Sundown Crossing

by Lynne Wilding

  It had been a mammoth task, organising and building the cottage and setting out the vineyard in less than three years but now more than half the acreage had trellis supports with vines at various stages of growth. Some vines were still too immature to bear fruit and wouldn’t for another year or two. Still, he was not displeased with what had been accomplished.

  But would Kurt be impressed when he saw what had been developed? In his brother’s letters to Papa, he had mentioned, boastfully, the things he had been learning with regard to advanced winemaking at the University of Heidelberg. He’d met Marta, an arts student, on campus, and she was ‘the most beautiful woman in the world’, according to him. His letters of late, to Papa, had heaped praise upon praise on the woman he intended to wed—that Marta was a paragon of virtue and possessed more attributes than Kurt could put down on paper.

  His brother’s gushing, flowery phrases, made Rolfe grin, but he knew Papa was pleased. His eldest son was marrying, and in time would produce a future heir for Rhein Schloss.

  Papa was old-fashioned in his thinking, insisting that the family business pass from eldest son to eldest son, as it had in the old country. That had been the tradition for centuries where the Stenmarks had lived with others in tightly packed vineyards that clung to slopes along the Mosel, where that smaller river met the mighty Rhein River. His great-grandfather, Fritz Steinmarch, the fourth son of Johann Steinmarch had known from childhood that he would never own the vines he and his older brothers tended with such devotion. So, when he heard that land, so much land, was being settled in Australia at a ridiculously low price, he packed his belongings including vine cuttings, and took his pregnant wife, Gretchen, said goodbye to his family and sailed away to the foreign land to make his fortune.

  The Barossa Valley, less than one hundred miles from the small town of Adelaide, had exceeded Fritz’s expectations. Within five years he, Gretchen, and their two children, Wilfred and Gerda, had made enough money from cultivating the grapes to own the land outright and build their first stone cottage on land that eventually became the first Rhein Schloss vineyard. Rolfe knew the family tale so well, having heard it over and over since he’d been a small child.

  Rolfe chuckled again. It would serve Papa and his old-fashioned views right if Kurt and Marta had a bevy of daughters and no sons. Still, from a historical viewpoint that was unlikely. The Stenmarks, for as many generations as he could recall, had managed to produce at least one male heir to carry on the family’s business and name. Another reason why he had to make Krugerhoff work. Developing a smaller, successful winery would ensure his future in the Valley and in time, and God willing, he would create his own Stenmark dynasty.

  Friday had come and Kurt and Marta were expected today. Everyone other than Rolfe was at Stenhaus—the name given to the family home Carl had built for his wife, Anna Louise, several years ago—waiting for them.

  Aware of his lateness, Rolfe set aside the fact that he was bone weary from a hard day’s work and pushed the accelerator of the Holden down hard as he roared up the drive. He swerved around the corner to park at the back of the house, near the garages, beside a new Mercedes sports car. They had arrived. He knew his father had bought the sports car for Kurt as an engagement present and that his brother had taken delivery of it in Adelaide after getting off the plane. For a few seconds, as he crossed the open area of the patio, Rolfe stared at the red, highly polished metal and the vehicle’s sleek lines. A renegade and unaccustomed stab of envy raced through him. Kurt’s new car was, to his mind, but another sign of Papa’s favouritism.

  Conquering his disgruntlement he took the time to wash his face and hands at the kitchen sink, then he wet and slicked back his light brown hair—Greta was always telling him that he needed a trim—and brushed down his soiled work clothes before moving down the tiled hallway towards the drawing room. That room was the most formal area of the house. The furniture, imported from Europe, was of the finest quality and the room was only used for special occasions.

  ‘Aahhh, there you are,’ Carl Stenmark, a disapproving glint in his sharp blue eyes, saw his younger son enter quietly and stand against the closed doors. ‘I’m not sure if you are trying to impress us with your industriousness, Rolfe, but…’

  A slimmer version of Rolfe, with straight ginger hair, cut short, interrupted, ‘Or, Papa, perhaps Rolfe just likes to make the grand entrance to create a dramatic moment,’ his brother teased.

  Rolfe moved towards his brother, shook hands with him then pulled Kurt into a bearish hug. ‘Welcome home, Kurt.’ He made a big thing out of sighing loudly. ‘The house has been so quiet and peaceful without your noisy clomping around.’ Because Kurt was taller, Rolfe had to grin up at him. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

  ‘It’s good to be back. Until I saw the gum trees I didn’t realise how much I’d missed the Valley.’ Kurt took hold of his brother’s arm. ‘Come and meet Marta.’

  The photos Kurt had sent home of Marta Gronow did not do the woman justice. Rolfe realised that as soon as he saw her, sitting on the tapestry sofa between Lisel and Greta while young Luke played with a set of blocks at her feet. She was beautiful. No, more than beautiful, magnificent. He blinked twice, shuffled awkwardly to cover his confusion. Suddenly his mouth went dry, his brain became a blank, unable to think of anything sensible to say. She was a vision of loveliness, with her silky, almost black straight hair, translucent skin, perfectly arranged features and large eyes that had a slight upwards slant at the corners. What colour were they? An unusual shade, the colour of slate, and they were sparkling at him like dark, lustrous jewels. Marta smiled and held out her hand.

  He shook her slender hand briefly, then straightened up. From somewhere deep inside, he found the ability to speak though he felt as if everyone was staring at him and that under his tan, his face was flushed with embarrassment. ‘Welcome to Stenhaus, M-Marta, it is a pleasure to welcome my future sister-in-law.’

  ‘Thank you, Rolfe. Kurt,’ Marta’s English was heavily accented. She stared at Kurt. ‘How naughty you are. You didn’t tell me your younger brother was cute, and gallant.’

  ‘Cute. Gallant? That’s not how I remember him,’ Kurt responded with a chuckle, ‘but then it’s been two years since we’ve seen each other. He could have learned a few things in that time.’ He glanced at Papa, then back at Rolfe. ‘I believe you have, developing your own winery, no less.’ He brought his hands together in a slow hand clap. ‘Bravo, Rolfe.’ His gaze moved to rest respectfully on the oil painting over the fireplace of a stately-looking woman with red-gold hair and green eyes. ‘Mutter would be proud.’

  ‘We are all proud of what Rolfe has accomplished,’ Greta said quietly, ‘aren’t we, Papa?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Carl retorted testily, his greying eyebrows drawing together in a frown. ‘We can talk about Krugerhoff later. I’m sure Kurt and Marta are tired from their flight and the drive from Adelaide. They should rest before dinner.’ He reached forward to draw Marta up and off the sofa, saying, ‘You are very welcome here, Marta. Kurt is a lucky man and we wish both of you the happiest of futures together.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa Carl. Kurt has told me so much about each of you that I feel as if I know you already.’ She patted Lisel’s knee and reached forward with her free hand to ruffle Luke’s mop of dark hair.

  ‘I will show you to your room, Marta, it’s next door but one to mine,’ Lisel offered.

  Rolfe could see that already the youngest Stenmark had fallen under the spell of Marta’s beauty and her charming European manners. As everyone rose from various chairs, he slipped from the room to curtail any further criticism from Papa regarding his late appearance. He headed for his bedroom where he stripped down to his underpants and threw his body across the bed, lying on his back to stare at the ceiling. His sense of bone weariness on the drive home had dissipated on meeting Kurt’s fiancée. He felt rejuvenated, delighted and…aroused. What a vision was Marta Gronow. Perfectly groomed, she walked like a
ballet dancer—he’d stayed long enough to see her glide towards the drawing-room doors—and that soft, sexy voice of hers.

  Groaning, he rolled over onto his stomach, thinking about the two brief romantic encounters in his life. His first at the age of sixteen, with a fruit-picker at the end of harvest. It had been a rushed, groping encounter after they’d both consumed enough wine to make themselves tipsy. The other, when he was twenty, with a student at the viticulture college had, for the most part, been little more than a mutually satisfying sexual liaison that ended after her graduation.

  Trust Kurt to find an angel like Marta. Rolfe’s grunt of disgust was muffled by the bedspread. His brother had always been a lucky bastard. Firstborn, better looking, Papa’s favourite, academically smarter and better at sports than he was and with a more outgoing personality and, now…Marta. Feeling guilt race through him due to his jealous thoughts he tried to stifle the shudder of envy that engulfed him. A brief knock on the door disturbed his mental meanderings.

  ‘I’m not dressed,’ he warned, hoping to put off the would-be intruder.

  ‘That’s okay, Rolfie. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before,’ Kurt replied.

  He came into the room and flung himself across the bed in a similar fashion to Rolfe, then he settled on his side and used his hand and elbow to prop up his head. He gazed around the room, re-acquainting himself with the furniture, the pictures on the wall. Rolfe could tell from Kurt’s unguarded expression that he thought the inordinate tidiness of the room unusual. No other family member was addicted to being compulsively neat.

  Rolfe chose to ignore Kurt’s use of the nickname their Mutter had given him. He was rarely addressed as Rolfie these days. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be resting before dinner?’

  Kurt grinned. ‘This is resting. So, tell me, what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  Kurt rolled his eyes. ‘Marta, dummkopf.’

  ‘She is very lovely but I think she has a problem with her eyes,’ the younger brother said quite seriously, doing his best to keep a straight face when he saw a frown creep across Kurt’s forehead.

  ‘Her eyes? They’re fine. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Marta can’t see too clearly if she fell in love with your ugly mug. Your fiancée should definitely have her eyes checked before the wedding.’

  A mock wrestling match on the bed followed with each man trying to get a winning hold. Finally Rolfe triumphed by sitting astride Kurt and pinning his arms to the bed.

  ‘Hey, when did you get so strong?’ Kurt complained good-naturedly, grinning in defeat.

  Rolfe watched his brother’s gaze run over his muscled chest, his strong, sinewy arms and broad shoulders. ‘Since I started to build Krugerhoff. Manual labour is a good muscle builder.’

  ‘I look forward to a thorough inspection of the vineyard. Greta and John spoke highly of what you’ve achieved, but…’

  Pleased with his victory, Rolfe rolled off him and sat on the side of the bed. ‘But what…?’

  ‘I’m not sure Papa is pleased with your endeavours. You know he likes to control everything. What you’ve done is very…independent.’

  Rolfe gave Kurt a questioning look. It didn’t have to be said, they both knew why he had struck out on his own. ‘Has Papa said something to you to that effect?’

  Kurt hesitated for a moment. ‘It was, um, implied. We know Papa is old-fashioned. Personally, I think what you’ve done is terrific and, in a way, I envy you, building a vineyard from nothing but the earth on which you stand. There must be a tremendous sense of fulfilment in doing that.’ He watched Rolfe nod. ‘But onto other important things: Marta. I’m glad you like her because in the weeks ahead I may need you to entertain her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Papa has made it clear that he expects me to take on more responsibility at Rhein Schloss which will mean less time to spend with Marta.’

  ‘But I…’

  Kurt saw his face flush and made the assumption that shyness was the problem. ‘She doesn’t bite, you know. And you did say you liked her. I want Marta to be more competent and relaxed with her English. I want her to like the Barossa because in the not too distant future it will be her home. I don’t want her getting homesick for Germany and her friends. All of us must keep her amused, and too busy to miss the things she is used to.’ He lifted an eyebrow at his brother. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Of course. But…I have Krugerhoff. Harvest time will be in another month, maybe less. I won’t always be available.’

  Kurt pulled a face and gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘I don’t mean every day. Just sometimes. Surely you can manage that.’

  Spending time with Marta, keeping her entertained. The prospect was tantalising and at the same time terrifying. Already he liked Kurt’s fiancée too much and not in the way a future brother-in-law should. The pull of attraction had been magnetic, at least on his part. But how could he refuse Kurt’s request? He knew he couldn’t. ‘I’d be happy to help.’ Rolfe watched Kurt, his mission completed, roll off the bed and stand up.

  ‘Great, Rolfie, I appreciate it.’ Kurt turned on his heel and left the room.

  Alone once more, Rolfe stared at the closed door for maybe half a minute then, accepting what would be, he reached over to the small chest of drawers by his bed, opened the top drawer and pulled out a long, black-jacketed book. Opening it, he picked up the pen resting between the pages and turning to a blank page—the previous one having several drawings of the perimeters of Krugerhoff on it—he began to write down his thoughts: ‘Today I met Kurt’s fiancée, Marta…’

  Carla looked up from her father’s journal to see Sam, rubbing his eyes sleepily, his ginger hair stuck up in spikes. He came into the living room and walked towards her. ‘Good morning, my darling boy.’

  ‘Morning,’ Sam mumbled on the end of a yawn. ‘Watcha doing?’ He permitted his mother to give him a cuddle and a kiss on the cheek before moving to perch on the side-arm of her chair.

  ‘I’m reading Grandpa’s journal. It’s about when he was young.’

  ‘Before you were born?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow! It must be very old.’

  A tinkling laugh came from the doorway. It was Angie, amused by Sam’s remark. ‘Trust your loved ones to put you in your place.’ She gave Carla a discerning look. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Still in shock from yesterday’s disclosures. I had some very strange dreams last night.’

  ‘I’ll bet you did.’ Angie directed her words to Sam. ‘Okay, sport, you hungry?’

  ‘Starving,’ Sam said in that disarmingly honest way of his.

  ‘Let’s whip up a batch of pancakes,’ Angie suggested, giving Carla a wink, ‘while Mum reads Grandpa’s journal in peace. We’ll give her a yell when breakfast’s ready.’

  Carla smiled her thanks and as Sam departed, her gaze dropped to the journal once more.

  On one page she found a hand drawing her father had made of the location of Krugerhoff. With her teaching background in technical drawing she had no problem understanding the sketch—where the buildings stood, the boundary fences and names of adjoining wineries, irrigation points from the creek that crossed the acreage twice, how many acres were under cultivation and the type of grape being grown. Her lips stretched in a melancholy smile. It was so like her father to be that organised. She blinked back a threatening onslaught of tears and continued to read.

  The engagement party thrown at Stenhaus for Kurt and Marta was the largest the Valley had seen in twenty years. Papa had spared no expense. A chamber trio playing Beethoven and Bach greeted guests on the verandah as they arrived. Canvas pavilions stood on the lawn with trestle tables laden with mouth-watering food. A second seven-piece band, featuring guitars and two brass instruments, had come from Adelaide to provide lively dance music, and the musicians were setting up. Large vases and pots of flowers, mostly a variety of rose bushes, were everywhere, and strings of coloured lights had bee
n strung through the trees and over a portable dance floor.

  Many people commented that Stenhaus looked spectacular, and it did. The engaged couple and Papa, impressive physically because of his height and his steel-grey head of hair and the aura of success he wore as comfortably as if it were an invisible crown, were the centre of attention.

  In his dinner suit, the shirt of which was tight around the neck and chest because he had filled out with all the physical work he’d been doing, Rolfe was pleased to watch from the sidelines. A good deal of his observing centred on his brother and Marta. They made a handsome duo, her with her sable-like sleekness, Kurt with his Aryan colouring and bearing. ‘The Crown Prince and his princess,’ Rolfe dubbed them without a trace of rancour as they danced. A long time ago Mutter, wise woman that she’d been, had suggested he accept his position in the family and make the best of it. That he was doing by developing Krugerhoff.

  His sister, Lisel, looked far too grown up for her ten years in her new party frock and the upswept hairstyle that took advantage of her dark wavy hair. She came over and tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Dance with me, Rolfe.’

  He looked down at her, knowing that it wasn’t a request but a command. She had the same imperiousness their father had. ‘You can do the waltz, can you?’

  The features on her pretty face tightened with displeasure. ‘Of course.’

  Trying to get out of the chore, his expression became serious. ‘Lisel, you know I am not the best dancer in the world.’