everything she feared: his torment, love, even his guilt—all laid bare. Consumed with her own grief, she’d hardly recognized his. Sara resolved to bridge the chasm between their souls, furrowed by months of sorrow.

  Desperate to meld her body to his, Sara unbuttoned his breeches and lifted her layers of skirts. She closed her eyes and relaxed. She moved slowly at first, concentrating on his sighs of pleasure and the stir of his breath in her hair. It was not long before she arched her back and her muscles tightened, seeking to contain the shattering sensation. Philippe surrendered moments later—and they were bound together once more, as one flesh.

  Exhausted with emotion, Sara nestled her head on Philippe’s chest. She was so relieved to have him back, but her spirits flagged, remembering how she’d failed him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  His fingertips massaged her neck. “Don’t. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Sara found his emphasis odd. He was not the culpable one. She still had so much to learn about him.

  Remembering that Rose and Luc would return soon, Sara stood up and straightened her dress. Philippe followed suit, donning a fresh shirt from the laundry basket. His face held the expression of a boy who’d just stolen his first kiss. “Come with me to Paris,” he blurted. “We’ll bring Luc. He’ll stay with your Maman and Jacques while we attend the exposition.”