Bitter Honey, page 2
part #22 of Lockets and Lace Series
If the man was a gadfly that poked his nose in other folk’s business, then perhaps he should send him packing. “Visiting who?”
Claude chuckled, but that time it carried a good bit of real humor. “The Lord mostly.”
The next morning after moonset but before dawn found Claude standing over her grave. He’d seen her in town just last week. Had there ever been a more attractive fifty-year-old woman?
As he’d done for the last eleven years, he didn’t seek her out that day. He’d kept his promise and kept his distance.
“Will I ever stop loving her, Father?”
Like most of the questions he asked the Almighty, he didn’t expect an immediate answer, but the small, still voice he knew so well whispered into his soul.
LOVE HER SON
“Yes, Lord. I will. I’ll help him as much as he’ll let me.” He sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to her side of the mound, extolling the Lord’s mercy and His righteousness.
One fine day, he would be reunited with the both of them—when he and they were as the angels, when all tears were wiped away, and he had his friends back.
If only those early days could have lasted forever, but of course, she had to choose, and he had lost them both.
The new day dawned. Silas roused soon after. Claude had coffee ready, then the boy fried up some fatback and made gravy that tasted just like his mother used to make.
Over another cup of coffee, he decided he’d offer some advice, see how susceptible the boy was to instruction.
“If it were me, I’d go talk to the banker today. Has your father paid his taxes yet this year?”
“I don’t know.”
“Might ought to check on that, too, avoid any surprises. The clerk at the courthouse will know. I noticed eleven oak casks in the barn. What vintage are they?”
“ ’48.”
“Good year. What’s he been getting for a barrel?”
“I don’t know. There’s a restaurant in New Orleans that buys from us, but most of the bottles were broken. The press and all the bottling tools are in the basement—or were.”
“I don’t have much cash, but you’re welcome to it, Silas, and . . .” He eyed the young man hard. “If you’ve got the grit, there’s a way we can make plenty more cash.”
For the thousandth time since the storm, Silas wanted to speak with his father. He so needed his advice.
A part of him understood the old man’s willingness to help, but what if the neighbor saw the situation as an opportunity to take his revenge on Father?
Still, he didn’t want to consider pushing Claude—his help and company—away.
Closing his eyes, Silas wondered for the ten thousandth time what should he do. Could he trust this man?
But what other options did he have?
No one else had offered to help him, and he hated the thought of trying to make it on his own. Even if he could, he wasn’t certain one way or the other.
“I’m torn, sir. Why are you offering to help me? All my other neighbors I know so much better brought some food, wished me well, then left.”
“If you don’t believe the Lord sent me, I can understand your suspicions.” The man stared into Silas’s eyes a minute, scratching his scruffy chin. “I guess I better tell you how it once was.”
Claude looked off like he was traveling back in time.
“It was the summer of twenty-nine. Your father and I had been invited to a mixer at the new Methodist Church, and there she was.”
“Mother?”
“Yes, sir. Your dad claimed he saw her first, but I was convinced it was me. We became fast friends, the three of us. After six months, she accepted your father’s proposal.”
“I knew about the six months part.”
“I understood it, even though I knew she loved me. Oh, she hadn’t professed any love for me, but I knew. I could see it in her eyes.”
“What happened then?”
“You couldn’t call me anything but a poor loser. I sought her out whenever I found her alone and relished those times.”
“She . . . still talked to you?”
“Innocent like. Tried every way I could think of to convince her to break off the engagement and end the plans for marriage . . . But the day came despite all my efforts.”
“What’d you do?”
“I couldn’t stop it. Once they exchanged vows . . .” He shrugged then fell silent.
Silas let him be for a moment then asked about the time he remembered when he was five.
“Your dad had spotted us together that day, standing in front of the apothecary, only talking. They had a big fight over it.”
“What happened?”
“Dee came to my place the next day and made me promise to stay away from her. She admitted she cared for me and didn’t want to see me dead and your dad swinging for killing me. So, I promised.”
For the next few minutes, Silas mulled things over. If the man turned out to be something other than what he claimed, then he’d find out soon enough. It wasn’t like he had much more to lose.
“I’ve got the grit, sir. How can we make a lot of cash?”
“Ever hunted gator?”
Silas almost laughed but stopped himself. It wouldn’t be proper or honor his parents’ memories. Still, that was not what he expected to hear at all.
“No, sir. Ate some once. It tasted a little like chicken or . . . firm fish, maybe.”
“A bull gator will fetch thirty dollars, meat and hide. They’re easy to get on your trapline, hard to kill, and even harder to get in the boat. Your father and I hunted them together, but . . . of course, your mother coming along put an end to all that.”
There was so much Silas didn’t know about his parents’ pasts. “Why are they hard to kill?”
The older man held his finger and thumb up, making a small hole, maybe a half inch square.
“Middle of their skull right in front of the first set of spikes, two, three inches behind their eyes—that’s where you have to put the spike. Anywhere else, you’ll only make them mad, or worse, mar the hide.”
Was the guy joshing him?
“Who in their right mind is going to hammer a nail into a gator’s head?”
Claude laughed. “Not hammer. Just a long pole with a six-inch spike. If you can hold him still, I’ll do the killing.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s just that it’s almost impossible to hold one and swing the pole at the same time—no never mind loading a big one by yourself.”
Had he’d done it by himself before? “You got a boat?”
“Matter of fact, I do. And a spike pole, too. What I don’t have is rotten chicken for bait or any treble hooks. And we’ll need a hundred feet of heavy-duty cord as well. Three-strand jute works good.”
“I take it you want me to fetch some spoiled chicken, cord, and hooks when I’m in town today?”
“If you want to hunt gator.” He tossed his dregs into the fire then stood and buried his hand in his pocket. He pulled out several coins. “I’ve got two dollars in silver. That should cover what you need.”
Maybe the Lord had sent the man. Not only was he offering to show him how to make a month’s wages with one gator, he was offering to pay for the supplies.
“First though, before I go back to town, I need to try and find my letters to get them posted.”
Claude nodded then looked to the pile of broken sticks that once had been Silas’s home. “Get to it then. I’ll tend to the mules.”
An hour alone, tossing and sorting through what was left of his room then another with the old man’s help, produced three shirts, two pairs of trousers, gloves, a hat, and the locket Samantha had sent him.
With his thumbnail, he pried the golden circle open. His own eyes stared back at him on one side with hers—the one his focus went to—on the other.
Why hadn’t he sent it back the very day he had gotten his picture taken? He looked all around but saw no metal box with her letters to him and the ones he’d been writing to her for the last three months.
“They’re not here. Something happened to them.”
“When you get to town, buy yourself some paper and ink. Post her a quick note to let her know what’s happened. She’ll understand about the others.”
His cheeks warmed. He was such a fool. He should have sent his all letters along and not saved them up, but she wasn’t going to be there for another three months or longer.
“I don’t remember exactly where they’re heading to in California. Some valley north of San Francisco. She put the name in all her letters, but I never committed it to memory. It starts with an ‘N’ I think, but I’m not sure.”
“Well, maybe your box will turn up. Mules are hitched and ready. I’ll keep looking and organize what lumber or anything else that’s useable while you’re gone.”
Was that it?
Did Claude want to get him gone so he could . . . What? Steal his battered possessions? Other than the wagon and mules, there just wasn’t much worth the taking.
Well, the wine, but without the wagon, no way could he carry off the wine barrels.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
“No. You go ahead. I’ll be here when you get back.”
As Silas drove off, he hoped Claude proved to be a man of his word. The thought of doing all that work alone ran a chill down his spine.
Chapter Three
Napa Valley, California; November 1857
(four and a half years later)
Bringing the bowl of the wine glass to her nose, Samantha inhaled. Nice.
Just a hint of its rosewood cask. She took a tiny sip, swirled it around in her mouth a bit, then spit it into the ceramic jug and smiled at her father.
“It’s ready, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe it is.” He reached for her tasting goblet.
Instead of handing it over, she pulled her hand back. “The little girls are inside, and I’m past seventeen-and-a-half now if you don’t remember.”
“I believe we have a deal.” His thinking finger went to tapping his chin. “Wasn’t it twenty?” He pointed at her. “Yes. Your twentieth birthday if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, Father, please.” She wrinkled her nose but refrained from sticking out her tongue. Instead, she handed over the glass.
“Please what?”
“You know well enough we agreed that upon turning eighteen, I could drink our wine and receive courters. But nothing says we can’t fudge the last five months. Mother Remi wouldn’t care.”
“Speaking of your stepmother, when are you going to stop calling her by her name? It sounds so long and formal. The little girls called her just Mother from the start.”
Looking away, she hesitated. She loved her stepmother but still remembered her real mother. She just couldn’t bring herself to dishonor her by calling another woman by the same name.
Her little sister had been too young to remember—all the more reason to keep Mother alive in her heart.
Plus, Remi didn’t care.
The lady she’d chosen herself to be her father’s new wife was truly more a best friend, a confidant who understood about her love for Silas.
“You’re the only one who’s bothered by it. She knows how much I loved her—practically since the first time I saw her. If you’ll remember, I was the one scheming for her to marry you in the first place.”
“Of course, I remember. It made me love you all the more.” With a compulsory swirl and sniff, he drank the rest then set the glass aside.
“Come on, Daughter. We don’t want to be late for supper. We’ve got a long night ahead if we’re going to be ready to run this batch in the morning.”
A long night wasn’t the half of it. Every step of getting ready to bottle wine required time, great care, and more time.
Her parents, aunt, and uncle went far beyond demanding when it came to cleanliness. But then who could blame them? One bad batch, and the good name they’d worked so hard to build could be ruined.
Even as tired as she was that night, like most times when her head hit her pillow, her thoughts drifted to Silas Mercier while she waited for sleep.
Some evenings, her heart longed to see his handsome face, no longer sure she remembered it exactly right. That particular night, she wanted to slap his mug.
If only she could take back the love she’d given him. He’d obviously never truly cared for her. And she’d poured her heart out again and again in her letters to him.
They probably only served to give him a good laugh. She hated the fact she’d put her heart to paper, in black and white. Aunt Christina had warned her.
The cad. And thief! At the very least he should have returned her locket.
Perhaps if she went back to New Orleans and demanded he give back her letters and her locket, her heart could finally heal, and she could be about finding herself a husband.
But . . . She couldn’t let go of her fantasy, thinking of him as her own Prince Charming. She’d been so sure, but she’d also been so wrong.
What a joke she’d played on herself, fancying herself some sort of master matchmaker. Maybe for other people; just not for herself.
How could anyone at thirteen know her own heart?
Except back then, she’d been so positive. And even now, she couldn’t get over him.
Would she ever?
She’d better. In less than six short months, Father would allow suitors to call.
The last thing she wanted was to be an old maid. She had to come to her senses and believe the truth or that might just be her fate.
Lifting his paddle, Silas paused and stretching his sitting height, peered ahead. “I believe you’re right, Mister Claude. Looks like we’ve got us one.”
The boat drifted toward the tree he’d tied the cord to the evening before.
Short of the limb, he stood then grabbed the branch and hung on until the boat’s momentum quelled. He found the cord and tugged.
The water churned. A fat scaly tail slapped the river, spraying the boat.
“Careful, Silas. He’s a monster.”
At least ten-foot-long, maybe twelve, the gator twisted and fought. He wrapped his arm around the limb and pulled with both hands.
Soon his effort brought the gator’s head up and within reach. Claude swung his spike pole and hit the beast in the sweet spot. The man was an amazing shot.
No fight left in that one. Silas lifted the gator’s head and drew a good long breath. Suddenly aware, his heart boomed in his chest. He faced his fishing buddy.
“He may go twelve feet!”
“We’ll see.” Claude pulled out his spike pole then reached over and used it to bring the gator’s tail to the side of the boat. Pretty agile for an old man, he bent and grabbed ahold. “You ready?”
Putting his left foot on the boat’s starboard side, Silas shifted his weight. “Yes, sir.”
Like so many other times, he and Claude wrestled the gator into the boat. It took most of that day to get him skinned, quartered, and sold.
Proved to be a nice one. Not the biggest ever, but it’d been a while since they’d caught a twelve-footer.
That evening after supper and over a glass of red wine, Silas broached a subject he’d been mulling over for weeks. “I think we should start making wine.”
“You saved up enough cash to buy the equipment we’d need?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so. With the forty-two we made today, we’ve got a thousand and six dollars in the bank.”
Claude laughed then shook his head. “It’ll take lots of work.”
“When did that ever bother us?”
“Going to make some folks mad if we stop selling them our grapes.”
“They’ll get over it. We never promised any of them anything. So, what do you think?”
“I’ll pray about it.”
“Good.” Swirling the wine a bit, Silas drained his glass; middling at best. What a shame he hadn’t hung onto at least one cask of his father’s last batch. But back then, he’d needed the money to pay the taxes. That first year had been tough.
Though every muscle in his body nagged him, he figured he’d pass out when his head hit the pillow.
Instead, he lay there making a mental list of what all would be needed to start producing again. Much as he tried to keep his thoughts on the wine though, Samantha Adams kept waltzing out of the shadows where he tried to keep her.
One fine day, he’d go to California and hunt her down. How many vineyards could there be? How long had it been? Five years already.
Could it have been that long since the storm?
Seemed more like a year or two, but she’d be what now? Eighteen come April. The perfect marrying age. If only he’d put her letters somewhere safe . . .
Rolling over, he picked open the locket she’d sent him with a thumbnail, held it in the moonlight, and stared at her picture.
No doubt she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He smiled, remembering how at thirteen, she’d written all those letters of love to him. So passionate about almost everything.
He closed the gold bauble and held it close to his heart.
Did she ever even think of him anymore?
If she did, she must hate him for not responding and probably counted him a thief for stealing her locket.
For three days, Silas didn’t mention making wine. He knew his friend well enough that when he said he’d pray about something, he meant it.
If only God would make up His mind and let Claude know. He still thought it a bit ludicrous that the man thought he could actually hear from the big guy upstairs.
To each his own.
On the morning of the fourth day, while Claude waited for the coffee to boil, he nodded toward Silas. “The Lord says a man ought not to put new wine in old wine skins.”
“Well now, that sounds like a good piece of advice. So, shall we cut us some timber today?”
The old man laughed. “Never one to let any grass grow under your feet were you, Silas?”
“No, sir. Guess not. Never put off until tomorrow what you can get done today. Isn’t that what you old-timers always say?”
