“Not with you as their example. You’re fearless, Sara,” Marie said with admiration.
Sara smirked. “I think ‘obstinate’ is the word Philippe prefers.” She clasped Marie’s hand. “You’re so kind, Marie, but would you mind terribly if I spent a few moments alone?”
Sara hadn’t looked so forlorn since Lydia’s death, over five years ago. No, not forlorn, Marie corrected herself. Sara was heartbroken. Marie patted her friend’s knee, insisting, “After everything you two have been through, it’s no wonder you’re both on edge. I’m sure you’ll work things out.” Before she slipped out of the room, she glanced back, unable to hide her worry. “You simply must.”
Sara pulled Maman’s Christmas letter from her dress pocket and ran her fingers over the delicate handwriting. Her mother had posed a simple question—one that Philippe continually refused to answer.
When might we replant the stricken vines?
August had come and gone, and Philippe still owed Sara the money that was intended for Saint Martin. Maman and Jacques had used the lion’s share of Saint Martin’s profits to rebuild the main house. Now, understandably, they hoped to restore Saint Martin’s damaged vines. Sara was frustrated by Philippe’s evasiveness. If he had enough money to rebuild the Eagle’s Run winery, then why couldn’t Saint Martin receive the care and attention it needed, too?
Sara paced the room, tapping the wooden cross of her necklace against her lips, calmed by the repetition. The necklace reminded her of Jacques, who had carved the charm for Sara years ago. She thought back to her childhood days at Saint Martin. Sara remembered the flutter in her belly before she bit into the season’s first grapes, anticipating sweetness, and fearing overripeness. The pebbles of Saint Martin’s soil, even through layers of skirts, always roughened her knees as she pruned the vines and picked the fruit. She could still call to mind the smell of honeyed wine and French oak that greeted her when she opened the cellar door. With a familiar surge of longing, Sara recalled chasing Lydie through the sunflower field and the beauty of her sister’s springy, tight curls.
Sara’s heartbeat faltered, and she sealed her eyes shut, summoning the feel of Papa’s hands on her waist as he lifted and twirled her around the makeshift dance floor they made in their parlor for parties. He always smelled of tobacco and spearmint, and his whiskers rasped her cheek when he kissed her goodnight. Sara gripped the bedpost, suddenly unsteadied. The bedroom blurred, but she blinked her tears away. As the objects around her sharpened again, so did Sara’s resolve. Saint Martin was Papa, and she’d be damned if she’d turn her back on his legacy.
Sara sank to the floor and groped for the suitcase beneath the bed. She slid it out, dropped it on the bed quilt, and began to rifle through her chest of drawers, seizing garments and haphazardly heaping them into her suitcase. She was almost giddy: she had made her decision.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs startled her. Philippe. Sara peeked in the looking glass. She couldn’t help her ruddy cheeks and wild eyes, but at least her hair remained neatly pinned—some semblance of composure. She inhaled deeply, clenched her hands and waited.
Sara didn’t respond to his knocks at the door. When he stepped inside the room, he wore a sheepish expression. Until he caught sight of Sara’s overflowing valise.
He closed the space between them in two strides and gripped her upper arms. “Where are you going?” he barked.
“Home to Saint Martin.” Sara spoke forcefully, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.
Philippe was burning like a brazier now. “You’re leaving me? And the children, too?” His fingers stabbed at the tender undersides of her arms. Sara was alarmed by his strength—he’d clearly restrained himself until that moment. “It’s . . . only temporary,” she stammered. “While I help them replant the vines,” she finished, head held high.
Philippe let her go with a shove, and she stumbled back. Her calves hit the bed, forcing her to sit on the soft mattress. Bending over her, Philippe planted his hands beside her hips, driving Sara’s weight back onto her elbows. His shoulders were so wide beneath the thin linen of his shirt. As he loomed over her, his shinbones pressed against hers, causing her to wince.
His face was so close now that she could smell the sweet sherry on his breath. Part of her wanted to slap him, but another irrational, yet equally forceful, part of her wanted to bite his lip, to seduce and torment him with her touch until he begged for mercy. He must have read her conflicting thoughts, for his expression softened, and he shifted his legs to straddle hers. Sara remained motionless. It seemed like an eternity before he gained enough mastery over his emotions to speak.
“Why the sudden urge to visit Saint Martin?” he asked evenly. “I told you we’d replant the vines—”
“It’s been four years, Philippe! Four years since you promised to replant at Saint Martin, and now even Maman is losing patience!” Sara waved the letter in front of him. “You can’t wait to rebuild the winery here, but did you ever intend to invest money in Saint Martin or repay me? No—because you don’t care about anything except Eagle’s Run!” she shouted, thrusting her hands against Philippe’s chest, making just enough space to wriggle free of him and escape to the opposite side of the room.
Philippe edged toward her like a large, graceful cat. He stretched out a palm, as if trying to soothe her rage. Sara pressed her back against the wall.
“Sara, Eagle’s Run is the primary source of our family’s income, and for that reason alone, the winery and vines here take precedence. You know this—we built Eagle’s Run together. I will instruct Jacques to replant at Saint Martin as soon as we start making a profit again.”
Sara avoided his gaze. Was he telling her the truth?
Philippe shifted tack. “Tonight at dinner, I was trying to surprise you, not exclude you, but when you attacked me for not telling you about the winery earlier, I just . . . well, I lashed out.”
Sara couldn’t believe it. He’d humiliated her, in front of her children and her friends! Her eyes widened. “I’m never going to stop fighting, or campaigning, for the girls’ rights!”
Philippe gave Sara an incredulous look. “And I’ll never support your involvement with the suffrage movement, which you know could result in a prohibition and endanger everything I’ve worked for!” he thundered back. Down the hallway, Johnny began to wail.
“Everything you’ve worked for?” she hollered. “What do you think I’ve been doing all day? While you were out spending money on the vines here, who was making money down at the depot, pregnant, in the blistering heat? Me! I was the only one supporting this family!”
Philippe slammed his palm into the plaster wall near her head. White particles exploded into the air and showered onto the pine floorboards. Sara ducked to the right, flushed and scared, but Philippe hooked her waist with one powerful arm. “Damn it, Sara!” He pinned her shoulders to the wall. “You’re not going anywhere until we talk this through!”
“Talk! Ha! You don’t care what I think! You want to dictate what I do, when I do it—”
Philippe took the nape of Sara’s neck in one hand, and his mouth crushed down upon hers, stealing her words, biting and bruising the tender flesh of her lips. Desperate for air, Sara scraped her nails down his cheeks, until he finally relented. She pulled away, panting.
Sara fought to find her feet and reclaim her breath. “You’re a bully, Philippe—as wicked as your brother!” she shrieked. Her shoulders slumped and she dissolved in tears, but Philippe just looked stunned. He doubled over as though he’d been knifed.
The bedroom door crashed open. Aurora burst in, followed by a rush of warm, cinnamon-scented air from the kitchen. “What on earth?” Fury darkened her face. “You two are up here snarlin’ like hellhounds, throwing each other into walls, and the children are downstairs, scared senseless!” Aurora stepped between them. “Have you lost your minds?”
Philippe sank to the floor, rested his elbows on parted knees and exhaled. Angry red line
s streaked his cheeks. His bewildered expression caught Sara by surprise. “I’m sorry, Aurora,” he said hoarsely.
Sara dabbed her stinging lip, trying to wipe away the taste of blood. She was too rattled to speak, and she certainly wouldn’t apologize for Philippe. Instead, she stormed past Aurora to the other side of the bed, clicked the latch of her suitcase shut, and gripped the handle as if it were her only lifeline in a raging sea. Without a glance, or a word to anyone, Sara walked out.
She was only about a hundred paces north of the house when she heard someone approaching from behind. She felt a tug on her coat and whirled around, ready for battle, nearly sideswiping Aurora with the lantern. “Aurora!” The flicker of the flame illuminated her friend’s kind face and perplexed expression.
“Where are you going?” Aurora asked, her tone rife with disapproval. “It’s Christmas Eve! The children deserve visions of sugarplums, not two warring parents screaming and clawing at one another.” Guilt consumed Sara, but—she reminded herself—this was Philippe’s fault, not hers.
“I can’t go back, Aurora,” Sara whispered. Recalling his anger—and his unwillingness to listen to her—she felt suddenly queasy. “May I please stay with you?”
“Tonight? Or indefinitely?” Aurora countered.
“For tonight”—Sara shrugged—“and then, who knows?” she replied sadly. Aurora linked her arm through Sara’s and the two continued, their skirts swishing against the vines, to Aurora’s farmhouse.
Aurora ignited a fire in the hearth and put the kettle on. Bone-weary, Sara slipped into a wooden chair at the kitchen table. She rested her chin on threaded fingers. Aurora added a jigger of whiskey, a healthy tablespoon of honey and a dash of ground cloves to a pair of mugs, then lifted the whistling kettle and poured in the boiling water. She slid the hot toddy over to Sara and ordered her to stir.
Sara hung her head over the steaming brew and sighed. “I don’t know what to do,” she murmured.
Aurora’s expression was unreadable, but she clanked the spoon loudly against her mug. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” She slurped the toddy and smacked her lips. “You’re going to march yourself back home tomorrow morning and talk to your husband. I don’t condone his rough behavior, but for God’s sakes, Sara, he made a mistake! Think about what he’s endured over the last year. His father shot himself, and his daughter nearly died in a fire that destroyed a year’s worth of wine and profit! You both built Eagle’s Run—and you’re both responsible for its future. Philippe’s trying to rebuild his entire life, and you’re stompin’ your little shoe, quibblin’ about Saint Martin and the women’s vote!” Aurora’s palm slapped the table, causing Sara to flinch and flush pink. Aurora, and probably everyone else, had overheard their squabble. Aurora blew a loose strand of auburn hair from her forehead and released a frustrated sigh.
“All I’m saying is that you’re not going to find a better man—one who cares more for you and the children—than Philippe Lemieux.”
Sara tightened her grip on her warm mug. “You’re not married to him.”
Aurora’s mouth twisted with skepticism. “Did he actually strike you?”
“No,” Sara hesitated. “But he hit the wall pretty hard.” She couldn’t tell her friend about his violent kiss, or explain why she’d scratched him.
“You seem to be in a bit of a muddle, my dear,” Aurora said sympathetically. In her usual methodical fashion, she untangled Sara’s snarled thoughts. “Marriage isn’t fifty-fifty all the time. Sometimes you’ll need to put in eighty percent while he can only muster twenty, and vice versa.” Sara recalled when she’d lost their baby. She’d drifted for months, barely connected to her body. Philippe had remained quietly by her side, never pressuring her. He’d assumed the burden of her chores and winemaking duties without complaint. That was the Philippe she loved—but she didn’t understand why her simple demands had sparked such violence in him tonight.
“Sara.” Aurora cocked a suggestive eyebrow. “When’s the last time you two, er, you know, took a turn among the cabbages?”
Sara sputtered, choking on her drink. “I’ve never quite heard it referred to that way . . . but I suppose it’s been a while.” Maybe once or twice since Johnny had been born?
“I know it’s not my business, and I’m not saying it’ll fix the rift between you two, but it can’t hurt.” Aurora winked, a merry glint in her eye. “Sometimes you need a bit of sugar to set things right, no?”
An aching stiffness crept into Philippe’s bones. He’d lain awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling, caught up in a storm of self-loathing. The sky had lightened almost imperceptibly, and he guessed it was nearly five o’clock. Powerless to undo his conduct from the night before, Philippe sprang out of bed, slipped on his boots and coat, and struck out in search of fresh air.
The early morning cold shocked his senses. Fortunately, the moon glowed full and bright, and he required no lantern. His feet carried him between the vine rows, past the grove of fragrant eucalyptus trees and down the path to Aurora’s farm. He didn’t know what he would say or do when he found Sara, but he suspected groveling would be involved.
He glimpsed her dark form against the stark white of Aurora’s porch. Her breath rose in a steamy mist as she descended the stairs, and her face glowed in the silver moonlight. She glided, always so elegant to him, out into the garden, and raised her head to the night sky. Philippe inhaled sharply. “Damn, woman. You are ripping my guts out,” he murmured to himself.
When he at last gathered the courage to approach, Philippe called her name softly, trying not to startle her. She turned slowly, as though she’d been expecting him, and he realized that she was still wearing her red dress from the night before—the one he’d purchased in Tours—though now it was partly concealed by the shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face was an impenetrable mask. Philippe’s mind flashed to the night before. Sara had been so lovely in that dress. Although she’d regained her slim figure, her breasts, after months of nursing Johnny, were now subtly larger, fitting like perfectly round apples in his palm. His throat thickened with longing—and disgust for what he’d said and done to her.
Sara lingered several steps away from him. He didn’t dare touch her. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m an ass, Sara.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yes.” She leveled him with her piercing green gaze and a sweep of her long lashes.
He paused, wondering how to bridge the distance between them. After a few moments, he extended a hand. “Walk with me?” he asked tenderly.
Sara studied him for a moment. She timidly touched the cheek she’d raked raw the night before to escape his rough embrace. “Does it sting?” she asked, not without sympathy.
“Like the dickens, but I deserved it.” He smiled ruefully, enveloping her cold fingers in his. Sensing her hesitancy, Philippe tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. He guided her down to the creek, where they walked in silence, with only the crunch of dried seagrass underfoot. Sara didn’t melt into him as she normally did—instead, she remained rigid by his side. The playful ease that had existed between them had vanished after Johnny was born—supplanted by her stubbornness and his anger, Philippe reckoned.
“I have no excuse for behaving so . . . badly,” he gulped, trying to forget how she’d compared him to Bastien. “But will you allow me to explain?” he hastened to add.
Sara nodded. They stopped under a cluster of barren maple saplings. Philippe smoothed his thumb over the fine bones of her hand. If they touched, he might have a better chance of conveying his sincerity.
Words, however, failed him. Instead, he lowered his forehead to hers, hoping she would somehow sense the depth of his regret.
“Sara,” he implored.
She slid her palms up his neck and cradled his face. “Tell me,” she pressed.
What should he say? He could explain how he loved the earthy scent of her flesh, the regal curve of her neck. He could confe
ss that, as she slept, his fingers traced the loose waves of her chestnut hair—or that he delighted in pleasing her, in surrendering his soul as he made love to every inch of her supple body. After losing nearly everything, he was terrified of losing her, too. Philippe could offer a million reasons why he couldn’t part with her, but only one truly mattered. “You’re all I want,” he declared.
She drew a deep breath. “You hurt me,” Sara replied with a steely gaze. She wasn’t referring to any physical pain.
“I know, and I’m deeply sorry for it. I’ll send the vines to Jacques myself, as soon as possible, and we’ll find a way through—”
Her fingertips brushed his lips, temporarily silencing him. She wore a tortured expression, and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Stay,” he whispered urgently.
She squeezed his hands. “You’re smothering me.”
Sadness lurked behind those blazing green eyes. How could he have been so blind? By trying to tame Sara’s enthusiasm for new ideas, by railing against her principled approach to life and family, he was neglecting the very spirit of the girl he adored.
Choked with this realization of his failure, he pleaded, “Spend Christmas morning with us—for the children.”
Sara paused for a moment, and then cautiously agreed. “And after that?” she asked, unable to meet his eye.
She didn’t resist when he pulled her into his embrace and rested his chin in the soft nest of her hair. “After that,” he whispered with certainty, “watch me win you back.”
Sara awoke at home to the smell of buttermilk pancakes, bacon and black coffee. When she appeared in the kitchen, everyone wished her a happy Christmas, the children’s voices muffled by the syrup-sodden cakes in their mouths. Marie was equally cheerful, and made no mention of the night before. After midday Mass at St. John’s in Napa, Marie and Sara warmed the leftover turkey and served it with roasted parsnips, mashed potatoes, raspberry jam and, to the children’s delight, fruit pudding. Throughout the day, Philippe kept his distance, which only made Sara more aware of him. She admired his strong hands when he poured her wine, the shape of his torso beneath his shirt as he stacked the firewood in the hearth and his impish eagerness to plop down cross-legged on the floor and help Adeline, Luc and Pippa tear the colored wrapping and ribbons from their gifts.
The California Wife Page 22
