“Of course, but—”
“And they were the ones who took her out of school, not me,” Celine continues. “Rosie did poorly in school, if you must know. I was doing her an immense favor by giving her a job and a paycheck. I was the only one thinking about her future. The only one.”
I have annoyed Celine with this conversation, and I’m not sure why. “I see,” I tell her.
Celine opens up a drawer and gets out two spoons, and then shoves it closed. “No, I don’t think you do. You weren’t here. It was a mistake bringing that girl into this house. I never should’ve let the county talk me into it.”
“I really am sorry to hear that. It was very kind of you and Truman to try to make a go of it with her. I didn’t mean to suggest it wasn’t.”
Celine exhales heavily and closes her eyes a second. “I really don’t want to talk about her.”
I’m curious as to what became of Rosie Maras—I actuallyhave been for a long while—but I sense the need to change the subject. “All right. We don’t have to.”
Celine turns to me. “Are you sure you don’t want a cookie or something? I have some pastries.”
“A pastry would be nice.”
Minutes later, we are out on the patio, and I’m glad I suggested it. The late morning is golden, and the little that remains of the spent vines is toasty brown in the sun.
“It really is so beautiful here,” I say, letting the vista freshen my spirit. “No wonder you love this place so much.”
Celine takes a sip of her coffee and gazes out over her inheritance. “Sometimes I think it’s only the vineyard that hasn’t failed me. Everything else in my life...” She lets her words die away.
I can see so clearly that Celine is still grieving. It must be so difficult to lose a husband the way she lost Truman.
I wonder if she was as surprised as I was at my brother’s decision to reenlist. He wrote to me shortly after Pearl Harbor that the army didn’t care that he was forty-nine years old and that he’d learned to hide the slight limp in his step from the last war he’d fought in.
Letters from Celine after Truman died were few. The war made correspondence between us a problem, to be sure, but her short and sparse notes led me to believe she was adapting to the loss of my brother the way she did everything—or so it always had seemed to me, even from thousands of miles away: with resolve and control.
But now I wonder.
“Are you managing all right, Celine?” I ask as gently as I can.
She hesitates only a second. “I’m fine.”
“Truman’s passing must’ve been very hard for you.”
Celine sets her cup down on its saucer on the table between us. “Many things about having Truman as my husband were hard. So, yes, it was all very hard.”
Her tone tells me in no uncertain terms that she does not want to talk about Truman or how his death is affecting her. She doesn’t want to invite me into her grief or her life as a widow or even her life in general.
In fact, over the next several days, I get the distinct impression that Celine has allowed me to come only because I have no place of my own yet. She is not expecting or wanting me to stay for any great length of time. I can see this in the way she keeps me at arm’s length. She is polite and attentive but only in the most distant of ways. She asks no questions about my experiences during the war or what it was like in Europe after it or what I plan to do now. It’s almost as if I am a traveling stranger at her home and not her sister-in-law of thirty years.
I begin to look at advertisements in theSan Francisco Chronicle, which Celine has delivered every morning, for an apartment and a job. By the first of the year, I hope to be on my own so that Celine can have the solitary life she seems to want. And if I haven’t found my own place by then, I’ll take up George and Lila’s offer to come stay with them for a time.
Christmas Eve arrives, and I try to make the day as pleasant as possible for Celine. I offer to makefaschierter Braten—a savory meat loaf—for our dinner, served alongside a creamy potato mash and pickled red cabbage. As I dish up our plates, Celine opens a bottle of wine. The food is delicious and the wine, too. Celine ordered a cherry torte from a bakery in Santa Rosa, and as she cuts into it, I remember the muscat dessert wine that Rosseau Vineyards bottles and that I loved the last time I was here. I ask if Celine wouldn’t mind opening one of those, too.
We’ve already had two glasses of wine each at dinner, and now, with our dessert, the third glass of wine is starting to go to my head. I know I need to stop. But Celine continues to pour from both bottles into her glass, alternating from one to the other.Perhaps her many pours are how she deals with her lingering sorrow, especially at the holidays. I’m glad she is acknowledging her loss and loneliness, but I’m thinking that alcohol is probably not the best way to do it. I reach across the table and lay a hand on Celine’s arm.
“Do you want to head on to bed, Celine? I can take care of these dishes.”
Celine withdraws her arm and picks up her glass. “I’m not done with my wine,” she says, her words a bit slurred.
“You don’t have to finish it.”
“Oh yes, I do.” Celine tips back the glass and takes a large gulp.
“Maybe you can just give me the glass,” I say gently.
