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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:
for thy love is better than wine!

The Song of Solomon, 1:2

Sélestat, Alsace, France (formerly Schlettstat, Elsaß, a Reichsland of the German Empire)

Wednesday, April 2, 1919

Siegfried dozed, his cheek pressed against the cold, damp window of a jolting railway carriage, dreaming of food the way poor men dream of riches.

He feasted on salad dressed with mustard vinaigrette, garnished with tomatoes and Gruyere cheese; heaping plates of sauerkraut and thick smoked pork chops, fat-dripping bratwurst and bacon; a glass of Pinot Blanc; real coffee with a dash of cherry brandy; almond-and-raisin Kugelhopf cake, crowned with powdered sugar...

As the train squealed to a halt, he started awake, blinking and squinting through the fog on the inside of the windows. Raindrops marched like weary soldiers down the outside of the glass.

He buttoned his wool greatcoat and stood up cautiously, testing his leg to see if it would bear his weight. It did, but it took most of his strength to haul his knapsack down from the metal shelf above his seat and wait patiently for the aisle to clear. He had not eaten for two days, not since that last meager breakfast of toast and thin tea at the military hospital near Heidelberg.

It seemed as if he had been hungry forever. Food had been sometimes scarce or horrible at the Front. In Germany, since the Allies had begun a blockade in order to force the chaotic, newly democratic government to sign the surrender, it had been in short supply for everyone.

But it should not have taken two whole days to travel the short distance. He had been stopped for over a day at the border. Before the Great War, there had been no border between Germany and Alsace.

I will be home soon. I will be warm and dry. My Vater will feed me.

He had sustained himself on such promises for years. He could survive fifteen more minutes.

He walked a little unsteadily onto the station platform, wincing at the twinges of pain in his thigh. The chilly air, fresh after the train's thick atmosphere of wet wool, unwashed bodies, and coal smoke, revived him a bit.

An old man jostled him and began to apologize, then recognized Siegfried's field gray uniform and scowled before muttering darkly and turning away.

The space around Siegfried grew steadily wider as the other passengers greeted family and walked briskly into town. In a few minutes, he was completely alone. Across the wide cobbled square of the Bahnhofplatz, red-roofed, half-timbered houses closed their shutters against the dying storm. Gray misty rain blurred all the edges, but he knew every line, every detail.

He was home, at last, after four-and-a-half years in Hell.

His knapsack became too heavy to hold. He lowered it to the clean-swept platform, leaning it against a tub planted with geraniums. Siegfried averted his gaze from the scarlet blossoms scattered like splashes of blood among the patterned green leaves. He must not think of what it had been like. He was home. There was no blood here. But the smell of the trenches returned to him, the ripe odors of violated earth, decomposing flesh, sulfur, and cigarette smoke.

His stomach made a low, pained sound, not fierce enough to be called a growl. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Father and his beloved Daimler never appeared. Had he not received the telegram? Sending it had taken Siegfried's last few Marks.

If Father didn't come to pick him up, then Siegfried would have to walk home on an empty stomach. He checked his pockets, but no coins had miraculously appeared. He couldn't even afford to buy himself a bread roll. He swayed at the thought, turning the motion into a stiff bow as an old woman and a little girl in a schlumpkapf walked by. The grandmother's silver hair was tucked securely under a close-fitting hat, her black umbrella held at a precise angle. She ignored him utterly and he flinched, knowing how he must appear to her, skinny and ragged in the uniform of the defeated Enemy.

At least his comrades, the ones who had not deserted to the French, had fallen honorably before they could be considered traitors by their neighbors. Siegfried envied them their peaceful rest, secure in the knowledge they had defended their Heimat, their homeland, with their lives. He had come home to find it a different country. French territory.

The cathedral bell tolled one o'clock, the deep, mellow sound echoing from the walls of the town's close-packed houses. Siegfried shifted uneasily, watching as the rain changed from a sullen trickle to a hard downpour.

It's only four miles, he cheered himself. You used to be able to walk to Schlettstat and back in an afternoon.

He set off through the cramped, winding streets, heading for the western gate, trying to ignore the garlicky scent of frying bratwurst wafting from the cafés, trying to stifle his resentment. French Alsace did not want for food like Germany did.

He heard his name called as he neared the Gothic bulk of the Cathedral of Saint George. Startled, he saw a neighbor waving at him from the entrance of a nearby Winstub.

"Grüß Gott, Herr Rodernwiller!" old Johann Bauer greeted him warmly. "When did you return?"

Siegfried limped quickly over to stand in the doorway, grateful to be out of the rain. "Just now, Herr Bauer." He dropped his soaking knapsack with a sigh. He shook the older man's hand. "How are you? And Frau Bauer?"

"She was very sick with the influenza. But she is well now, thank God, not like- -" Bauer's face fell. "We were so sorry when your dear mother passed away. She was such a good neighbor, for an American." He patted Siegfried's wrist with clumsy sympathy.

A sudden unwelcome stab of tears ambushed Siegfried. Mutti. He had not even known she was ill until the black-bordered letter arrived at the hospital.

Bauer released his hand and, after an embarrassed cough, added, "We were grateful for your letter about Jürgen. He was so proud to serve. Not like those Frog-lovers, dancing in the streets because--"

"Jürgen was a brave soldier. He did his duty with honor," he said, suppressing grief and guilt. At least Jürgen had died before seeing his sacrifice rendered futile. "I wish he could have been here instead of me."

"No, no, Herr Rodernwiller," Bauer protested, shocked. "Please, may I buy you a cup of wine?" At Siegfried's hesitation he said, "Please. I insist!"

Siegfried followed the old farmer into the tavern, giddy from the scents of spilled beer, onions, and bacon, almost thick enough to chew. Almost...The plump barmaid brushed past, and Siegfried had to wrestle down a powerful impulse to seize the plate of fried potatoes she carried and cram them into his mouth. Perhaps Herr Bauer would...?

No. Siegfried could not, would not, beg a meal from a man whose son he had so miserably failed.

Once they were seated on benches at a long wooden table, the barmaid came by with a blue-glazed pottery wine pitcher and two matching cups. As she placed them on the table she gave Siegfried a long, cold stare. Unsmiling, she accepted Bauer's payment.

Siegfried poured for them both, inhaled the fragrance of fresh greenish-gold Sylvaner, and raised his cup in a toast. "To the Fatherland," he said ironically, and drank, floating on the taste of sweet summer fruit. The wine warmed his belly, masking the emptiness there. "What will become of us?"

"We will learn to be Frenchmen, and drink to La Belle Patrie," replied Bauer. Then he spat on the immaculate floor.

Bauer's farm wagon was old, and drawn by an even older horse, but Siegfried gratefully accepted a ride. The horse plodded along the cobbled streets under graceful wrought-iron signs advertising bakeries, tailor shops, and hotels.

Siegfried nervously eyed the multitude of shuttered windows, shoulders tensed against the threat of sniper fire. He told himself firmly, I am home now. It was a relief to broach the Western Gate and head out on a muddy road into the open countryside, leaving the rough stones of the ancient Witches' Tower looming behind, its square top lost in the lowering clouds.

Siegfried thrust his hands deeply into his greatcoat pockets, regretting the lost warmth of the Winstub. The faint odor of onions clung to the damp wool like the perfume of an unfaithful lover. After another half-mile the rain lessened to a drizzle and Siegfried ventured a remark on the weather.

"Ach, Gott! I hope we have a good, hot summer! The last vintage was so poor," Bauer replied, shaking his head. "I'll be glad when the rest of the young men come home from the army. It was hard to harvest with only women and children."

"Not many will be coming home." Of his patriotic friends from Rodern--Franz, Jürgen, Karsten, and Helmut--only Siegfried had lived to endure this shameful surrender.

"No," agreed Bauer sadly. "Your father, he will be glad to see you."

Then why didn't he come to pick me up?

Siegfried's imagination leaped to paint the scene with his father's anger and disappointment: "I sent you to defend the Fatherland, or die trying. You are a coward to come home, defeated yet alive."

Siegfried shook himself. Had he tried hard enough? He was whole when so many others were maimed or dead. In the slowly passing vineyard, leafless trunks stood in rows like cemetery crosses.

"You've seen my father more than I, Herr Bauer. He...rarely wrote to me. How is he?"

"Unhappy, Herr Rodernwiller." Bauer clucked at the old nag, whose speed did not increase. "I'm sorry to say it. He gave his all for the war effort..." He thought for a while. "Maybe you can get him to come back to church. We have all been worried about him."

Siegfried was oddly relieved. That was one thing they would not fight about. He never wanted to set foot in a church again. The war had proved to Siegfried that God was deaf, or dead.

They passed the village of St. Hyppolyte in silence. Siegfried's spirits rose a bit when the red-tiled roofs of Rodern's houses appeared. Almost home!

Bauer stopped his wagon on the outskirts of the village at the entrance to Rodernwiller Vineyards.

The climb down from the high hard wagon seat was painful, and his knapsack was heavier than ever. Siegfried paused at the bottom of the drive and waved his thanks.

Bauer nodded, flicked his horse's reins, and slowly pulled away.

The gravel of the drive crunched under his worn boots as Siegfried limped toward the house. He looked eagerly ahead, but only the sharply triangular peak of the tiled roof was visible through the veiling branches of the garden trees.

He slowed as he approached, passed under the trees, and saw what was left. All the windows were boarded over. The east wing of the house, where his bedroom and Ernst's had been, was roofless. The white-plastered walls bore ugly shrapnel gouges from the shelling at the beginning of the War, from the attack that had changed everything, forever.

No smoke issued from the kitchen chimney, and Father's Daimler was missing from its usual place of honor in the middle of the cobbled courtyard. The rain dripped quietly from the surrounding trees and a superstitious shiver threaded down his spine.

We must have missed each other at the train station. Any minute now, he would see the Daimler's headlights approaching from the road. But why hadn't Father caught up with Bauer's wagon? Was he still in Schlettstat?

Siegfried's stomach cramped as he saw a black-ribboned pine wreath, gray and brittle now, lying where it had fallen on the doorstep. He imagined Father fastening it on the door after Mutti's death. It was unlike him to leave rubbish lying about. What had happened?

The front door opened at his touch. Siegfried's boots squeaked on the checkered parquet floor, and he stood still, drawing his coat around him more tightly. It was hardly warmer in the house than outside, and there was a musty smell of disuse and abandonment. No lights shone anywhere.

"Vater!" he called into the silence of the house. No one answered.

He dropped his knapsack by the side table near the door and found a kerosene lamp and matches. He lit the lamp, thankful for the warm glow. As he lowered the clear glass chimney, two envelopes on the table caught his eye. The first was unopened, bearing a San Francisco postmark and addressed to Father in his grandmother Tati's unmistakable handwriting.

He frowned at the second, clearly opened, envelope. It was the telegram he had sent, listing his arrival date and time.

Where was Father? Why had his telegram been ignored?

The light wavered as he picked up the lamp and ascended the stairs. The walls were bare, and large unfaded squares of antique wallpaper attested to the places where portraits of his ancestors had hung. Had they been put away for safekeeping during the War?

Siegfried arrived on the second floor, where a dirty expanse of bare hardwood stretched down the hall. The long Persian carpet--the furniture--the gilded rococo mirrors--bronze gaslights--all gone.

He walked quietly towards his father's study. Very slowly, he pushed open the door that guarded his father's sacred precinct. The glow of the lamplight fell first on empty bookshelves, mahogany expanses once crowded with rare volumes. What in God's name was going on here? His father loved his books almost as much as he loved his wine.

Father put them away, Siegfried reassured himself, but the back of his neck and his arms were prickling. He knew this feeling from a thousand terrified moments spent awaiting the order to advance into a deadly rain of enemy bullets.

Siegfried saw his father, slumped forward over the massive desk, head pillowed on his arm. He fell asleep! That's why he missed the train. For an instant, he was glad.

"Vater? Ich bin zu haus'."

The figure did not stir. The lamplight touched silver-blond hair and gleamed from the barrel of a pistol, held loosely in the slack fingers of his father's right hand. On the gilt-edged leather blotter, a thick brown stain congealed. Blood.

"Oh, God, no." The lamp shook violently as Siegfried very carefully placed it on the corner of the desk.

He knew I was coming home today.

He had known. He had known, and had done this monstrous thing.

Siegfried's stomach heaved. Sour wine stung the back of his throat, then subsided. Shadows fluttered as he steeled himself to view his father's corpse.

Heinrich Wilhelm August Rodernwiller was dressed in his best suit, dark blood staining the stiff collar of his shirt. His left hand curled over a folded paper.

Siegfried tugged the document out from beneath cool flesh, gingerly avoiding further contact. He slowly unfolded the page, tipping it toward the lamp.

It was a foreclosure notice, advising Herr Rodernwiller that the house and property known as Rodernwiller, its contents, demesne, and chattel were now the property of the Allgemeine Landesbank Schlettstat, Elsaß, and that Herr Rodernwiller should be prepared to vacate immediately. 'Schlettstat, Elsaß' had been crossed out and 'Sélestat, Alsace, France' hand-written in above.

Siegfried let the paper fall. There was another envelope, weighted down by his father's gold signet ring, on the far right corner of the desk. It was addressed to Siegfried. He opened it and tried to read, but the meaning of the words escaped him.

Mein lieber Sohn!

Ich wünschte, daß ich Dir diese Enttäuschung ersparen könnte. Ohne mein Weingut oder meine geliebte Gattin bin ich so verzweifelt, daß ich leider keinen Ausweg finden kann. Mein Leben ist nichts mehr wert. Hoffentlich verstehst Du meine endgültige Entscheidung und kannst mir dafür vergeben.

--Dein Dich liebender Vater

He had to read it again and again before he could comprehend.

My dear son:

I wish I could spare you this disappointment. But--without my vineyard, without my dear wife--I am in such despair that I can see no way out. My life is no longer worth anything. I hope you will understand my final decision, and forgive me for it.

Your loving father

Black patches spotted Siegfried's vision and the world tilted. He caught himself on the edge of the desk. The wood was sticky, and he realized dully that he had put his hand squarely into his father's blood. The smell of violent death was sickeningly familiar. He had not left it behind in the trenches. He staggered back, staring at his tainted palm.

The naked bookshelves served to hold Siegfried up as he waited for his dizziness to pass.

After a long while, he straightened. The pain was still with him, but he could act again. Trying not to look at his father, Siegfried picked up the gold signet ring-- his only patrimony now--and tucked it into his greatcoat pocket, where it nestled against his military discharge papers.

He needed to notify the authorities. Someone would have to...dispose of the body. He should write to his father's sister, Tante Hilde. At least she would grieve. Siegfried had nothing left for a father who had committed the ultimate betrayal.

Now who is the coward? You have run away, and left me to deal with the ruins.

Siegfried left the study and stumbled downstairs, his body disconnected from his mind, the house, once so beloved, strange and unreal. It was no longer his home.

He thought about having to deal with the bank officials regarding the foreclosure, and a spark of rage ignited, but it had no fuel to feed on. He had nothing left. His hands trembled, and he missed the last step. He fell heavily to his knees and the lamp flew from his hand, shattering against the parquet floor. Kerosene splashed in fiery tendrils against the wall and vines of flame blossomed upward.

Siegfried watched in disbelief as the fire spread. At least it is finally warm. But warmth turned to searing pain an instant later, bringing him back to reality as sparks attacked his hands and face.

He had to get out!

He could not get to his feet, so he crawled toward the door. The crackling sound swelled to a roar. He looked over his shoulder. Flames devoured the wall his ancestors had graced.

He grabbed his knapsack and the letter from Oma Tati, pulled himself up the doorjamb, then hobbled down the drive to the road leading toward Herr Bauer's farm.

He did not look back as his father's house burned, a funeral pyre for all his dreams.

Chapter One

Healdsburg, California

Tuesday, May 13, 1919

"Alice, you've got to make up your mind. Either sell Montclair to me, or tear out the vines and plant prunes." Hugh Roye said, his high forehead wrinkling with exaggerated concern. "This is not the best time to run a winery. Even Lake County voted dry!"

"I loathe prunes." Alice Roye set down her fork, unable to take another bite of the tough chicken her brother-in-law was serving for lunch. His cluttered, dusty dining room seemed suddenly close despite the window opened to the early afternoon air. The sharp smell of chicken manure came from the yard outside, and she fought an unladylike urge to sneeze.

"I wish I knew why you were being so stubborn. I can't imagine why someone like you--a city girl, I mean." He slanted a look at her, then smiled charmingly as if he hadn't meant that comment at all, "--would want to sully her hands with such work anyway. I'd give you a fair price. You could reestablish yourself in San Francisco, and perhaps--marry again."

"It's too soon." Alice shook her head, patting her lips with the linen napkin, her heartbeat quickening until she could feel each heavy beat in the tips of her fingers against the cloth. She didn't care about being married again, but she did not want to return to San Francisco. And she would die before she revealed to anyone in Sonoma County the reason why.

"It's been over a year since Bill--" Hugh's mouth set in a stubborn line, an expression she had seen only occasionally on her young husband's face. Bill had always smiled and joked to fend off any unpleasantness. Sometimes she wondered, when she couldn't help herself, if Bill's good humor had survived the rigors of the Western Front, if he had been smiling and jesting with his men, until--

Alice bit her lip, and Hugh, obviously realizing he had pushed too hard, relented in his attack. He poured gracefully from the bottle of wine she had brought to serve with lunch and remained silent as they both sipped at the delicate Gundlach-Bundschu Traminer.

The wine was delicious, dry and fragrant, but Alice grimaced inwardly, remembering the failures of this last year. Bill had only been the first loss. Montclair's vintner, hired by Bill's grandfather at the winery's inception, had succumbed to the Spanish Influenza before they finished crush last fall. Alice had done the best she could, but the Traminer had all spoiled in transit to the East Coast. Park and Tilford, her distributors, had refused to pay for the vintage, and had, in fact, billed her for shipping costs and damages.

She hoped that her new vintner would know how to avoid spoilage this year. She had to turn a profit. She just had to hang on until harvest.

Truce over, Hugh set his glass down, and leaned forward. "I worry about you, all alone out there. You can't take care of that property with only field hands."

"Surely you're not calling Mrs. Verdacchia a fieldhand, Hugh," Alice laughed, determined to dispel the adversarial mood. "You never refuse an invitation to dinner if Maria's cooking! Really, it's good of you to be interested, but I believe I have a buyer for this year's wine."

"Montclair's profits were always in champagne, but you won't make champagne, will you, dear?"

"It's too much effort," Alice protested. "And I don't want to make wines just for the liquor trade--"

Hugh pushed his chair away from the table. "You don't seriously believe you could obtain a sacramental wine license, Alice! You?" Hugh laughed unkindly. "So, the Archbishop is a family friend?"

"I'm sorry, but I really must return to Sonoma." Alice spoke through gritted teeth as she stood up. She picked up her long-handled suede handbag and said with imitation cheerfulness. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I won't be quite alone this summer. Your cousin has arrived from Europe and I promised your grandmother I would hire him."

"What cousin? You don't mean Siegfried? Coming here? He's got some gall." Hugh's long face turned an ugly red. "It was bad enough that Aunt Betty married that foreigner--"

"I thought your grandparents were happy to be connected with an established European winemaking family," Alice reproved gently.

"That was before the Huns killed Bill."

Alice winced, smoothed her gloves on, and buttoned them. "Your grandmother says Siegfried is an experienced vintner."

"You don't need Tati's kind of help," Hugh said bitterly. "It'll be useless after Prohibition, anyway. Promise me you'll reconsider my offer!"

"I will." Alice pinned her straw hat securely to her neatly coiled hair. If Prohibition goes into effect at all.

Hugh rose belatedly from his chair. "Let me see you out to your car."

They left his white clapboard house and walked towards a battered Model-T truck parked in the dusty driveway.

The early-morning fog had burned off, leaving bright summer sunshine and warmth. The smell of chickens, although much stronger out here, was mitigated by the pleasantly biting fragrance of the eucalyptus trees planted for shade. Incessant clucking and an occasional squawk came from the poultry houses that climbed the gentle slope of the hill behind the house.

Hugh paused in front of the Model-T and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He raised an eyebrow as she opened the door for herself. "How do you start this thing when you don't have a man around?"

"I manage well enough." Alice slipped into the long linen coat that protected her blue-and-white summer frock from the dust of the road and settled herself behind the steering wheel. "I've learned to take my gloves off first." She smiled at her own dry joke.

"You shouldn't have sold Bill's--car." Hugh's voice was punctuated by the effort of turning the crank. The Model-T's engine started with its usual belch and rumble.

"I do miss the electric starter, but the Buick wasn't very practical at Montclair," Alice said. The sale of the car had paid this year's wages for Peter and Maria Verdacchia, and she had gotten the truck in trade--a bargain for which she was still congratulating herself. She wouldn't have to rent a team of horses this season for the harvest wagon. She put the truck into gear and prepared to release the brake. "Thank you for lunch, Hugh."

Hugh's wave good-bye was desultory. She caught a last glimpse of him before the drive curved abruptly south onto Chalk Hill Road. He stood, arms akimbo, clearly disappointed that she hadn't accepted his offer.

Alice sighed as she negotiated the twists and turns of the bumpy road heading towards Santa Rosa. Since Bill had been gone, she had come to depend on his older brother's help and advice, but every visit now Hugh grew more and more insistent about buying her vineyard, and skirting closer to voicing his unspoken opinion that she didn't deserve to own Montclair.

She didn't like to agree with Hugh, but he was right: she had no excuse for loving her land except that she had found unexpected delight in being Mrs. William Roye, of Montclair, and not Alice O'Reilly of brazen San Francisco, city of miserable rainy winters, cold foggy summers, and questionable morals.

The Ford bounced over a rough patch in the road and Alice gripped the steering wheel tightly. She understood, even sympathized, with Hugh's position. He wanted Montclair as much as she did.

The first time she had seen the property, in the autumn of 1914, she had been newly-graduated from St. Rose High School. Her father had brought her along on his yearly trip to inspect the new vintages. As he drove through orderly acres, the lanes between the trellised vines had opened straight every way she looked, forming mystical geometric patterns which surrounded her with peace and a sense of homecoming. She had fallen in love.

Bill Roye's bright blue eyes and merry smile had welcomed her into his home. He had married her and she had enthusiastically thrown herself into the life of a country wife. If only it could have lasted longer.

The dust--it must have been the dust thrown up by the tires--made her throat tight.

The breeze from the truck's speed fanned against the sheen of perspiration on her face, and she stopped for a moment to release the buttons on her driving coat. The warm day had suddenly turned hot, the air spiced with bay laurel and wild fennel. Red-trunked manzanita bushes raked dry elongated leaves along the side of her truck. Over the rattle of the engine, a meadowlark's piercing melody lifted her heart, reminding her she was far from the City.

She tried very hard to drive straight through Santa Rosa, but there was a shaded place to park right by the entrance to the White House department store and temptation got the better of her. Feeling guilty and delighted at the same time, Alice went in to admire the new shipment of clothing on display.

She wished she could afford to buy some long hobbled skirts and loosely belted jackets, and at least one summer hat trimmed with flowers and feathers. Alice admired all the beautiful things she couldn't have today. Maybe next year... She lingered by the perfume counter, seduced by the fragrances.

"Can I help you with something, ma'am?" asked the young shopgirl, flyaway hair tousled around an apathetic moon face.

"I believe the young lady over there was ahead of me," Alice nodded in the direction of the shirtwaist display, where a dark-haired woman was holding one of the blouses against herself to measure its arm length.

The shopgirl wrinkled her nose. "Oh, her," she said. "She's no lady. She can wait while decent folks get served."

"I beg your pardon?" Alice's suspicions were confirmed with the shopgirl's next words.

"She's from one of those houses on Sonoma Avenue. Don't know why she insists on coming here and offending our respectable customers. In fact, if she's causing you any trouble, I'll call the manager and he'll put her out on the street where she belongs."

Alice burned in silent shame and horrified sympathy for the girl. She had grown up in one of those houses, and had many times experienced the same scorn when Mama dared to venture to stores outside the free-wheeling Barbary Coast. "No...no, that won't be necessary."

"Well, all right," said the shopgirl, disappointed. "Now, how may I help you, ma'am?"

"I need some middies." She studied the young prostitute covertly while the shopgirl went to fill Alice's order. A heavy coating of rice powder covered the thin, pretty face. Probably hiding a bruise, Alice thought sympathetically.

Two matrons entered the shop, noticed the girl's bare hands and scarlet- painted nails, and gave loud, condemning sniffs. The girl's lips thinned, but she kept her gaze focused on the pretty lace shirtwaist she was examining as the matrons carefully walked around her, holding their purses away as if she might contaminate them.

Alice remembered her own youthful determination to hide how much that kind of disapproval hurt. And if her current friends and neighbors ever found out about her past, Alice knew she would be treated no differently. At that moment, the prostitute looked up and met Alice's gaze, her expression one of weary defiance.

Alice bit her lip and turned quickly away. She reminded herself that she had put her past behind her. She was respectable now, a war-hero's widow. There was nothing left of the little girl who had been fussed over by the working girls in her mother's parlor house, who had sat listening to the stories of their adventures and their precarious lives, who knew too much about what happened to women who weren't ladies. She wasn't standing in that young woman's shoes, forced to earn her living on her back because she had no other choice.

But she might be, if this harvest failed, or if the law made winemaking illegal without a license.

Forcing down her fears, Alice handed over four dollars and accepted the neatly wrapped package of middies in return, trying hard to feel satisfied. The modest cotton sailor-blouses were comfortable to work in, and would last. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw the dark-haired girl, her chin raised proudly, bring her lovely acquisition to the shopgirl.

Alice escaped outside, tossing her sensible purchase onto the seat of the truck. She took off her gloves with a pang, then bent awkwardly in her high heels and strained at the Ford's crank. The first quarter-turn was always easy, but the half-turn that followed took all of her strength as she battled increasing resistance. Perspiration trickled down her forehead and neck. If she let go now, the kickback could break her wrist. She hoped no one was watching--the engine shuddered to life as the crank slid into the last quarter turn.

She hurriedly pulled her gloves on over her reddened palms, donned her coat, and sat behind the wheel, collecting herself.

The dark-haired girl came out just then, jauntily carrying her parcel. She looked neither right nor left as she departed down the sidewalk, hips rolling in blatant advertisement. Male heads swiveled to watch her while every female turned away.

Alice clutched her steering wheel. It's not my business. It has nothing to do with me.

Driving rapidly away from the store, Alice shoved away thoughts of the past by speculating on what the afternoon mail might bring. Maybe a response from Archbishop Hanna? He might not be a family friend, but as a good Catholic winemaker, she had as much right as anyone to petition him for a sacramental wine license.

And Montclair's wines were more than worthy of his consideration. They would be her financial salvation as well as her offering to God, even if the sins she hoped to atone for were not her own.

The memory of her mother's practiced laugh mocked her thoughts. Deliberately, she filled her mind with the beauty of the scenery: dairy pastures, walnut orchards, plum orchards, hayfields, vineyards, high rock palisades, and long stretches of empty, rolling golden California countryside. She had spent her entire adult life proving to herself that she was nothing like Mama. She would not stop now.

Two hot hours later she turned onto West Spain Street, and quickly maneuvered through the light traffic around Sonoma's picturesque Central Plaza. She rejoiced when she finally reached Lovell Valley Road, because it led directly to Montclair, nestled in the curve of the Sonoma-Napa hills. Her vineyard was situated north of Gundlach Bundschu's four-hundred-acre Rhine Farm, south of Carl Dresel's much smaller vine-bearing property, and east of colorful Agoston Haraszthy's now-deserted Buena Vista.

She left her engine running by the wrought-iron front gate at the bottom of the hill, and went eagerly to open the mailbox. Pulling out a sheaf of mail, she scanned it, looking for official stationery. Nothing today. Alice sighed, and tossed the packet of bills and circulars next to her practical purchase on the seat before negotiating the gate and the drive up to the house.

Alice heard the telephone shrilling as she slammed the truck's door. "Wait! Wait! I'm coming." She hurried up the walkway and threw open the front screen door, running down the hall to the base of the staircase, grabbing the conical receiver. Panting, she bent toward the mouthpiece hanging on the wall. "H- Hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. Roye. This is Gertrude. You have a call from San Francisco," announced the local operator. "I'm connecting you now."

A horrible apprehension struck Alice. "Who is it?" she demanded, but Gertie Breitenbach was already gone.

"Goodness, child. Did I catch you at a bad time?" a vibrant voice asked with a laugh. "Shall I ring you back?"

Alice patted her chest and took a deep breath, reprieved. "No, Grandmother Tati! It's always good to hear from you."

"How are you?"

"I'm well. I just returned from Santa Rosa--shopping and lunch with Hugh."

"I see," Tati's voice was abruptly cool. "And how are things at Montclair?"

Alice had never understood the hostility between Tati and her oldest grandson, so she decided not to mention Hugh's latest offer to buy Montclair. "Peter says the vines are doing very well. He and Maria will be going to her brother's wedding in San Jose this weekend. I'm glad that they're finally getting out again, after all the dreadfulness last winter. And we're excited that you've found us a vintner."

"Speaking of Siegfried, I would like you to meet him. Do come tomorrow. We'll have high tea at the St. Francis."

"But--" Alice hesitated, caught a little off-balance. "I don't know if I can leave again so soon. We're in the middle of dusting the vines. And he is coming up here next week."

"It will be good for you to meet first," Tati said firmly. "To make sure that you will get along. I was so sorry that I couldn't help you with Montclair after Bill--" The old woman's voice thickened, and she coughed to clear it before she continued. "You've worked so hard at Montclair to preserve my dear husband's legacy, and it means a great deal to me that you've considered taking Siegfried on, Alice dear. Do say you'll come tomorrow."

Alice hated going in to the City, but she could not refuse Tati. Bill's grandmother had welcomed Alice into the Roye family and treated her with never- failing politeness, almost like a real daughter. She had earned Alice's eternal gratitude, because although she must be aware of Alice's circumstances, she had never once mentioned them out loud, or allowed her awareness of Alice's origins to show in word or inflection. Tatiana Feyodorovna Roye was exactly the kind of lady Alice aspired to be. "All right. I'll come."

"I'll expect you on the one o'clock ferry. I know it's a long trip from Sonoma, dear, but I do so look forward to seeing you again."

They rang off, leaving Alice standing in the shadowed hallway, studying the carved ball on the newel post. Tati's husband William Roye, silver baron and amateur vintner, had built the house, the vineyard, and Montclair's reputation. Alice hoped that things would indeed work out with Bill's cousin Siegfried. She badly needed a skilled winemaker. Another shipment of spoiled wines would seal Montclair's doom--and hers.

* * *

San Francisco

Wednesday, May 14, 1919

The cold air rushed up from the Bay's gray-green water, flinging drops of spray over the ferry's deck. Alice clutched the handrail, watching as San Francisco drew nearer. The Ferry Building with its huge clock shone white above the harbor crowded with steam and sailing ships of every description. Grandmother Tati and Cousin Siegfried would probably already be waiting for her.

Alice vainly tried to tuck wayward strands of hair, faintly damp with salt spray, back under her hat. The ferry would dock in a few minutes. She should have known better than to stand on deck, but the cabin had been crowded and she had felt the urge to escape into the fresh air. She gave her hair a final despairing pat, then sighed and gave up the struggle. After all, it didn't matter what she looked like to her vintner.

* * *

"--Alice is almost like a granddaughter to me now, even though I was so surprised when Billy married her. She's worked hard to keep Montclair going since Billy enlisted, but it's too much for her. She needs someone to take care of things properly, especially after that debacle with last year's Traminer--"

Wondering vaguely why his normally serene grandmother was chattering so volubly, Siegfried let his gaze drift past the Ferry Building, down the endless- seeming row of immense white piers that marched along the Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf. In the gaps between the buildings, he saw distant hills crowding up against the opposite shore of the Bay. Their winter coats of green were already dulled in anticipation of the long summer drought.

His thoughts flew home to Alsace, where the first velvet buds were probably just now appearing on the vines. He would never again see them furl into tender leaf, never again walk the rows with Father, inspecting the tiny sprays of greenish grape blossoms, never again experience the anticipation of the young berries' maturation to sweet, full ripeness on Rodernwiller's prized Pinot Noir vines.

Don't live in the past, he chided himself, as he had a hundred times a day, each day of his long, tedious journey into exile. I must learn to be an American now. I will have a vineyard of my own, someday. I swear it. He jammed his hands into the pockets of a suit jacket that had once belonged to his grandfather, and wrinkled his nose. The jacket had been stored for a long time, and smelled strongly of camphor.

The pause in Tati's monologue alerted him.

"Of course, Oma Tati," he said with grave politeness, since she was looking at him expectantly. He suppressed his homesickness, his grief. "I will do my best to assist Cousin Ah-lees. Alice." He did his best to pronounce her name the way his grandmother had, with short, impatient American syllables.

"Does she sound...compatible?" Tati pulled her dark coat tighter around her in the brisk breeze blowing off the water.

Siegfried forced himself to smile a little. "You describe a paragon. But I am only her vintner. I am not going to marry her."

"Actually, I hope that you will," Tati said seriously.

"Marry?" Siegfried, asked, aghast. "I have not even met your Alice!"

"Now, Siegfried," Tati said, looking suspiciously sweet and frail. "Don't make up your mind until you've heard me out. I must admit that I've been trying to find a way to bring up this subject gracefully. Now--" she raised a black-gloved hand to ward off his automatic protest. "Alice really is in dire straits, up there all alone. I suspect Hugh is pressuring her to sell, and you know how I feel about that."

Siegfried felt sorry for his cousin, deprived of his expected patrimony. But Oma Tati's words, tearless and harsh after the reading of Opa Roye's will, came back to him. He doesn't deserve Montclair. He doesn't have a heart. He can't have ours.

"So, if you and Alice could come to an...arrangement, it would benefit everyone."

Siegfried had heard of such marriages for the sake of property in Europe, but that sort of union was generally confined to the nobility.

But hadn't Frau Schliessig, who owned the dairy in Rodern, married her head milker after her husband died? And if Alice was as determined as Tati to keep Montclair out of Hugh's hands, then she might be willing to marry a man she had never met, for the good of the estate. Siegfried wondered if he would have been willing to do the same for Rodernwiller.

Of course, if I could have saved Father from...But he wasn't going to think about that.

Tati's voice broke into his thoughts. "It would be so wonderful to see a Roye at Montclair again. It was your grandfather's pride and joy, after all, and he would have wanted you to have it now."

Siegfried recognized that his grandmother would not relent in her efforts until he had thrown her some sort of a sop. "I will consider your idea," he said, carefully. "But I think it will be best if I work as her vintner first, to see if we suit."

Tati made an annoyed sound, not quite a snort. "Really, Siegfried! Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he knew that you were working as a hired hand at Montclair!"

Stung by his grandmother's scorn, Siegfried remembered his father's final message: Without my vineyard...my life is no longer worth anything. Tati was right. If Alice were willing to marry him, he would be a fool to turn down this opportunity for a new start.

But something in him rebelled at being pushed. He dug in his heels. "Of course Montclair should remain in our family," he said, keeping his tone deferential toward his aged grandmother. "But a marriage--that is not a matter for hasty decision. At least let me meet her first!" He glanced out towards Treasure Island and saw a wide-bowed ship approaching. "The ferry is coming."

People began to stream around them, filing toward the Ferry Building hall. Siegfried would have joined the crowd but Tati narrowed her eyes and stood with her chin raised, clearly unwilling to move until she had secured his concession. He glared back, letting her know that he could be just as stubborn as she. They had played this game more than once during his boyhood summers in California.

Siegfried sensed a reprieve when the corner of Tati's mouth began to twitch with an incipient smile, but his grandmother was not yet ready to concede defeat. She straightened her coat, slipped her arm through his, and flowed with the others, saying conversationally, "I hope that you can come to an agreement with Alice, but if not, dear, of course you're welcome to stay with me as long as you like. However," she sighed deeply as they emerged onto the broad space before the dock, "you know my resources aren't what they used to be..." Seemingly intent on watching the men wheel the gangplank up to the edge of the now-docked ferry, she did not meet Siegfried's eyes. "Oh, look, there she is!"

Siegfried's pride chafed at the implication that he was a burden on his grandmother's charity as she began waving her handkerchief. It was an unfair accusation. He had planned to earn his future meals fairly with hard work. Tati might be piqued that she could not have her way, but he had spent four years taking orders from officers who remained warm and dry while he slogged through the mud and snow, and he was sick of making sacrifices for someone else's good.

He would not let his grandmother bully him.

* * *

The ferry bumped into the pier and tied up. Alice cautiously tapped down the gangplank in her high louis-heeled shoes. She spotted Tati, waving.

Bill's grandmother was stylish as ever in a three-quarter length black ponyskin coat with a large fox-fur collar. Her narrow black hat brim was trimmed in the same fox fur and bore an insouciant black ostrich plume.

Alice returned Tati's wave, quickening her step. Then she noticed the tall man standing next to Tati.

An invisible hand closed painfully around her heart, and she came to a full stop, gasping for breath.

The early afternoon sunshine haloed the man's short blond hair. An old- fashioned dark suit hung loosely from his wide shoulders, and his face was gaunt, the cheekbones sharply defined.

It was her husband, back from the dead.

Why hadn't Tati told her? Why had the government lied, sending that damned telegram?

"Bill," she said, in a strangled whisper. Another deep breath, and her voice returned. "Oh, my God--Bill!" Tears blurred her vision. Blinded, she ran the last few yards separating them. "You're alive! How did you--?"

Alice realized her terrible mistake the instant before she flung herself in his arms. Not Bill!

She tried to pull up short, but stumbled into him, causing them both to stagger like drunkards. Against her breasts, for an instant, she felt his heart, beating frantically fast. She pushed herself away in a startled recoil, but his steadying hands on her shoulders held her near.

"I'm so sorry!" Alice gulped, mortified. "I'm all right now. You can let go."

He did, and Alice clasped her gloved hands together, unable to look into that dear, familiar face, worn by a stranger. "You look so much like--"

"Alice, this is my other grandson, Siegfried Rodernwiller." Tati presented her lined cheek to Alice for a kiss.

Alice obeyed, her own face flaming, then awkwardly offered her hand to Siegfried. "I'm pleased to meet you. Mr. Ro-Rotenviller." As she stared at his neatly knotted tie, she caught his unexpectedly sweet, slightly embarrassed smile from the corner of her eye.

"For your sake, I wish it had truly been my cousin here to meet you, Cousin Alice," Siegfried said, in fluent but slightly accented English. His ears turned red. He clicked his heels together, straightened sharply, and gave her a jerky nod. "Please accept my condolences on your loss." His fingers closed around hers, their warmth penetrating through her thin gloves, and he stared intently down at her with eyes that were sapphire rather than Bill's sky-blue.

Alice let him keep her shaking hand and he led her and Tati through the Ferry Building and out onto the broad Embarcadero.

He's not Bill.

She had almost gotten over missing her young husband, his jolly laugh, and the lightness of heart that carried him over every obstacle but the last.

"May I?" Siegfried stood at the door of a waiting taxi, ready to hand her in. Tati was already seated inside.

Alice ducked into the car by herself. She could not bear it if he touched her again.

* * *

Letting habit guide him, Siegfried opened the taxi door for his grandmother and ushered her in while he stole glimpses of Alice's trim figure and slim ankles.

Dazed, he remembered taking her hand, speaking to her, acting as if nothing had happened, as if the ground had not teetered beneath his feet when she flung herself into his arms. He had reeled at her touch, as if an earthquake had struck that only he could feel.

His chest still held the impression of Alice's bosom soft against him. He longed to kiss that sweetly curved mouth, to trace her features, Celtic-fair with a sprinkling of freckles, with his fingers and his lips.

The incredulous joy in Alice's hazel eyes upon seeing him had been meant for another man, but he wanted it for his own. Insanely and completely, he wanted her as he had never wanted anyone else. At that moment Siegfried realized he was going to agree to his grandmother's crazy scheme.

* * *

As the taxi crawled through the busy lunchtime traffic of vehicles and people on Market Street, Grandmother Tati chattered brightly. Squeezed beside Siegfried, Alice was morbidly aware of the texture of his wool suit where his arm and thigh pressed against her. She responded to Tati's questions at intervals, but Siegfried sat silently during the short journey, apparently absorbed in studying the flowers sold in profusion on the sidewalks. His gaze jerked away from hers whenever she caught him looking at her.

Trying to draw him into the conversation, Tati pointed out a bank building that she said was new since Siegfried's last visit.

"I hate banks," he said flatly.

So did Alice, but she didn't go around talking about it. Bill would have--

No. He wasn't Bill. On the worst day of their married life, when they discovered his entire fortune had been embezzled, her husband had joked that it was God's way of telling him to join the Army.

She wished for the gift of his laughter now.

When the taxi had delivered them to the St. Francis Hotel, Alice followed Tati and Siegfried into the enormous foyer of the hotel, intimidated by the huge marble columns, polychrome floors, and enormous urns of fresh flowers. She always felt out of place amidst such magnificence. The opulence of the Mural Room with its carved Oriental screens and cushion-heaped divans was worse, because it was more intimate.

The maitre d' knew very well Tati's exact standing in San Francisco society. He knew Alice by sight also, and professed himself overjoyed to meet Monsieur Rodernwiller. He led them to a spot five tables from the door. It was a better place than he would have offered to a casual customer off the street, but not as good as one he would have offered to the cream of San Francisco society, like Miss DeYoung or Mrs. Cameron.

A pot of fragrant tea accompanied by plates of finger sandwiches and scones with jam and Devonshire cream appeared on the lacquered table. Siegfried, possibly prompted by Tati's pointed toe tapping peremptorily on his foot, addressed Alice. "Oma Tati tells me that you are a native of the city."

"Why--ah, yes. I was born here. But I prefer living at Montclair." She stopped speaking, aware how flustered she sounded. "Oma Tati?"

"It means 'grandmother' in German, dear," Tati explained. "I always loved it when you and Ernst called me that," she said to Siegfried.

"German? I thought you said he was Alsatian," Alice asked, suspiciously.

"He is," Tati answered hastily, shooting Siegfried a quick glance. "But Alsace was occupied by Germany for many years, and they prohibited the teaching of French. Poor Siegfried doesn't even know his native tongue."

"So should I call you Grandmére from now on? Or would you prefer 'babushka'?"

Alice thought Siegfried's tone was a bit sharp.

Tati hastily changed the subject. "Bill and Alice, when they married, bought new acreage and expanded the vineyard. It's up to one hundred sixty-five acres now. Alice, tell Siegfried about the grapes you planted."

So it was to be school recitations, was it? "We put in Grenache and some more Pinot Noir. Bill thought they would do well." Alice's throat constricted, so she took a sip of tea. "We had our first crop last year."

"How you must regret that he never got a chance to see it," Siegfried said gently.

"The harvest was good. We averaged two and three-quarter tons per acre." Alice did not want to discuss Bill with him.

"That's an excellent yield for young vines," Siegfried said, respecting her change of topic. He wiped jam from his fingers with one of the stiffly starched linen napkins.

"We got a good price for the crop." The sale of the Pinot Noir grapes to Inglenook in Napa Valley had saved Alice from ruin after the Traminer vintage spoiled.

She noticed that Siegfried had cleaned off his plate to the last crumb and passed him her untouched plate of petit fours. He thanked her with a self- conscious smile. Alice, trying to divert the conversation away from herself, asked, "And how was your journey from Europe? Did you take the transcontinental railroad, Mr. R-Rodernwiller?" She stumbled again over the pronunciation of his name.

"Please call me Siegfried. It will be much easier," Siegfried said to Alice, as he refilled his own cup and Tati's. "Actually, I traveled by steamer through the Panama Canal. It was a very interesting journey."

"I'm sure it must have been." Alice nodded politely as she took a tiny nibble from her cucumber sandwich. She hoped he wouldn't go into raptures about the technical achievements of the new canal. She'd seen the model at the Pan Pacific Exhibition in '15. "Did you have a chance to disembark anywhere?"

"Panama City, where I made the mistake of bringing on board a large bunch of bananas, about so wide." He spread his hands two feet apart, grinning at her, and his resemblance to Bill made Alice's heart leap. "I had read about them in Mr. Haggard's African adventure books, and I was very eager to try one. I was attempting to twist a banana from the main stalk when a tarantula crawled from the bunch and ran across my hand. I am not sure which of us was the more startled: the eight-legged stowaway, or I. The Captain was convinced that I was being set upon by ruffians--" Siegfried used his napkin to pantomime his attempts to stalk the spider around the steamer cabin with a rolled newspaper held carefully at arms' length.

Alice laughed. "Did you ever get to eat any of your bananas?"

Siegfried nodded in dreamy recollection. "They were very good. Almost like a custard pudding in texture but much sweeter."

"He has a sweet tooth, like his grandfather. I planted the plum trees behind the house at Montclair years ago, because my William was so fond of jam," Tati remarked, her gaze lingering on Siegfried.

Siegfried nodded at his grandmother, as if giving some sort of signal, and relaxed.

Tati raised her eyebrows, looking both surprised and pleased. She smiled fondly at Alice, put aside her napkin, and began to rise. "Would you join me, Alice?"

Siegfried hastily stood and pulled back his grandmother's chair, an unaccountably furious blush rising up from the celluloid collar pinching his throat.

Alice, mystified, let Siegfried pull her chair out, too, then followed Tati into the brocaded grandeur of the ladies' room. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floors, and their figures reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror hung over the washbasins.

Tati leaned forward to check her flawless complexion. She had once been one of the most beautiful women in San Francisco, and even now, in her seventies, her blue eyes were as luminous as ever, although the hair under her dashing hat had transmuted from gold to silver. She turned from the mirror to Alice. "My dear," she said earnestly, "I have an immense favor to ask of you."

"You know I would do anything for you, Grandmother Tati." What could she want?

Tati smiled sweetly. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. It's about Siegfried."

"He'll be perfectly fine as my vintner."

Tati rubbed at the age spots on the back of her hand with her thumb. "It's slightly more complicated than that."

Alice felt a velvet trap close around her, but she forced herself to stillness. "Oh?"

Tati said coolly, "I want you to marry him."

Chapter Two

San Francisco, California

Wednesday, May 14, 1919

Alice almost laughed at the joke, nearly as good as one of Bill's best. But then she looked at Tati and realized the old woman was serious. It was like receiving the news of her father's death--or Bill's--that instant of disbelief, and then the urge to scream.

Tati waited patiently for her reply.

Alice stole a moment to think, tucking wisps of hair back into her chignon. She recalled Hugh's recent offer to buy her out. Was this another attempt to dispossess her? No. After all Tati's kindness to her, she had to dismiss the ugly notion. She straightened one eyebrow with her little finger. But stalling wasn't doing any good. She couldn't think of anything else to say except: "Why on earth should I marry him?"

"I know it's an imposition." Tati smoothed her bare fingers as if they were too- tight gloves. "His father lost everything: his estate, their fortune, everything! in the War. Then he killed himself. Siegfried almost starved to death."

A surge of compassion left Alice uncertain. She'd read the newspaper stories about war-ravaged Europe, and Siegfried was gaunt enough, but--"Grandmother Tati, this is absurd! I'm perfectly willing to hire Siegfried, but I can't marry him. I just met him!"

"You didn't know Bill much better when you married him. And you were happy together. Weren't you?" Tati's blue eyes were wide, searching for signs of weakness, bringing to the surface things they had never spoken of before.

"I loved Bill--"

"And now you own Montclair," Tati said grimly. "I have never asked you for a thing, Alice. I am asking you for this." She must have seen Alice wavering, because she continued pitilessly, "You know I never believed you were in any way like your mother, but it would be a shame if people--I think you know the ones I mean--found out about your unfortunate connections, and came to the--shall I say?--wrong conclusions..."

In a flash, Alice's thoughts crystallized. If Tati made public what she knew, there would be no more friendly tea parties with the ladies from church, and no altar wine license for a woman of low character. Without the license...Alice clutched the edge of the marble counter and her reflection in the mirror stared back, a scattering of freckles harshly distinct against bloodless cheeks. Out on the street where she belongs...

"All right. I'll do it. I'll marry him." Even though she would regret this moment for the rest of her life.

Tatiana Roye opened and closed her pocketbook with a snap. She gave a pleased smile that made Alice feel slightly nauseous. "I knew I could count on you, dear. Let's go back now, shall we?"

At their return, Siegfried leapt to his feet, almost knocking over the table. At his grandmother's satisfied smile and nod, he took Alice's hand, bowed over it, and said all in a rush, "I-hope-you-will-do-me-the-honor-of-becoming-my-wife."

All that was visible of him was cornsilk hair and ears red as ripe tomatoes. She said breathlessly, swallowing indignation, "I accept your proposal." Tati left me no choice.

Siegfried stayed where he was. "Thank you."

Alice stole her hand back from his grasp, then Siegfried straightened. He had the look of a man reprieved from a death sentence.

"You've made me very happy, children," Tati said, peering at the watch pinned to her jacket. "Oh, dear. We have to be there in twenty minutes."

Alice turned to her, newly alarmed. "Where do we have to be?"

"City Hall," Tati said, a shade too brightly. "Judge Reynolds, bless him, promised to wait until four o'clock for us."

Alice gasped. "You arranged all of this in advance?" She glared at Siegfried, but he was gaping at Tati, seemingly as astonished as she.

The corners of Tati's mouth quirked as she patted her watch back into place. "Only if you said 'yes.'"

* * *

The ostrich feather trimming Tati's elegant hat bobbed as she ascended the shallow granite steps toward the huge, neo-Classical City Hall.

This is utterly ridiculous. I've agreed to marry a man I met less than three hours ago. What in God's green earth am I doing? Alice wobbled dangerously as she fought the impulse to dash down the stairs and hail a taxi back to the Ferry Building.

"Are you all right...Alice?" Siegfried's hand gently cupped her elbow, supporting her, cutting off her retreat.

"I'm--I'm fine," she murmured. She allowed Siegfried to tuck her arm in his, and escort her up the steps and into the building, but her heart pounded, and her stomach fluttered with hysterical laughter. This can't be happening to me!

Judge Reynolds was a bald, rather rotund contemporary of Tati's, and, as his greeting made obvious, an admirer of hers as well. He welcomed them into his book-lined chambers. Quiet dignity was provided by a patterned Turkish carpet, brass lamps, and massive mahogany furniture.

Alice scarcely blinked when Tati, with terrifying efficiency, produced a marriage license from her handbag. The only detail lacking was a wedding ring, but Alice still wore Bill's ring, and they all politely agreed that it would serve.

They recruited a second witness for the marriage when a clerk rapped on the door to inquire if the judge needed anything. Then, all of the simple arrangements completed, Alice and Siegfried stood side-by-side as the judge spoke: "William Roye was a fine man, and I was privileged to call him my friend. Now, I'm equally honored to be able to preside over the wedding of his grandson." He paused as Tati smiled at Siegfried, her eyes shiny.

Alice turned her head to observe the man who had taken Bill's place, measuring him against Bill's memory, as Judge Reynolds continued: "Siegfried Heinrich Wilhelm Rodernwiller, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to honor, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse, until death do you part?"

A fresh wave of scarlet tinted Siegfried's fair skin. "I--" He coughed, and cleared his throat, as nervous as if this were a real wedding, and not a hastily- arranged ceremony of convenience. "I do."

The judge addressed her, but she only heard: "Alice Mary O'Reilly Roye...until death do you part?"

"I do." Alice lied, amazed at her own assumed tranquillity. She wondered what Bill must feel, if he were indeed watching them from Heaven. He had known everything there was to know about her, and still loved her. What was Siegfried thinking?

"By the authority vested in me by the City and County of San Francisco, I declare you man and wife." Judge Reynolds beamed at them. "Congratulations! Mr. Rodernwiller, you may kiss the new Mrs. Rodernwiller."

Rodernwiller. It was an ugly, unpronounceable, foreign name. Mrs. Siegfried Rodernwiller. How awful that sounded!

Siegfried captured her hand in his cold fingers, and bent towards her. There was an awkward pause as both of them hesitated, then Alice turned her face slightly. His lips were gentle as they pressed against her cheek. "Thank you, dear Alice," he whispered.

"You'd better be a good vintner!" she whispered back.

* * *

"No, Tati, I'm sorry, I should have left hours ago," Alice said, hands shaking so badly her hatpin grazed scalp along with hair. She winced. The hat stayed put.

"You are not dining with us?" Siegfried's expression turned thunderous as he shifted his attention to Tati as if to say, Can't you change her mind?

"It's your wedding supper, dear," Tati coaxed, but Alice was in no mood to listen to her. She wanted to go home so badly she almost missed Tati's next statement.

"Siegfried won't be joining you until this weekend. I had hoped you would use this time to get to know one another better."

"He's not coming with me?" Alice blinked in astonishment. All this trouble for nothing?

"He must sign some papers," Tati said, carefully avoiding Siegfried's gaze. "But my friend in the Immigration Department said there shouldn't be any problem."

"Well, perhaps that's for the best. I'm very tired and I need time to think. This has been quite a day." She darted a glance in Siegfried's direction. He remained focused on Tati.

"I know you have a long journey back to Sonoma, dear. But I wish--" Tati pressed her lips together. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for helping Siegfried."

"That means a great deal to me." A very great deal. She'd traded her freedom for Tati's goodwill and silence. Alice bent and kissed the proffered cheek. "How long before he does arrive?"

"A few days, perhaps. I will telephone when all the arrangements have been made. Good-bye, Alice."

Siegfried had hailed a taxi passing on Grove Street. He opened the door for her and kissed her hand with formal correctness before handing her into the car. He began to shut the door, then stopped. "When you declined our dinner invitation, I felt that perhaps--" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. Oma Tati did tell you we could get an annulment, if you decide we do not suit?"

She searched his expression for some clue that he understood how Tati had coerced her into this farce. He didn't seem like a devious man. Surely if he knew anything at all about her he would show it in some way, by a sidelong glance, or a significant pause before he spoke. But his eyes--a deep blue, darker than Bill's eyes--held only concern, as if he actually craved her good opinion.

Alice realized with an odd sense of relief that Siegfried had not been party to his grandmother's blackmail, otherwise he would know that Tati would never let Alice obtain an annulment. He was trying to make amends because he sensed something wrong.

"Then you'll agree to separate bedrooms?" she asked, adding hastily, "for now, I mean." One thing she had learned from Mama: always leave hope in a man's heart.

"Of course," he said without hesitation. "I would not expect you to, ah--I mean..." He flushed and cleared his throat again. "I would not impose on you."

She found herself smiling at him. Alice, don't be more of a fool than you have to. He just wants your land. But he was so sweet, with a natural charm more potent than Bill's cultivated variety. "I'll see you in Sonoma, then," she said, when the pause grew awkward.

He gave a stiff bow and she settled herself in the seat as her new husband firmly waved the taxi off. They sped down Market Street, where the pale clock tower of the Ferry Building loomed like a beacon in the late afternoon sunshine.

* * *

Saturday, May 17, 1919

Siegfried put down his valise with a hollow thump. He stood on the narrow platform of the ochre-painted Sonoma train station, searching hopefully for Alice's trim figure and trying to quell his dismay. Against his will, he remembered another railroad station, glistening with rain and decorated with tubs of spring flowers. Now, as then, no one came to greet him.

His stomach cramped slightly. The foreign-yet-familiar landscape made him nervous. Rugged California hills surrounded Sonoma, a few resolute wildflowers making a last yellow and white stand before summer's gold swallowed them up.

He wondered what awaited him at Montclair. What sort of a woman was Alice? Why had she agreed to marry him? Tati had been vague when he questioned her after the wedding.

He could not afford to fail, as his father had failed. Siegfried scrubbed the palm of his free hand vigorously against the wool of his trousers, trying to dispel the memory of his father's desk, sticky with blood.

He would succeed here. He must. He would make the marriage work, and make this sun-browned place his new home.

He heard the rattle and roar of an automobile engine approaching from the Plaza, and eagerly picked up his valise, but the sound faded as the car passed the station and continued down the street.

Where was Alice?

Finally, he walked down the platform to the door of the stationmaster's office.

Behind a rolltop desk, an older man with mutton-chop side whiskers wearing a gold-braided black cap and uniform jacket scowled at a logbook spread open before him. He put down a chewed fountain pen to say, "May I help you?" when Siegfried entered.

"May I use your telephone? Someone from Montclair Vineyard was supposed to meet me here, but..." He half-shrugged towards the door and the deserted platform beyond.

"It's broken."

As Siegfried wondered what to do next, the stationmaster squinted at him and asked suspiciously, "Are you German?"

"I am Alsatian! Montclair's new vintner."

"Well, uh, the Depot Hotel, just across the street, has a 'phone. If anyone comes for you in the meantime, I'll let them know where you've gone, Mister, er-- "

"Rodernwiller."

"Road and villa?"

Siegfried bit his tongue at the mangling of his name, but before he could correct him, the stationmaster jerked at the loud jangling of the telephone on the wall next to the desk. He jumped up to answer it, avoiding Siegfried's gaze and his lethally courteous thanks.

As Siegfried left the stationmaster's office, he heard a low-voiced curse: "Damn foreigners."

* * *

Four blocks away, Alice traced an impatient pattern against the red linoleum floor with the toe of her shoe. Mrs. Springer was complaining to the butcher in excruciating detail about her arthritis, and Alice, in politeness, could not interrupt, although she was anxiously aware that she was very late.

She had driven into town a half-hour early, hoping to quickly buy extra supplies of coffee and sugar, as well as some meat for dinner. She had been delayed by chatty Mr. Duhring at his hardware and grocery store on the Plaza. And it was taking Ralph Cummings forever to wrap up an order of lamb chops. Finally Mrs. Springer left with long farewells.

Alice stepped up to the counter and spoke hurriedly. "I'd like two sirloin steaks, please."

"Certainly, Mrs. Roye, and congratulations on your marriage! Although I guess I should be calling you Mrs. Rodernwiller now?"

Alice's heart stopped momentarily, then pounded furiously. "How--how did you know?"

The butcher reached unerringly into his cabinet for a slab of meat and began slicing it. "Saw the announcement in the San Francisco Chronicle." Creases in Mr. Cummings' jowls extended his generous smile.

"Er, thank you," She should have remembered there were no secrets in a small town. How long would it take before everyone in Sonoma knew about her hasty marriage?

"How did you two meet?" Mr. Cummings sounded ready to hold a detailed conversation as he trimmed the fat from the thick edge of the first steak.

How could she explain? "Bill's grandmother introduced us. Siegfried is Bill's cousin, from Europe."

"Aha! I thought the name sounded familiar. He visited here a couple of times when he was just a lad--"

Alice checked the little gold watch pinned to her blouse. "I don't mean to be rude," she interrupted, as she accepted the wrapped meat, "but I really must go. I'm already late in meeting my--my husband's train."

"Don't let me keep you, then," the butcher drawled as he took her coins. "See you next time." He waved, and she departed, rushing across the street to her truck. She put the steaks in the back with her other purchases, grateful she had found a spot to park under the shade of the Plaza trees, grateful that she had escaped relatively easily.

Should she drive or walk the short distance to the station? The thought of promenading back through town with her brand new husband made the decision simple.

Worry gave her the strength to turn the crank handle smoothly. It might not be as easy as she had first hoped to dissolve her marriage, consummated or not. Afterwards, there would be gossip of the same type that attached itself to a divorcée. Everyone had been so kind since Bill's death. Would her neighbors treat her respectfully after an annulment? Or would she be the scandal of the county?

The dusty black Ford coughed to life. She let the engine turn over a few extra times before she found the courage to put it in gear.

* * *

The sun was hot on his dark wool suit as Siegfried walked across the street. The sign announced "Depot Hotel -Est. 1870," on a building of rough-cut gray fieldstone stuccoed with pale rose-colored plaster on the second story. The wooden shutters on the windows were freshly painted, and seeing them gave him a pang.

He pulled open a door decorated with a lion's-head knocker. Strong sunlight streamed through a wide-open doorway straight ahead, setting the haze of cigar smoke in the saloon aglow. Several splintered pieces of wood lay on the waxed flagstones near the feet of a large man wearing a carpenter's apron. He gave Siegfried a quick glance, then went back to fitting new louver slats into the broken patio door.

Two rough laborers sitting at the mirror-backed bar sipped their beers and eyed Siegfried with bleary interest. The room to the right, under gilded-brass gas chandeliers, was a dining room redolent of garlic and tomato sauce, with tables covered by red-checked cloths.

Siegfried addressed the genial bartender. "Good afternoon. May I use here the telephone?" He was uncomfortably aware that his normally faint accent had grown stronger in the aftermath of the stationmaster's rudeness.

The bartender's expression changed. No longer friendly, he jerked his chin towards the dining room. "It's in there."

"Hey, Joe, the Hun wants to use the 'phone," the taller of the two drinkers complained.

"Guess he got tired of murdering Belgian babies, George," the other replied. He wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and stuffed it into the pocket of his dusty jeans.

Siegfried clenched the handle of his valise tightly. This was not the welcome to Sonoma he had imagined, however, he had no desire to trade futile insults with drunkards, so he deliberately turned his back and took a step towards the dining room.

The scrape of a barstool against the stone floor was as loud as a sniper shot. "Hey, Hun, we don't want you dirtying up this hotel!"

"Take it outside, boys," warned the bartender, watching them closely. "Mr. Behrens here hasn't fixed the damage from last night yet."

"Yessir! Come on, George, let's take it outside!"

From the corner of his eye, Siegfried saw Joe draw back his fist. He ducked under the blow and drove his valise into the other's middle in the same smooth motion. Joe folded, groaning loudly.

"You filthy German bastard!" yelled George, knocking over his barstool with a crash as he jumped from his seat. "My brother died Over There!"

"Hey! Cut it out!" the bartender shouted, unheeded.

Siegfried sidestepped the first of George's flailing punches with the same twist used to counter bayonet thrusts, but a second roundhouse caught him squarely on the cheekbone. He reeled, his vision clouded with black motes and bright sparkles, then he landed a hard right to George's jaw. He would have delivered another one except that his arms were grasped from behind. A powerful reek of stale sweat and beer emanated from his captor.

"Got 'im, George!" Joe's voice rasped in Siegfried's ear, just before Siegfried whipped his head back, trying to avoid the full force of the blow on his mouth. His lips went hot and tingling at the same time that the back of his skull connected with Joe's face in a satisfying crunch.

Joe gave a muffled moan and clutched his nose, releasing Siegfried. Bright red blood seeped between his fingers.

Siegfried twisted away from George's next punch. He heard his pulse drumming in his ears, and sucked in great draughts of air. "I am not German," he insisted, but it made no difference.

George grabbed one of the barstools, and swung it. Siegfried dodged to one side but lost his balance on the slippery floor, falling flat on his back. He watched George reverse the barstool's swing. Time froze as the unwieldy weapon poised at the top of its arc, aimed directly at his head.

* * *

Parked under the acacias at the train station, Alice wasted another few minutes composing internal apologies for her lateness, even as she sat in the driver's seat, frozen in place despite the dry heat of the afternoon. She teetered on the verge of running away, but, recalling Tati's threat, Alice knew she had nowhere to run. Montclair's success was her only hope. And Montclair needed Siegfried's skills as a vintner.

She forced herself to climb out of the truck.

The train was long gone. Gravel shifted under her feet as she hurried as fast as ladylike propriety would allow. She came around the corner and saw the empty platform.

Alice considered what to do next. Siegfried might have gone for a brief walk to stretch his legs or stepped into the nearby hotel for a drink. Perhaps if she just waited for a few minutes, he might return to the depot and find her. For one bright instant she hoped that Siegfried had despaired of her arrival and departed with the train.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Oh, Mrs. Roye. How are you?"

Alice turned, and saw Mr. Myers standing in the doorway of the his office. "I'm fine, thank you. My new--vintner was supposed to be on the 3:25 train from the Tiburon Ferry. Have you seen a tall, blond man?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. The foreigner? He went over to the Depot Hotel. Said something about wanting to use their 'phone."

"Yes, that's he. Thank you," Alice said, guiltily. How long had he waited before he decided to call her?

She walked slowly back to her truck, feeling the heat radiating from the black paint. The still air smelled of dust, eucalyptus, and sun-warmed wooden buildings. Cicadas clicked randomly. Alice took off her linen driving coat and folded it neatly on the driver's seat. She reached up to touch her wide-brimmed straw hat, making certain that it was pinned firmly in place. Then she took a deep breath and started across the quiet street.

As she drew close, Alice heard a commotion, and she recognized the sounds instantly. There was a fight going on in the saloon.

She stood outside the saloon, dithering. A respectable woman would never be caught dead in this sort of establishment at any time, much less in the midst of a brawl! But Siegfried was in there, and it was her fault because she was late.

In the next moment she heard Siegfried's protest: "I am Alsatian!" A pained grunt accompanied a crash against the door, which flew open toward her violently.

Chapter Three

Sonoma

Saturday, May 17

The door slammed into Alice, knocking her down to the sidewalk. Before she could feel anything except disbelief, a man dressed in shabby field hand's clothes sprawled next to her, a barstool flying loose from his hand to bounce into the street. She locked startled gazes with him.

"Mrs. Roye?" he croaked.

Her disbelief vanished in horrified embarrassment. She knew this man! He had been part of the crew who put in her new vines. Abruptly she realized that her knees were exposed, and her bottom hurt. Abruptly, she shoved down her pleated skirt. Her right arm awoke from numbness and began to throb with a dull pain.

Siegfried appeared in the doorway, a large reddened patch marring his cheek. He gave her a quick assessing glance, then stared, astonished, as he recognized her. "Ah-lees! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, hastily. How dare Siegfried make a spectacle of himself-- and me! As she tried to get back on her feet, Siegfried stepped toward her, hand extended to help.

The workman next to her scuttled to his feet and interposed himself. "Don't worry, Mrs. Roye," he declared, shoulders hunched menacingly. "I'll protect you from that Hun."

"My wife needs no protection from you!" Siegfried growled.

"She ain't your wife," sneered the workman. "She's Corporal Bill Roye's widow." He brought up his fisted hands, and held them waveringly at chest-level like a woozy prizefighter.

"That's enough," said the man in the carpenter's apron as he stepped out of the hotel, rolled-up sleeves revealing massive biceps. "You watch your manners around the lady, George."

George took exception to the familiarity. "You stay out of this, Behrens." But his fists lowered, and he took a step backwards.

Alice climbed shakily to her feet, disdaining Siegfried's outstretched hand. She tried frantically to think of the proper response to being caught like this. Should she flee, faint, or brazen it out? Damn Siegfried anyway for putting her in this predicament! What sort of ruffian had Tati foisted on her?

"We dod't deed his kide aroud here." A second man, from his clothing evidently George's companion, staggered out of the saloon. Fresh blood stained the handkerchief he held against his nose. Alice groaned inwardly. More witnesses to her humiliation!

"We don't need your kind around here!" Behrens interjected. "You'd better take yourselves off before someone calls Sheriff Albertson!"

"But what about Mrs. Roye?" George protested, standing protectively near her.

"She is no longer Mrs. Roye. She is my wife now," Siegfried pronounced.

George and Joe looked to Alice for confirmation, disappointment and dismay clear on their battered features, waiting for her to speak. "It's true--Mr. Roder--This gentleman is my husband," Alice managed to choke out. "He's Montclair's new vintner."

There was a long pause punctuated by shuffling while George digested this information.

"And you will apologize to my wife for knocking her down," Siegfried demanded.

"Aw, hell," George mumbled, lowering his gaze. "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. We didn't realize that he was--that is--look, Joe, Mrs. Roye wouldn't marry a Hun."

"Appears we bade a bistake," Joe said, grudgingly. He examined his blotched handkerchief, then looked sideways at Siegfried's implacable scowl.

"Sorry, ma'am." George chimed in, hastily, as Siegfried cleared his throat. "C'mon, Joe." He pushed Joe back inside the bar, the lion-knocker door slamming closed behind them.

"It is very kind of you to help a stranger," Siegfried said to Behrens, tugging his jacket back into place. "I am Siegfried Rodernwiller."

The carpenter nodded politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rodernwiller." He pronounced the name effortlessly, and offered a meaty hand to Siegfried. "I'm Henry Behrens, from Glen Ellen."

"So pleased to meet you," Siegfried murmured, shaking Behren's hand vigorously. "Thank you for your assistance."

Alice gave Behrens a stiff smile and a small nod, trying unobtrusively to pat the dust from her long skirt, hoping it wasn't torn. She studied Siegfried. Had he been drinking?

Henry Behren's next comment allayed some of her fears. "Troublemakers," he commented, hooking a thumb through his belt. "I thought I was going to have make some extra repairs in there. It's a shame anti-German sentiments are still running so high in the county. Those boys ought to know better."

Siegfried shrugged. "I hope that they have now learned."

Alice noticed, irritated, that he stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. At least Siegfried hadn't started the fight--not if she could believe the implications of Mr. Behrens' words.

"I'd better finish up inside. Good day, Mrs. Rodernwiller." Mr. Behrens nodded at her. "And--welcome to Sonoma, Mr. Rodernwiller. Call on me if you need help with anything."

Siegfried smiled and sketched a salute.

"I'm so sorry I was late," Alice said when Behrens had gone. She was simultaneously guilt-stricken and resentful. "I needed to buy some things for dinner. If I hadn't been late--"

"It is nothing." Siegfried smiled although his lips were bloody.

"Your mouth!" Alice found her handkerchief in her skirt pocket. What if they encountered someone she knew? She raised herself on tip-toes, and dabbed at the blood beading from Siegfried's swollen lower lip. Siegfried closed his eyes but didn't flinch from her ministrations.

"That's a little better." Giving up the battle against the drying blood on his chin as futile without water, she tucked her stained handkerchief away. "Do you need a doctor?"

"I have lived through worse without one," Siegfried said, firmly. His bruised cheek flushed purple.

"But--" Alice protested.

"The touch of a pretty woman is better than any doctor," Siegfried opened his eyes wide and winked at her.

"My automobile is in front of the station," Alice informed him. Her cheeks were hot. The nerve of him!

Siegfried picked up his valise, took her arm, and together they walked across the street to her truck.

Alice hurried to keep up with him, comparing him to Bill. To begin with, Bill would never have fought in a common bar brawl. A quick flash of Siegfried poised for combat in the hotel bar translated itself into an image of Bill with bayonet raised. Had Bill's mouth bled? She would never know more than what had been written in the brief, dry words of the telegram. Regret to inform you...missing in action...ultimate sacrifice...St. Mihiel Salient.

"Allow me." Siegfried was holding open the truck's door for her.

Alice blinked and the moment of intense sadness dissipated. She started to pull on her coat, and Siegfried helped her with that too.

She bore his courtesies and seated herself cautiously behind the wheel, reminded anew of the indignities she had suffered. He stowed his valise in the truck bed next to the groceries and man-handled the crank until the Ford grumbled to life.

When he settled himself on the passenger's side, she thanked him without looking at him and stepped on the left floor pedal. After putting the car in first g