The Summer Garden. Paullina Simons

mild. Alexander didn’t work in the fields anymore or drive trucks; now he was down in the cellars. He hated being in the dark basement all day, for when he started work it was barely light and when he finished it was just after dark. He worked at the steel fermenting drums or the oak barrels, riddling the sparkling wine behind closed cellar doors and dreaming of sunshine. The night visions still ground him down. He stopped trying to figure them out; their mysticism was beyond his scope and his mystic guide was busy navigating through her own unstill waters. Anthony still crawled in next to her toward dawn.

      The three of them looked forward to Sundays when they had a whole day to themselves. On Sundays they drove around the Bay area. They saw Sacramento and Montecito, and Carmel by the Sea, so blissful and briny—which was a good way to describe Tania also. It was there that she asked him if he wanted to leave Napa and go to Carmel, but Alexander declined. “I like Napa,” he said, taking her hand across the table as they sat in a small café, eating New England Clam Chowder out of a bread bowl. Anthony was having French fries, dipping them into Tania’s soup.

      But Tatiana liked Carmel. “It has no weather. How could you not like a place that has no weather?”

      “I like a little weather,” Alexander said.

      “For weather we can go south to Santa Barbara.”

      “Let’s just stay put for a while, okay?”

      “Shura …” Leaving Anthony to her soup, she got up and moved to sit close to Alexander in the booth, holding his hand, caressing his palm, kissing his fingers. “Husband … I was thinking … maybe we could stay in Napa for good?”

      “Hmm. Doing what? Harvesting grapes for ten bucks a day? Or,” Alexander said with a small—very small—smile, “selling wine to men?”

      Tatiana’s grin was wide. “Neither. We sell our Arizona land, we buy some land here and open our own winery. What do you think? We wouldn’t see any profits for two years while the grapes grew, but then … we could do what the Sebastianis do, just smaller. You already know so much about the business. And I could count the money.” She smiled, her sea eyes foaming. “I’m a very good counter. There are so many little vineyards around here; we could grow to be successful. We’d have a little house, another little baby, live above the winery, and it would be ours, all ours! We’d have a great view of real mountains, like you want. We could go a little north to a place called Alexander’s Valley”—she kissed his cheek—“see, it’s already conveniently named after you. We could start with two acres; it would be plenty to make a living. Hmm? How does that sound?”

      “So-so,” said Alexander, his arm going around her, bending to her exalted, turned-up face.

       Vanishing Dreams of the Valley of the Moon

      Alexander left every morning at six thirty. Tatiana didn’t have to be in until nine. She and Anthony walked the two miles to the winery. After he left, Tatiana sat by the window, paralyzed with fear and indecision. She desperately needed to call Vikki. But the last time she called, Sam had picked up Vikki’s phone.

      This morning Tatiana was bent over the sink, retching. She knew she had to call, she needed to know if Alexander was safe, if they were safe—to stay, to begin to live their little life.

      She called from a public phone near the common dining room downstairs, knowing it was still five thirty in the morning in New York, and Vikki would be asleep.

      The voice on the other end of the line was groggy. “Who is this?”

      “It’s Tania, Vik.” She held the phone receiver so tensely in her fingers, she thought it would break. Her mouth was pressed to the mouthpiece, and her eyes were closed. Please. Please.

      There was scrambling, dropping of the receiver, sharp cursing. Vikki didn’t say what happened, but the things she did say when she finally got back to the receiver were quite sharp and cursy themselves.

      Tatiana backed away from the mouthpiece, seriously contemplating hanging up before she heard another word. She could tell that everything was not all right.

      “Tatiana! What is wrong with you?”

      “Nothing, we’re fine. Anthony says hello.” But this was said in a low, defeated voice.

      “Oh my God. Why haven’t you called Sam, Tania?”

      “Oh, that. I forgot.”

      “YOU WHAT?”

      “We’ve been busy.”

      “They sent Federal agents to your aunt’s house in Massachusetts! They’ve been talking to her, to me, to Edward, to the whole hospital. They’ve been looking for you in New Mexico where you called from, and in that stupid place you bought your stupid land; Phoenix, is it?”

      Tatiana didn’t know what to say. She was losing her breath.

      Federal agents on the path called Jomax.

      “Why didn’t you just call him as you promised?”

      “I’m sorry. Why was he there last time I called?”

      “Tania, he’s practically moved in. Where are you?”

      “Vik, what do they want?”

      “I don’t know! Call Sam, he’s dying to tell you. Do you know what Sam said to me when I told him I was going to change my telephone number? He told me I’d be arrested for conspiracy because it could mean I was protecting you!”

      “Conspiracy to what?” Tatiana said in a small voice.

      “I can’t believe Alexander is allowing this.”

      There was silence from Tatiana.

      “Oh, my God,” Vikki said slowly. “He doesn’t know?”

      Silence from Tatiana. Her choices were narrowing. What if there was a wiretap on Vikki’s phone? They’d know where she was, at which B&B, in which valley. Unable to speak any longer, she just hung up.

      She called Jean and said she wasn’t feeling well. Jean complained—money talking—and insisted that Tatiana come in regardless of how she was feeling. They had words. Tatiana said, “I quit,” and hung up on her, too.

      She couldn’t believe she just quit. What in the world was she going to tell Alexander?

      She and Anthony took a bus to San Francisco, where she thought she would be anonymous, but as soon as she heard the streetcar’s stop bell, she knew the sound would be pretty distinct, even to someone living in Washington DC. She went to a wet cold park on the shores of San Francisco Bay, where there were no rails and no clanging, just screaming seagulls, and from a payphone during the late morning called Sam who was still at home.

      “Sam?”

      “Who is this?”

      “It’s me, Sam.”

      “Oh my God. Tania.”

      “Sam—”

      “OH. MY. GOD.”

      “Sam—”

      “Oh my God.”

      “Sam …”

      “Seventeen months, Tania! Do you know what you’ve done? You’re costing me my job! And you’re costing that husband of yours his freedom!”

      “SAM—”

      “I told you both when he first came back—a debriefing. So simple. Tell us about your life, Captain Barrington. In your own words. A two-hour conversation with minor officials, so easy, so nice; we stamp his file closed, we offer him college tuition, cheap loans, job placement.”

      “Sam.”

      “And instead? During this unbelievably tense time—have you not been reading the papers?—his file, his OPEN file has traveled from my desk,