The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  Pippa chased Luc between the nearby vines, brushing past their gold and crimson leaves and stumbling over thick patches of dried grass. Pippa’s wispy blond hair framed her face so sweetly that Sara’s motherly eyes hardly noticed her cleft lip anymore. Pippa’s beige melton coat complemented her peachy complexion and brought out the blue in her striking eyes. How could their neighbors be so cruel? How could the same women who shared Holy Communion with them at Mass call Pippa a witch? If they could see her now, running and laughing just like their own children, would they stop spreading rumors about her?

  Sara’s thoughts turned back to Philippe. It had been so long since he’d smiled flirtatiously at her, or followed her into the barn for a midday romp.

  Perhaps all he needed was time. His father’s death and the fire had shaken them to the core. With a little cleverness and a lot of effort, they could replant and thrive again, but it could take years.

  Sara refused to wallow. Just as she’d done with Bastien’s attack, Papa and Lydia’s deaths, and Linnette’s existence, she placed the trauma of the fire in her mind’s cupboard and locked it away.

  She was the heart of this family, and it was a responsibility she took seriously. They needed something to build—together. Not something to repair, like the burned-out winery, which would take years of savings to complete, even with the proceeds from the insurance. That kind of work was necessary, but disheartening. Sara wanted to earn money, and quickly. A year from now, with no 1900 vintage to sell, they would have little income. Luc would be in school, needing books, pencils, shoes and clothes. Sara had thought for years of a stand at Napa Junction, where city folk headed to Aetna Springs or Napa Soda Springs could stop to purchase refreshments of wine, lemonade, fruit and whatever else she could sell them. Perhaps now was the right time. Regrettably, this meant she would have to reduce the number of vine cuttings she planned to ship to Saint Martin. Instead, she would use a portion of the money Philippe had given her to finance her new business.

  Sara resolved to start selling her wares at Napa Junction this coming spring. The children could help her organize the fruit, wine bottles and sundries to sell. She would display their blue ribbons from the county fairs and their gold medal from Paris as proof of their wine’s high quality.

  Pippa and Luc, who’d been chasing each other in circles around Sara, tumbled into her lap, knocking her over onto the soft grass. She embraced them tightly. She couldn’t wait to start!

  Chapter 22

  FEBRUARY 1901

  Thank God for Mac Cuddy, Philippe marveled. They were standing amidst the ten acres of vineyard that had been destroyed by the fire in September. The land had been cleared of debris in October, and by November, Mac and his crew had plowed the soil to a depth of sixteen inches, and then loosened it again with a Deere sub-soil stirrer he’d rented in town. With no cellar left to manage, Mac had immediately shifted roles from cellar man to vineyardist, sharing the expertise he’d gained working with the Beringer brothers for so many years. They would replant in April, and Philippe was riveted as Mac animatedly revealed his plan to train the new vines along trellises. It was an innovation that allowed grapes to be grown at a much higher volume per acre.

  Mac finished explaining his idea and scratched the day-old growth on his chin. “What d’ya think?”

  “So we’ll use posts instead of stakes?” Philippe wanted to make sure he understood the science behind trellis training.

  “Yes, sir,” Mac replied, “one seven-foot post every thirty feet, set two feet deep, with a stake placed between the posts to help steady the vines.”

  “And we’ll connect them with wire?”

  “Yup. Number twelve amalgamated wire is strong enough. The first wire is stretched between the posts a foot above the ground. The second is stretched a foot higher, and the third, two feet above that.”

  “And this will allow for more shading of the fruit?” Philippe’s question hinted at last year’s calamity, when Mac had cut the leaves back too far, allowing the rain-drenched fruit to wither quickly.

  “It will,” Mac said confidently. He knelt down, outlining an invisible trellis with his hands. “You see, the vines grow freely the first year, and by the second year, we’ll be able to start trellising. Eventually, we’ll fasten the bearing canes to the two lower wires in a fan shape extending to both sides. We’ll tie the young canes in the middle and train them along the top wire. That way, the air can circulate among the vines, and the fruit is better shaded by the young growth above.”

  “Hmm.” Philippe tilted his head in concentration. “That should also protect the trunk, cordon and canes from high winds and help the fruit ripen more evenly, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Mac said. He sprang to his feet, his wiry frame as straight as a lightning rod.

  “And you’re sure this’ll work?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who else has tried it?”

  “George Husmann writes about his success with trellis training, and they’ve been using it in Missouri and other Midwestern states for years.” If Husmann, the region’s premier grape-growing authority, recommended it, Philippe might as well give it a try. Besides, the area would hold only a small percentage of his vines, and if they could produce more grapes, he could help pioneer this new growing technique in these parts.

  “What do you figure for cost?”

  “We’ll need posts, wire, staples and labor. I’ll work up an estimate.”

  Where would they find the money? Philippe had already ordered the costly new vines. He didn’t want to mortgage the farm or dig into Luc’s inheritance. Only one solution came to mind: he’d have to borrow the money he’d given Sara.

  Having made up his mind, Philippe asked, “So we’ll plow and harrow the soil again in March?”

  “Yup, then we’ll plant in April.”

  Nothing excited Philippe more than innovative ideas. He clutched Mac’s bony shoulder and shot him a look of gratitude. “April it is, my friend.”

  Sara hadn’t told a soul. She couldn’t be more than two months along now, but the signs were obvious. This time she wasn’t taking any chances. She would eat well and sleep late. She wasn’t going to jinx herself by visiting the doctor either. Winter was the perfect time to hide her condition under bulky clothing—at least until Philippe noticed her thickening waistline. Things would progress normally, or they wouldn’t. Worrying about it wouldn’t make this baby any healthier than the first.

  Sara resolved instead to keep her mind busy with planning her new venture. At nine o’clock in the evening, the house was quiet, except for the popping of embers in the stove’s firebox. Sara wrapped her shawl snugly around her shoulders and sipped her piping hot toddy, burning the tip of her tongue. The aroma of honey and cloves invigorated her, and the shot of bourbon warmed and relaxed her. Philippe retired earlier than usual on these winter nights, but she didn’t mind, for it allowed her two hours to dream, uninterrupted.

  Sara had spent the last month jotting down her ideas for a wine wagon at the Napa Junction. She would sell their lighter wines—bottles of chardonnay and zinfandel—the few remaining cases of their award-winning 1897 cabernet, cold lemonade, paper-wrapped cheese sandwiches and piccalilli to passengers on their way north to Aetna Springs to take the waters. She would take along a sampling of apples, peaches, plums and pies to sell. Sara even considered the young mothers traveling aboard the train with their babies. She would have fresh milk, flannels, pins and canned applesauce at the ready. She had listed the items, what each would cost to make or buy, and the price she’d ask.

  Sara doodled on her blank page. Now she needed to find the perfect vehicle for her endeavor. A harvest wagon wouldn’t work—its sides were too tall. Besides, Philippe would be using all of theirs in the spring to deliver their wines to buyers in Napa City and San Francisco.

  Sara considered the smaller pushcarts she’d seen crowding the streets of New York. The ice-cream man, the sandwich man, even the hot-potato man did a
booming trade in the summer months. The tenement housewives had flocked to the fruit and vegetable carts two, sometimes three times a day to purchase what they needed for the day’s meals. The carts served as an extension of their home kitchens. However, for Sara’s scheme, a pushcart was simply too small.

  She began to sketch exactly what she envisioned: a new one-horse, wood-wheeled wagon, with a short-sided bed painted brick red, the same color as the sign she’d made for their exhibit at the World’s Fair. She would organize her items in sections. Shoppers could peer into the wagon bed to find what they needed quickly, purchase it and board their train north for the Springs.

  A new wagon would cost anywhere from thirty to seventy-five dollars, she reckoned. What would Philippe say? She didn’t plan on asking him, simply because he’d been so preoccupied with replanting those ten acres of vines this spring. That’s all he seemed to care about: zinfandel or pinot grapes? Trellis or head-trained vines? He chattered incessantly about Mac’s brilliant idea.

  Satisfied with her plan, Sara slid her pencil inside the notebook and tucked both behind the potato basket in the larder. She pulled the bed warmer from its place beside the stove and filled it with embers from the firebox. After checking in on Pippa and Luc, she warmed her side of the bed, and then slid under the covers. She curled her knees up behind Philippe’s and slipped her cold feet between his warm calves. He sighed, cupped her hand in his and pulled her arm around his waist.

  She wondered if he could feel her heart fluttering with excitement. Since she’d been a girl, she’d never been solely responsible for any moneymaking endeavor. She’d either worked with her father or Jacques at Saint Martin, or with Philippe at Eagle’s Run. Even now, she still co-managed Saint Martin with Philippe. But this enterprise at the train station would be hers alone, to manage as she saw fit, to succeed or fail on her own merit.

  Either way, Sara was sure of one thing. With the baby coming, she must write Marie and persuade her to move to California, now that her midwifery studies were behind her. Since Lydia’s death over four years ago, Sara had missed the camaraderie of women her own age. Aurora, though she was Sara’s dearest friend, was more like a favorite doting aunt.

  The next morning, Sara flipped through the pamphlet and application piled on the table. Cooper Medical College was still accepting applicants to its surgical program for the fall semester. Perhaps Marie just needed prodding from a friend. Sara wrote her a quick note and placed it in an envelope along with the application. The stage line was expected tomorrow. Sara would make sure her package topped the stack of outgoing mail.

  Sara glared at Philippe, pushing her fists into her hips. “What are you asking?”

  Philippe rested his hands on her shoulders and reiterated his demand. “I need the money to buy materials and pay the vinedressers.” Clearly, he didn’t intend for this to be a negotiation.

  Sara pushed him away. “You need the money? The money you gave me ‘to use however I like’?”

  Philippe stepped back. “Yes, but it’s still family money.”

  “No, it’s not. It was a gift from you to me.”

  “It’s family money, and the family is in dire need of it. If I want the money, Sara, all I have to do is walk into the Napa County Savings Bank and withdraw it. The manager wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

  Sara held up her palm to silence him. “If this is the part where you tell me that a husband has rights to his wife’s money, save it,” she retorted. “We’re not in France anymore!”

  Furious, she clenched her teeth, grabbed her coat and stormed out the kitchen door. Its springs squeaked in protest as she slammed it behind her. What nerve! Sara hurried toward the stables. She felt the sudden urge to ride into town and shop for a brand-new, top-of-the-line farm wagon.

  As she clucked at Red, easing him out of his stall and preparing to saddle him, she heard Philippe behind her, closing the stable door. He caught her hand in his and began to playfully nibble her fingers. She yanked it away, angrier than a wild boar.

  When he started kissing her neck, she spun around, aroused but incensed. How could he trivialize her feelings? “Don’t,” she warned.

  “Will you hear me out? I’ll reimburse you,” he promised. She wouldn’t allow his silky words and smooth lips to distract her. She was all too familiar with his tricks.

  “No.” Her voice softened, but her eyes were filled with determination.

  “Sara, it’s for the replanting—something that will benefit us all,” he said in a tight voice.

  “Eagle’s Run only lost ten acres out of two hundred. Saint Martin is missing a third of its vines!”

  “Sara—”

  “Why can’t you use the money your grandfather gave you?”

  “Because I used it to build a new house for your mother and Jacques.”

  He was misrepresenting the facts—again. “No, we used Luc’s money for that. Half of your share was used to plant the orchard. And, of course, you saved the other half.” She tapped her foot expectantly.

  Philippe released her hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He exhaled loudly before explaining. “Yes, but when Heath and Strong didn’t pay me, I had to reimburse Lamont for what they owed him: nine hundred dollars, nearly five thousand francs.”

  Sara was dumbstruck. He’d been far too generous with Lamont and careless with their savings. Nonpayment was one of the risks of doing business, and Lamont should have shouldered at least half of the unrecovered sum. “What about our other savings?”

  Philippe thrust his hands in his pockets. “We’ve been living off it—how do you think we paid for Paris?” He continued, “It’s a timing issue. We’re still waiting to receive the insurance money and the balance of payments from the 1899 vintages. Once the money’s in, I’ll be able to repay you.”

  “When?”

  “By August.”

  But August was too late. She planned to ship the vine cuttings to Saint Martin this spring. And, if she were going to start her new business by April, she had to purchase a wagon, umbrellas and a permit right now. Sara stroked Red gently on his withers, resting her cheek against the bay’s soft neck.

  “Not soon enough,” she stated flatly.

  “What do you mean?” he asked with an undertone of disgust. “You know it’s cheaper and more practical to replant ten acres of vines here than three hectares in France. The shipping alone will be exorbitant!”

  Sara begrudgingly understood his point. She set her jaw and declared, “I will let you borrow five hundred dollars, but I’m keeping two hundred. I have need of it.” She stabbed a finger at him. “I want every penny back by August, understand?”

  Philippe’s heavy hands rested on her waist. He nuzzled his face into her hair and murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pushed him away. “I have to go shopping.”

  “No, you don’t,” he persisted, tugging her toward him, parting her lips with his tongue. She felt a familiar burn deep within, but wouldn’t give in. Her heart raced with indignation. “You owe me an apology.”

  He stepped back, but held her hands. A tempest of desire and desperation clouded his expression. “I do. I was thoughtless. I hadn’t considered that you’d been secretly plotting,” he said. “Although Lord knows I should have.”

  Sara gazed at him a moment longer, trying to discern whether or not he was patronizing her. “Surely, you’ll forgive me,” he whispered, moving closer to glide his nose up her neck, tickling her earlobe. Sara’s knees buckled. When he slid his hands down her outer thighs, she knew she couldn’t resist him any longer. Her kiss was a combination of hunger and fury. Despite her anger, she missed his touch, their shared affection.

  “Where are the children?” Philippe asked, unbuttoning her collar.

  Sara’s mind muddled when he brushed his fingers across her collarbone. “Um, they went to the hatchery to buy eggs.”

  “With Rose?”

  “Mm-hmm. And Jess.”

  “S
o we’re alone?” His breath warmed her ear.

  Sara smiled. “Not completely.”

  “Red and Lady don’t count,” he chuckled.

  Sara placed her hands on her belly and whispered, “I wasn’t referring to the horses.”

  Philippe froze. “You’re pregnant? Truly?”

  “About three months along, I’d guess.” He swept her up in his arms and planted a hearty kiss on her lips. “A baby is exactly what we need around here!” She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen him so happily animated.

  Philippe swiftly closed the stall door, locking Red safely back inside. “What is this new scheme of yours?” he asked. “I don’t want you to over-exert yourself, with a baby coming.”

  He pulled his cotton work shirt from his pants and kissed the inside of her wrist. She struggled to hold on to her train of thought. “It’s a secret,” she smirked, tracing her fingers down his throat to the light thatch of hair on his chest. The stable air was chilled, but dust motes swirled in the afternoon sun that filtered in through a crack in the door. Jess had cleaned the stables this morning, so they smelled fresh—a mixture of dried grass, leather and musky horse.

  “You, my dear, are a sphinx,” Philippe teased, leading Sara over to the small bales of hay stacked in the corner. On this lazy Friday afternoon, his lips gently meandered over Sara’s body. When the mutual surrender of their lovemaking ended, Sara sat up and straightened her skirts. She was still angry with him, but even more upset by her own weakness. Despite their genuine, shared joy over her pregnancy, Philippe had played her like a fiddle. She couldn’t let it happen again.

  Sara was so elated, she could hardly steer the wagon straight on the road. Lady yawed left, and Sara bit her lip with anticipation as they took the turn toward Eagle’s Run.

  Philippe would have to admit she was a beauty: a 1901 Rushford one-horse farm wagon, straight from Hooker and Company in San Francisco. The glossy red paint on the wagon bed was stenciled with yellow lettering: Lemieux Family Wines. With its matching yellow wheels and skeins, Sara felt like Queen Victoria high atop her throne as she drove into Eagle’s Run. Upon hearing the clatter, Philippe, Luc, Pippa and even Rose ran out to greet her.