1 Sonoma County, California February 1939 The chardonnay vines outside my open window are silent, but I still see in my mind the bursts of teal and lavender their summer rustlings always called to my mind. That sound had been my favorite, those colors the prettiest. The leafless stocks with their arms outstretched on cordon after cordon look like lines of dancers waiting for the music to start--for spring to set their performance in motion. Looking at them, I feel a deep sadness. It might be a long time before I see again these vines that had for so long been under my father''s care, or hear their leaves whisper, spilling the colors in my mind that belong to them alone. Perhaps I will never see this vineyard again. The Calverts won''t welcome a future visit from me. Celine Calvert has already made it clear that after today she is done with me.
Done. For a moment the words if only flutter in my head, but I lean forward and pull the window shut. What is to be gained by wishing I could turn back the clock? If I had that power, I would have done it before now. I wouldn''t even be living with the Calverts if I had the ability to spin time backward. I''d still be living in the vinedresser''s cottage down the hill with my parents and little brother. The doorbell rings from beyond the bedroom. Shards of heather gray prick at the edges of my mind. I hear Celine cross the entry to open the front door and invite the visitor inside.
Mrs. Grissom is here to take me away. It''s almost a year to the day since I first met Mrs. Grissom on the afternoon my whole world changed, just like it is changing now. On that day my father''s truck got stuck on the railroad tracks outside Santa Rosa. In one blinding instant, he and my little brother, Tommy, were snatched away from this life. The next, I was sitting in a ghostly white hospital room for the handful of minutes before my mother slipped away to join them. "Rosie .
" Momma''s voice was threaded with the faintest colors of heaven as I sat in a cold metal chair next to her bed. She lay in a sea of bandages seeping crimson. "I''m here." I laid my hand across her bruised fingers. "I am so . sorry ." Her voice sounded different from what I''d always known. Low and weak.
Tears, hot and salty, slid down my cheeks and into my mouth. "Promise me . Be happy . for me . and be . careful." She nodded as if to remind me of a past agreement between us. "Be careful, Rosanne.
Promise ." "Momma, don''t." "Promise ." A sob clawed its way out of my mouth as I spit out the words: "I promise." "Love . you ." I don''t know if she heard me say I loved her, too. The moments after she left me seemed at the time made of the thinnest of tissue paper.
I remember being allowed to sit with Momma after she''d passed. I remember being told my father and brother had been taken to the morgue straight from the crash and that I''d have to say good-bye to them in my heart. And then I was meeting Mrs. Grissom, a woman from the county who''d arrived at the hospital sometime during that stretch of shapeless minutes. She''d asked Celine--who had brought me to the hospital--if she knew of any next of kin who could take me in. There weren''t any. She''d asked if Celine would please consider speaking to Mr. Calvert about the two of them taking on the role of legal guardians for me since I''d lived the entirety of my sixteen years on their property anyway.
The county had a terrible shortage of foster families willing to take older children, and the nearest orphanages were full. It wouldn''t have to be for forever. Just for the time being. And they had already raised their son, Wilson, so they had experience. The two women were speaking in the hallway, just outside the room where I sat with my mother''s body. I couldn''t see Celine''s face, but I could sense her hesitation. "Oh, I suppose," Celine finally said. "I guess that makes sense.
Truman and I do have that bedroom off the kitchen available. The poor thing can stay with us. At least for now." And Eunice Grissom said she''d approve the emergency placement that very day so that I could return home with Celine, and the rest of the paperwork could follow. I''ve only seen Mrs. Grissom twice since then. Once two days after my family was laid to rest--Celine and Truman had paid for the arrangements and the simple headstones--and a few weeks later when she came by to let the Calverts know the temporary guardianship had been approved. And now Mrs.
Grissom is here again. I hear her step farther into the house and closer to where I wait in the little room beyond the kitchen. "I''m so very sad and disappointed about all this," Mrs. Grissom says. "And here I thought it had been going so well here for all of you." "Yes. It''s very sad." Celine''s voice is toneless.
"Extremely disappointing." "I''ve been asking a lot of questions on my end since your visit with me on Tuesday, and it seems everyone I''ve talked to agrees," Mrs. Grissom says, "if what you''re saying is true." "I assure you, it''s true." "Well then," Mrs. Grissom says. "We will leave this with those who can help her best." "Yes," Celine replies.
"Wait right here. I''ll get her." A home for unwed mothers, then. That''s where I''m headed, since apparently no one else will take me the way I am. Seventeen. Orphaned. Pregnant. At least it will be a home.
At least it will be a place where this tiny life inside me will be protected. It scares me a little how much I am already starting to care for it. This child is the only family I have now. Surely some unwed mothers are allowed to keep their babies. Surely some do. The sound of a lock turning yanks me from this daydream, and the door to my bedroom opens. Celine stands at the doorframe, her gaze on me like arrows. "Mrs.
Grissom is here for you," she says, and then quickly turns from me. "Where is she taking me?" Celine doesn''t turn to me when she answers. Her voice looks an icy blue--like rock crystal. "Where you belong." She walks away, back through the kitchen and dining room to the entryway, where Mrs. Grissom waits. I don''t reach for the bag I packed--Celine has already taken that--but instead for a sweater I placed on the bed next to a maid''s uniform that is no longer mine. Tears brim in my eyes as I move through the kitchen, and I think of Momma as she lay dying, whispering the words "Be happy, be careful.
" I have failed her on both accounts. I walk to the tiled entry, where Mrs. Grissom stands with my travel bag by her feet. I see her gaze drop to the slight mound at my waist. She frowns and sighs. It''s true, then, the sigh seems to say. The orphan girl kindly taken in by the Calverts let a boy into her bed. "Come, then, Rosanne," Mrs.
Grissom says, shaking her head. "We''ve somewhere to be." I know it''s pointless to apologize, but I turn to Celine anyway. "I''m sorry, Mrs. Calvert." "Good-bye, Rosie," she says flatly, her words heavy and gray. "Thank you for doing what you could for her, you and Mr. Calvert.
" Mrs. Grissom hands Celine a piece of paper from the top of the clipboard she is carrying. No doubt the record of the Calverts'' relinquishment of me. "The county is grateful." "Yes," Celine says. I walk out to the passenger side of Mrs. Grissom''s Buick and place my travel bag on the back seat and then get in the front. Celine pulls her front door shut even before I am fully inside the car.
Mrs. Grissom starts the engine, and as she eases slowly past the Calverts'' house, I reach with one hand for the necklace at my throat, feeling for my mother''s cloisonné pendant and the little key resting behind it. One is a tether to my past and the other to my future. I look longingly at the vines as we pass them on the gravel drive, rows and rows of them. I love all the colors of this place, and the chuffing of nearby tractors and the neighbor''s roosters and my father''s whistling. They''d always been such happy sounds, happy colors. Oh, how I will miss them. As we turn onto the road to Santa Rosa, I reach for my bag and lift it over the seat to make sure all that I put inside it is still there: the few items of clothing that still fit me, my worn copy of The Secret Garden, the photograph of me and Tommy and my parents, my cigar box full of my savings, the baking soda tin with the amaryllis bulb and the instructions on how to care for it .
It''s all there except for the bundle of Helen Calvert''s letters inside the cigar box. My money is still inside it, but the letters from Truman''s sister are gone. Before I can even begin to mourn their loss, Mrs. Grissom asks me why of all things I have a dirty old turnip in my travel bag. I turn to stare at her. "You looked in my bag, too?" "We had to make sure you weren''t taking anything that wasn''t ." Her voice drifts off. "Mine?" "Safe.
" "It''s not a turnip." I turn back to the window. "It''s an amaryllis bulb." ".