As the afternoon wore into evening, Sara and Philippe placed lanterns on the tables and hung them from tree branches. Philippe had even bought a few strands of white electric lights for the tasting room, which now served as the dance floor. He took a turn with Marie, while the string quartet played “Beautiful Erin.” Sara swayed to the music as she watched them; they looked like brother and sister, happy to once again be part of each other’s lives. Matthew suddenly appeared by Sara’s side. “Isn’t she lovely?” he marveled.
Sara recognized that hopeless look on his face. She linked her arm through Matthew’s. “She is, and you are one lucky man.”
“I know,” he sighed, extending his arms to offer Sara a dance. In no time, they were spinning circles around Philippe and Marie, who had slowed, locked in deep conversation. When the song ended, Matthew whispered, “May I borrow you and Philippe, and Adeline, too? I’d like you to be with us when I share the news.”
Sara knew what he was talking about. “Of course. I’ll find Adeline.” Sara and Philippe had helped Matthew with all the details, while keeping his secret from Marie.
Matthew guided Marie, Sara, Philippe and Adeline away from the winery and around to the front of the house, never letting go of Marie’s hand. Adeline walked close beside them. Matthew put his left arm around her shoulders, pulling her into an affectionate bear hug. “Miss Adeline, I saw you dancing with that Sumter boy . . . What’s his name?”
Adeline turned bright pink. “Jess, sir.”
“Jess? And how old is this Jess? Isn’t eleven a little young for your first dance?”
Adeline shrugged. “He asked,” she replied nonchalantly.
Matthew called to Philippe, who walked with Sara a few paces behind. “How are we going to scare off Adeline’s suitors, Philippe?” Adeline giggled while Marie rolled her eyes.
Philippe shot Sara a sideways glance and replied, “You won’t be needing a rifle. One sharp look from Sara usually scares the devil out of Jess Sumter.” Sara jabbed Philippe in the side and smiled apologetically at Adeline.
The front porch was a welcome respite from the crowd of rowdy guests behind the house. Sara shivered in the cool night air, and Philippe drew her close. She melted into his warmth.
Matthew rubbed his palms together. “I have an announcement to make, you two.” Marie and Adeline exchanged glances. “With Sara and Philippe’s help, I’ve planned a trip next summer. In June, the three of us leave for France!” Marie clapped a hand over her mouth. Matthew suggested, “Now you can introduce me—and Adeline—to your family.” Marie was nearly in tears, thanking Sara and Philippe before throwing her arms around Matthew and Adeline.
Sara and Philippe wandered back toward the winery, allowing the new family some privacy. Philippe squeezed Sara’s shoulders. “What a wonderful day.”
“Glorious,” she agreed, pleased to have a peaceful moment together.
“I hope they’ll be as happy as we are.”
“The last five years haven’t been all hearts and roses, you’ll recall.”
“No, we’ve had our share of difficulty, but we’re surviving, aren’t we?” he said contentedly. A lock of hair fell over his face, and she brushed it off his forehead. His expression was bright and clear, with no trace of the fatigue and suffering that had marked the last few years.
“I’d hoped for more than just surviving,” she reminded him.
“Look at all we have now—Pippa, Luc and Johnny, all healthy. The vineyard is back on track, and wine prices are at an all-time high. Who could want more?”
Sara circled her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. She walked into the orchard, calling to her children. Aurora appeared holding Johnny, who was sleeping soundly on her shoulder. Pippa and Luc darted between the trees, and came bounding up to her, hand-in-hand. Sara’s heart filled with a peace she hadn’t known for a long time. They had been to hell and back in the last years, but Sara would do it again, if it meant protecting her family.
Chapter 34
APRIL 17, 1906
Philippe stirred next to Sara. His warm hand slid over her thigh and across her round belly. “Baby awake yet?” he whispered.
She opened one eye, and noting the absence of sunlight, clamped it shut again. “No, and neither am I,” she groaned. In her eighth month of pregnancy, Sara craved sleep.
Philippe kissed the soft spot beneath her earlobe. “C’mon, Mrs. Lemieux, you must have big plans today. Don’t you have a city hall to picket or a factory to storm?”
“Just laundry,” she replied. “But we do have about twenty visitors coming this afternoon for a tour and some wine sampling.” At this point in her pregnancy, Sara found comfort in staying home and managing the flow of visitors through the winery.
“And of course, you’ll charm them into buying our entire inventory.”
“As much as they can pack into their motorcars and wagons, yes.” Sara yawned. Since the opening of the new winery and tasting room four years ago, Eagle’s Run was seeing record profits. Prices had increased and demand for wine was so high, Sara and Philippe now purchased grapes from their neighbors to increase their output. They’d cleared and planted twenty new acres of pinot noir grapes, which they would harvest this fall.
Philippe slid out of bed and started dressing. Sara rolled over, admiring his muscular thighs. She felt a twinge of envy when she gazed at his flat stomach. “Are you staying in Nob Hill tonight?” she asked. Marie and Matthew generously insisted Philippe stay with them every time he was in town. Typically they visited the farm every month with Adeline and two-year-old Gemma, born in the fall of 1903, right after Marie started her third year of medical school. Whenever Sara felt overwhelmed with her responsibilities at the winery, she thought of Marie, who was finishing up night shifts at Harbor Hospital and would join Matthew’s practice full-time in the fall. Marie was the busiest woman she knew.
“Actually, no,” Philippe replied, buttoning his breeches. “Matthew’s family is visiting, and I don’t want to intrude. Besides, I want to show Luc around the city. We’ll stay at the Silverado Hotel on Market, close to the train depot and the ferry.”
“I hope you boys have fun,” she said. She tried to sound cheerful, although she didn’t really like being on her own, even overnight, when she was pregnant.
Philippe stretched across the bed and pecked Sara’s lips. She missed the flare of desire she used to feel when they kissed, but they were happy.
She turned over and dozed off.
When the cock crowed, Luc scrambled out of bed and threw on his knickers, stockings, white shirt and brown leather shoes. He plucked his coat off the hook on the back of the door and bolted for the kitchen. This was the most exciting day of his life so far.
“Good morning, Rose!” he said to their housemaid.
“Hello, Master Luc. You look as delighted as a pig in mud.” Luc had always liked Rose. She was round in her housecoat and apron, and bustled between the stove and table with a spring in her step, gripping a spatula. Luc tried to sneak a piece of bacon from the sideboard, but a light swat of her hand stopped him. “You sit yerself right down, young man, and mind your manners,” she ordered, waving her spatula like a weapon.
He obeyed, wiggling into a chair. His stomach growled. At dinner last night, Maman had said no pie after he’d rolled his peas under the edge of his plate, one by one, when no one was looking. Luc smiled to himself, recalling Maman’s face when she picked up his plate to find a necklace of green peas! She was fit to be tied.
Papa swung the kitchen door open with a bang just as Rose set down their oatmeal, eggs, toast and bacon. “Thank you, Rose,” he boomed, ruffling Luc’s hair. “I hope you had a good night’s sleep.”
Luc beamed. “Yes, sir. Ready for our trip.” Papa nodded, sipped his coffee and scanned the paper.
Maman soon appeared in the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers. Luc would never say it out loud, but with the baby coming next month, she looked as though she’d swal
lowed a leather ball. He thought it would be nice to have another sister—someone else to play with Pippa. He and his four-year-old brother Johnny didn’t like playing dolls. If his friends ever found out, they’d call him a sissy for sure. He liked catching the pie pan in spin the platter, shooting marbles, playing blindman’s buff and, of course, helping Papa pick and crush grapes.
Papa stood up and pulled out the chair for Maman. He was a gentleman. “G’morning, darling,” he said.
She patted his hand with her slender fingers. “You boys all packed? How many deliveries are you making?”
“Twenty or so,” Papa replied. He swung around Rose to steal a piece of toast, but she didn’t dare slap his hand.
Maman’s eyes narrowed. “He’s missing a mathematics test,” she protested. Luc’s shoulders slumped at the thought of having to skip the day’s adventure because of a stupid test.
Papa knew just what to say. “Didn’t you ever play hooky?” he asked Maman. “Never mind, don’t answer that. There’s no harm in taking the boy out of school for a day or two to teach him about the business. When he’s eighteen and takes over Saint Martin, he’ll need to know how to sell and deliver wine—the right way.” Papa winked at Luc. “You’ll take the test on Thursday, right, Luc?”
“Yes, sir.” Luc wiped his mouth and laid his dishes in the sink. “Thanks, Rose, that was dee-licious!”
Rose handed him a paper bag. “You take these sandwiches and jugs and load them up for your father, straight away.”
Maman caught him by the waist and squeezed him tightly before he ran out to the wagon. “You help your father, and no sassing, understand?” she called. Even though Maman worried about things like ironed shirts, mathematics tests and clean fingernails, she was soft and warm and always smelled good, like talcum powder and roses.
As they rode to Vallejo to catch the ferry, the moist air began to blow, pushing the fog against the hills like ocean waves rolling over rocks. Luc felt like the luckiest boy alive, with the cool morning wind on his face instead of the dusty air of the classroom.
When the ferry charged from San Pablo Bay into San Francisco Bay, Luc could see the silhouettes of buildings against the sky, shimmering in the glow of the rising sun. Papa unfolded his dog-eared map and moved his finger over the maze of streets. “First we’ll pick up the demijohns and bottles at the depot, then we’ll head west up to Nob Hill. After we make about seven stops up in that neighborhood, we’ll swing back down to the depot, pick up the next load and make our way up Market Street. After we deliver to the Palace Hotel, we’ll stay the night at the Silverado. In the morning, we’ll make another two or three deliveries and finish in time to catch the ferry home at noon.”
“Papa, what’s a nob?”
Papa laughed. “It’s short for ‘nabob.’ Years ago, the railroad barons were nicknamed ‘nobs’ because they built mansions up on the hill to show off their wealth. Ever since, city folks have called the neighborhood Nob Hill.”
Luc thought about this. “Does that mean that Tante Marie and Uncle Matthew are nobs, too?” They lived on Taylor Street in a big fancy house, right in the center of the neighborhood.
Papa chortled. “No, they don’t put on airs like the other nobs do.”
Tante Marie and Uncle Matthew were two of the nicest people he knew. They weren’t just doctors, they were surgeons. “Can we stop in to see them?” Luc’s mouth watered at the thought of the rainbow-colored candy Tante Marie kept out in a glass bowl in the huge foyer of their home.
“Not this time. They’re both working today, and they have guests staying at the house, which is why you and I are bunking at the Silverado. Don’t worry, they serve your favorites—pork pie and devil’s food cake.”
Their wagon climbed the steep slope of California Street from the Ferry Building all the way up to Powell Street. Papa handed Luc the reins as they drove the horses higher and higher up the wide dirt road. Luc stayed to the right, out of the way of the cable cars, runabouts, wagons, carriages and bicycles racing up and down the hill. The whole time, all he could think about was the ride back down. What fun it would be to make a go-cart from a grape crate and the wheels of Johnny’s old carriage! He’d start at the crest of Nob Hill, and fly straight down California Street at lightning speed, hair rippling in the wind. He’d have to install a strong brake, so he didn’t overshoot the Ferry Building and plunge into the bay.
Luc watched in silence from the wagon while Papa knocked on the back doors of homes as large as the winery building. When a maid or housekeeper came to the door, Papa took off his cap. If a butler answered, he extended his hand. He always smiled, chatted about the weather or the wine, and handed over the bill before stacking the cases of wine or ten-gallon demijohns in the cellar. That way, customers had plenty of time to collect the payment out of the house’s safe, Papa said. If he were delivering for a party—typically a large order—Papa would always offer the servants a bottle of wine “with his compliments.” What were those? Luc asked. “A gift they don’t pay for. Makes them feel special, like the lord or lady of the manor,” Papa replied. “Nine times out of ten, the butler or the housekeeper decides which wines to serve at the parties. That bottle of wine I give them might be the reason they choose us over Inglenook or Krug.” Luc nodded. Selling wine took more brains than he imagined.
By the time they reached the Silverado Hotel late that afternoon, Luc’s neck ached from craning to see the dome of City Hall, the top floor of the eight-story Palace Hotel and the other tall, fancy buildings that lined Market Street. The Silverado was a modest, three-story hotel with a rowdy saloon on its first floor. Papa booked them a room on the third so they wouldn’t hear the racket from downstairs. He left Luc to wash up in the room while he fetched the pork pie and devil’s food cake he’d promised from the saloon.
They ate on the floor like heathens, licking their fingers, burping and talking with their mouths full—all the things that made Maman frown. Luc taught Papa how to play tiddlywinks on the pine floor. The last thing he remembered that evening was Papa snoring gently beside him on the bed, and feeling happy.
Luc awoke with a start. He thought he was dreaming, because the room was dancing a jig. Papa grabbed him around the waist just before another jolt slid them off the bed and hurled them down to the floor, which seemed to be collapsing beneath them. Papa locked Luc tightly to his chest, breaking his fall as they hit a pile of debris.
Cracking noises and the screams of the other guests pierced Luc’s ears. He could feel Papa’s heart thudding, and his arms wrapped around him. His bare legs stung as wood, brick and glass fell on them. The ground continued to twist like a whirligig and growl like a monstrous train. A hot stream of urine trickled down the inside of his thigh. When the earth quieted, an eternity later, he blinked several times, but all he could see was darkness.
“Papa!” he cried, chest heaving and hands trembling.
Papa placed a big, warm paw on his forehead. “Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly.
Luc felt sore where he’d been struck by debris, but he was more frightened than hurt. He shook his head, but then realized Papa probably couldn’t see him either. “No,” he answered. “You?”
Papa grunted. “A little.” He was breathing heavily. “We have to dig ourselves out.” Papa pushed Luc up into a seated position. “Can you see anything?” Luc stretched his arms high. He touched wooden boards, but nothing too scratchy or sharp, above him. Suddenly, he saw a pinprick of dark blue sky. He pushed his hand up toward the light, hoping to feel the open air. He heard a muffled cry beneath them. A whimpering dog, trapped and scared, he guessed. “Keep going,” Papa shouted over the noise. Before long, Luc was pushing planks and small metal pieces aside, forming a hole large enough for them to stand.
When their heads emerged, Luc had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve to make sure he was seeing straight. They were standing on a pile of rubble—twisted metal, crumbling brick and rock, and shattered glass—all that remained of their hotel. Clouds o
f yellow dust blocked Luc’s view of the street. Papa’s scratched, dirt-streaked face contorted into an expression of horror and bewilderment. He tried to gain a foothold in the wall of debris surrounding them, but he couldn’t. Luc bent over backwards like a crab, with both feet and hands planted on the ground, and pressed his thighs together, forming a step. Papa steadied one foot on Luc’s thighs and hoisted himself up and out through the tunnel of rubble. Then he leaned back down, took Luc’s hand in his, and pulled the boy out of the wreckage.
They looked down Market Street. The Ferry Building was not visible—thick dust filled the air—but thousands of people were rushing toward it, screaming, in their nightclothes. Panicky horses zigzagged in the road and a herd of longhorn steers charged, trampling people beneath their pounding hooves. Luc turned around. The Palace Hotel, only two blocks up, was a skeleton of its former self. Its elegant arches and tall walls looked like the bones of an animal carcass picked over by buzzards. In the distance, black and white clouds billowed as high as Luc could see, blocking out the light of the rising sun.
With bare, bloody feet, and wearing only their nightshirts, Philippe and Luc cleared away stones, bricks, metal and furniture, looking for survivors. A heart-wrenching cry rang out. “Over here!” Papa shouted, and grabbed a woman’s hand. He kicked away debris with his feet while Luc pulled bricks off her body and threw them aside. She was a young woman, probably a few years older than Adeline, who was fifteen, and she was shouting for her ma. Once free, she pawed at the rubble around her with raw, red hands. In a few minutes, they uncovered her mother’s blue, bruised face. Papa placed two fingers on the woman’s neck and then shook his head. Luc sucked in a breath. He’d never seen a dead person before. The girl sank to her knees, hunched over her mother, kissing her lifeless face. Her wails cut through the sounds of chaos on the street and sliced Luc through.
Papa held the girl’s shoulders as she shook uncontrollably. In a few minutes, she quieted and they continued lifting the bricks and splintered timbers off her mother’s body. Papa squatted down, listening for sounds of life from the remains of the hotel. Over the next few hours, dozens of men and women stopped to help them lift fallen timber and pull out survivors. Luc’s hands were bleeding, and his arms felt like wet noodles. His throat was parched, and he craved water, but there wasn’t any. There was nothing.
The California Wife Page 30
