Chapter Two

Sonoma Valley, June 2003

Whining in Wine Country…

The sign read, Blue Dragon Vineyard .

Angela Abruzzi made a smooth slide of her hand on the leather steering wheel of her BMW, turning it up the drive to the rambling Victorian house she had once called home. With a deep sigh, she slowed the Beamer to a crawl and tried to enjoy the familiar scenery, despite the knot in her stomach, which had been tightening since she'd left her apartment in L.A. this morning. The tension was not due to trepidation at coming home; that was always a joy. It was due to the formidable task she had to accomplish today.

The stately, unique species of oak trees that lined the drive always brought a smile to her face. The trees, with their rare speckled bark, had been a whim of the original builder a hundred years ago…and too ex pensive and showy not to be kept up by all the owners since then. The low stone walls on either side of the road were dotted every ten feet or so with enormous, dragon-design terra-cotta planters spilling over with lush red geraniums that were painstakingly cared for by her seventy-five-year-old grandmother. Wildflowers in a myriad of pastel colors dotted the lawns leading up to the house and beyond, on either side of the stream that fed into a large pond. The pond acted as a reservoir for the much-needed irrigation system. Ancient willow trees surrounded the pond like Southern belles with wide lacy crinolines; they'd been her make-believe playhouses as a child. Behind the house as far as the eye could see, for two hundred acres or more, were row upon row of grapevines, bright green now in the June sun but soon to be filled with clusters of purple globes—the lifeblood of Blue Dragon. A large vegetable garden was also located in the back—far too big for the single inhabitant of the house.

As she pulled up to the wide circle in front of the house with its wraparound porch, her grandmother, Rose Abruzzi, was already coming down the steps to greet her, a welcoming smile on her face. In many ways they resembled each other, especially the thick masses of curly hair spilling down over their shoulders, although Angela's was coal black and Grandma's was now pure white. And they both had coal-black eyes and a tiny black mole just above the upper lip on the right, something Grandma preferred to call a beauty mark.

People were always surprised when they met her grandmother for the first time. To say she was not the usual senior citizen would be a vast understatement. Today she wore a white tank top and denim coveralls over her still-trim figure. A Virginia Slims cigarette dangled from the fingertips of her right hand. Grandma had been a chain smoker for more than fifty years and was not about to stop now, despite all the health warnings. Her feet, still a petite size six that she prided herself on, were covered with muddy, formerly white sneakers.

"Angela, darling," her grandmother crooned, opening her arms wide for a one-armed embrace, meanwhile holding her cigarette expertly in the air to avoid catching her granddaughter's hair on fire. Even as she hugged, she shook off the long ash. Before she'd discovered Virginia Slims, Grandma had used a cigarette holder, and what a pretentious sight that had been! Dungarees and an eighteen-karat-gold Tiffany cigarette holder! Her grandfather had matched her conspicuous consumption with Cuban cigars. But those had been the days of prosperity…before the year of the drought, before the year they'd had the fire in the warehouse just after harvest, before the year they'd had so many strange machinery breakdowns, before the year they'd lost their prize vintner to a French winery, before the year they'd been hit with phylloxera. Now they just eked by, growing grapes for other wine makers, hoping for a miracle that would allow them to bottle wine again.

Thank God for her job in the city, which allowed her to make huge commissions selling Beverly Hills homes to the rich and famous. Without her annual input of $100,000 to $200,000 into Blue Dragon, they would be looking at one dead mythical serpent…so to speak.

"Grandma!" she squealed affectionately, and hugged back, giving an extra squeeze. It had been only a month since she'd visited last, but she missed the old lady and was desperately worried about her and the vineyards these days…with good reason. "How have you been? Is Miguel taking his heart pills? Did you fix the aerator? Where's Jow?" Miguel was the foreman, just as old as Grandma and still working as hard as ever, despite his doctor's precautions. And Jow was "Just One Week," the German shepherd she'd bought for her grandmother and grandfather so they wouldn't be lonely eight years ago after she married the man they had all come to refer to as the Creep. They'd vowed to keep the dog for "just one week" because having a rambunctious animal amidst delicate grapevines could be a problem. Besides, even as a puppy, they'd been able to tell by his huge pointy ears and enormous feet that he was going to grow into the horse of a dog he was now. Well, they'd kept Jow, her marriage had ended after only one year (too bad she hadn't made the one-week vow about the Creep), and grandpa had died three years ago of a sudden and massive stroke, brought on in part by the series of unexplained mishaps in his precious vineyard.

Grandma shrugged and began to lead her up the front steps. "Everything's fine. Jow is out with Miguel inspecting the new roots in the west field. You know, that damn dog has the greatest nose for aphids. And he saved a dozen of the rootstock last week by scarfing up slugs. Eats like a horse, and not just slugs. He ruined three of my prize rosebushes this spring because he insists on peeing there, close to the house. But at least the damn dog is of some use." She sniffed with disdain as she spoke, as if to hide the fact that she adored "the damned dog." She took a long drag on her cigarette, blew out the smoke in a circular cloud, then ground out the stub in a special sand-filled tub near the front door, placed there especially for that purpose by a disapproving Juanita, the Mexican housekeeper who had been a fixture at Blue Dragon forever. She was Miguel's wife.

"When are you going to quit smoking, Grandma?"

"When are you going to find yourself a good man and come back home to Blue Dragon?"

Never, apparently . "I heard you have a buyer interested in Blue Dragon. Gunther again?"

"As always," her grandmother said in a voice of pure disgust. If it wouldn't have been unladylike, she probably would have spit, too.

Gunther Morgan was a neighboring vintner who had been wanting to buy the Blue Dragon for years, since even before her grandfather had died. They suspected, but had never been able to prove, that he was responsible for some shady tactics to coerce them and other property owners in the region to sell. A more despicable fellow was not to be found in all of the Sonoma Valley.

"At least he's upped his offer this time," Angela remarked.

"Who told you that?"

"Carmen."

"Pfff! My great niece has a big mouth. She ought to use it to mind her own business. In fact, she ought to use it to find herself a husband and a father for that girl of hers."

"Grandma!"

"Well, it's true. If Carmen would spend more time teaching her daughter some traditional values, instead of preaching all that man-hating nonsense to college girls, she'd be a lot better off."

The best Angela could come up with was, "Tsk-tsk-tsk!" Then, "That statement is outrageous, even for you, Grandma. You know very well that Carmen is a respected professor of women's studies at Merryvale College. True, she goes off the deep end with some of her feminist philosophies, but she is by no means a man-hater."

"Ha! I heard her on the college radio station one day. She said any woman who lusted after George Clooney was a brainless twit."

Angela frowned in confusion. "Why would Carmen be discussing a movie star on a public radio station? She's not usually into entertainment issues."

"She was talking about how young girls are given the wrong standards in picking a man. Seems she's writing a new book, Men to Avoid in the New Millennium . She said women would be better off using logical standards to pick a mate, like a Bill Gates-type fellow, rather than lusting after a hunk of the month, like George Clooney."

Hunk of the month? I wonder if that's Carmen's phrase, or Grandma's? "That doesn't mean she's a man-hater."

Grandma was already lighting up another Virginia Slims. She inhaled deeply before replying in a puff of smoke: "Honey, any woman who fails to lust after George Clooney has to be a man-hater."

Angela had to laugh at that. "Even you, Grandma?"

"Especially me."

"I suspect that Carmen's point was, in this postfeminist era, women should have learned at least one thing: Looks aren't everything."

Grandma waggled her eyebrows at her. "They don't hurt."

"Furthermore, Grandma—"

"Uh-oh! I know I'm in trouble when you start a sentence with ‘furthermore.'"

"Furthermore, Grandma," she continued, shooting her grandmother an exaggerated scowl for interrupting her, "I know better than anyone that all the man-pleasing acts in the world by a loving wife aren't going to keep a bound-to-stray, overly attractive husband at home."

Grandma nodded gravely. "Perfect example: the Creep."

"Precisely."

"Ay-yi-yi!" a feminine voice shrieked. "Is that a cigarette I smell in my nice clean house?" Juanita came barreling down the hallway that led from the kitchen to the front anteroom, all five-foot-nothing of her. But then she noticed Angela, and a smile spread across her face. "Angela, I didn't know you were here already. I made your favorites for lunch…chicken frijoles and ‘spicy-dicey ricey.'" That latter was the name a much younger Angela had given to Juanita's special jalape?o-pepper-and-wild-rice dish.

"Oh, Juanita, I've missed you—and your cooking—so much." Angela, at five-foot-seven, had to bend over to hug the tiny housekeeper, who had been a second mother to her since she was a toddler. That was when her mother and father had died in a car accident, and Grandma and Grandpa had stepped in as her parents.

"How about my cooking?" Grandma asked, clearly miffed. "I thought my penne pasta with pesto marinara was your favorite."

Grandma and Juanita had been fighting a gentle battle for years in the kitchen over whether the Italian dishes of her homeland were better than the Spanish dishes that Juanita preferred. It had not been unusual to have lasagna and tacos on the dinner table at one time.

"Now, now, I love both of your cooking," Angela said.

"Hmpfh! Well, come then, Angelina. I've set the table out on the side porch. Hope that damn dog doesn't get a whiff of my frijoles, or he'll be galloping down from the hills faster'n a cat with a hot tail. Ate a whole ham I baked last week before I could catch him."

Grandma made sure she got the last word in, though. "We're going to eat in bianca for dinner tonight. All white. Chicken in garlic sauce, angel hair pasta with shrimp, cauliflower fresh from the garden, even white fudge mousse." Grandma took one last drag on her cigarette then.

That caught Juanita's attention, if Rose's insistence on an Italian menu had not. "Put out that stinkin' cigarette."

Sometimes it was hard to tell who was mistress of Blue Dragon.

Sometimes it just did not matter.

Sometimes it was so good to be home.

Pride goeth before…

Rose lit a cigarette and leaned back in her wicker chair.

She and Angela were sitting in the shade of the side porch, replete from Juanita's wonderful lunch. Rose squabbled constantly with Juanita, as two old women were wont to do, but she knew that Juanita was a good cook and a priceless friend. She also knew that Rose returned her affection in equal measure…aside from the smoking.

She and Angela were sipping from stemmed Lalique crystal wine goblets glistening with a splendid 1997 dry chardonnay, the last year they'd made their own wine at the Blue Dragon. The lunch and the visit with her beloved granddaughter both contributed to making it a perfect day in the house and on the land she loved dearly.

The only thing missing was the sound of children. It had always been a shortcoming, in Rose's opinion, but in fifty years here at the Blue Dragon all they'd had was Angela, and Angels's father, Marcus, before her. Oh, it hadn't been her fault that she'd given birth to only one child; she would have had a dozen kids, if she could have, but a hysterectomy had been necessary when she was only twenty-five. And her son, Marcus, had had only the one child, Angela, before his untimely death. And, God knew, she couldn't blame Angela for failing to have children with the Creep. Still, this was a huge house made for loud, energetic children.

Inhaling sweet smoke from her cigarette deep into her lungs, she exhaled slowly and studied her granddaughter. Such a good girl she was…though hardly a girl anymore at thirty-two. And she worked so hard. They rarely talked about it, but Rose knew how much money Angela plowed back into the Blue Dragon to keep it going. Rose never protested, though it rankled her pride mightily. In effect the Blue Dragon belonged to Angela…or it would as soon as she passed on. Before then, she hoped for a miracle; she was saying a novena every night for just that purpose. There had to be a way for Angela to be able to return to Sonoma and run the vineyards and reopen the winery.

"Why are you looking so wistful, Grandma?"

Rose laughed. "I was thinking about miracles…and great-grandchildren."

Angela laughed right back at her. "From me? It would take a miracle, and more, since there are no likely fathers on the horizon for me."

"You could do that artificial-insemination thing, couldn't you?"

"Grandma! You don't really mean that."

She shrugged. "I guess not, but I thought maybe I could shock you into action."

"We have more important things to discuss today, Grandma."

By the serious expression on her face, Rose knew she wasn't going to escape this time. "What is it now? Bounced check? Increased taxes? That sleazeball Gunther?"

"No, it's more than that. We need a big influx of money into this estate, Grandma. Bigger than I can provide from my job."

She exhaled a nicotine cloud. "How much?"

"Five hundred thousand would be nice. Two hundred thousand would pay off our bills and enable us to make some much-needed improvements. The other three are a cushion we've got to have. We can't go on month to month anymore."

Rose nodded. She understood the pressure all these money woes put on Angela. But five hundred thousand! Where would they ever get that kind of money? It was impossible. That must be what Angela was trying to tell her. "I am not going to sell the Blue Dragon, if that's what you have in mind…and certainly not to Gunther. I'd rather sell my jewelry, the antiques, everything in this house first." Actually, she'd already sold some of her most valuable possessions and replaced them with reproductions.

Angela reached across the table and patted her hand. "I know that, Grandma. I have an idea that might work, though."

Rose narrowed her eyes at Angela with suspicion. There was a shifty cast in her granddaughter's pretty black eyes…the kind that meant she was going to try to talk her into something she would not like. "What idea?"

"I sold a Bel Air mansion recently to a Hollywood producer. He's about to make a film—a romantic saga—about an old California family after World War Two. And here's the best part…."

Rose waited. That crafty cast was still in Angela's eyes.

"It takes place in a vineyard."

"So?"

"I think I could talk him into filming the movie here."

"For five hundred thousand dollars? Is he nuts?"

"No. He offered two hundred thousand—tentatively—conditional upon a personal tour and approval by his film crew. But I think I can negotiate him upward once he sees the place."

"When would this be? And for how long?"

"August…possibly into September."

"Angela! That's prime growing season…maybe even harvesttime. We can't have strangers stomping around here then."

"Maybe I could negotiate a time deadline, and put a limit on the number of people. It's the only way, Grandma."

"Oh, Angela," she sighed. "I can't believe we are reduced to this."

"It's not such an awful thing. Really. Lots of vineyards rent themselves out to movie studios…even to cooking shows on TV. In fact, we might be able to get you a bit part in the movie."

She pretended to brighten up. "Like Sophia Loren."

"Yeah. An older version of Sophia Loren."

"Ha! Sophia Loren is no young chick."

"I forgot."

"Any chance you could negotiate George Clooney into this movie? That would be the clincher for me."

Angela smiled warmly at her. She knew she had won. They were going to have a film crew here at the Blue Dragon.

"Just one thing, Angela."

"Anything."

Ha! Smart women know never to say that . "If I'm willing to give in on this point, I want you to agree to something."

"Anything."

Yep. Very unsmart of you, sweetie . "I want you to try to look a little harder for a man. You need someone to love, who will love you in return."

"And give you great-grandchildren?"

At least Angela wasn't offended. "An added bonus," she conceded.

"Okay, I'll look harder. I promise. It will be at the top of my list." She pretended to be writing herself a note on the palm of her hand. "One…good…man."

"Oh, I don't know about good. Virile would be better."

Angela had just begun to take a last sip of wine from her goblet and she started to choke. When she was able to talk, she asked with an arched eyebrow, "Virile?"

"Very virile."

Vinland, a month later…

Drowning in children…

Magnus and his nine children had been at sea for two sennights. Furthermore, he had not lain with a woman for eleven months. He wasn't sure which of those facts was driving him the barmiest.

"Are they all asleep?" he asked Torolf.

"Yea. Finally," his son answered, clearly disgusted. The younger children—all eight of them—were strung out between them on bed furs spread on the ship's cold planking. Most important, a long rope tied one ankle of each to that of the next, with Magnus and Torolf on either end. He would take no chance that one of them might sleepwalk over the side into the frigid water. Then there was Jogeir, who had developed a passion for fishing over the side of the boat and was becoming quite successful in his efforts. His lameness mattered not when casting a net or pulling in a heavy cod. Jogeir might decide to go night fishing and fall overboard. Or, in Hamr's case, he might just get it into his reckless head to go whale hunting…in the dark…with a stick.

It was the strangest thing…a lack-witted female killer whale had been shadowing his longship for days now, as if she were a long-lost friend. Click, click. Squeal, squeal. Chirp, chirp , the whale went on endlessly, which was enough to give a grown Viking an ache in the head. The whale seemed to be communicating with them in whale language, which Magnus of course did not understand, despite being fluent in the language of five countries, including Saxon English, which was very close to Old Norse. Perhaps the whale's vision was bad, and she thought his longship was a male whale.

Torolf saw the direction of his stare and said, "I am never going to have children. They are far too bothersome."

"Going to be celibate, are you, son?" he asked with a laugh.

He could barely see Torolf's face in the moonlight, but he suspected that it had turned green at the prospect. Celibacy at sixteen years of age must sound horrific. But then, celibacy at his age was not so pleasant, either.

"Nay, I am not as lack-witted as you to take such a vow."

The boy is far too impertinent by half .

"I will find a way to get the pleasure without the pain, so to speak."

Ha, ha, ha! Immature braggart! And I am going to find a beautiful young woman who loves to tup and cannot bear children. Well, actually, I am not. Now that I have taken my celibacy vow, I could not tup her, even if she dropped down in front of me…which will probably happen now, some twisted joke of that jester god, Loki. Mayhap then my vow would be invalid…because of the interference of a god. Aaarrgh! My brain is splintering apart here, and all from lack of a good tupping…or from too many children. Or whale talk .

"I have heard that the Saracens have invented a method to prevent conception."

Is the pup still on the selfsame subject? "That must be why there are so many children running about the desert harems I have seen in my travels," he replied with dry humor. Young men always thought they knew more than their elders…not that he considered himself an elder at seven and thirty. He was in his prime. Too prime, if truth be known. "Besides, I cannot see a true man donning a sheep's intestine…even to prevent the flowering of his seed in yet another woman's womb."

Torolf grimaced. "Is that what they do?"

But Magnus had more important things on his mind. "Do you think we should turn our ships back to Greenland on the morrow?"

"Would Erik the Red allow us back in his settlement?"

Torolf had a good point there. "Probably not." For some reason, Magnus and his children had not endeared themselves to Erik whilst visiting at his not-so-great hall, Brattalid . After Njal had wrestled with a baby polar bear, causing the enraged mother and father to run into the settlement and stomp on Erik's precious oat field and vegetable garden, the Viking chieftain had not been in a very good mood. That mood had grown stormier when he'd accused Torolf of flirting with his wife, Thjodhild. As if Torolf would flirt with a fifty-year-old woman! Lida had pulled off her nappy and pissed in the great-hall rushes, right in front of one and all, which made it appear as if he had no manners. Then Storvald had sculpted a figure of Erik's eldest daughter, which showed her to have an unflattering set of oversize buttocks…which she did. Dagny and Kirsten wouldn't stop weeping with homesickness. The coal that had caused the pot to boil over, though, was Magnus's innocent remark that Erik had put on a little bit of extra weight about his middle. Some Vikings were so vain!

They'd chosen the wisest course the next day—which was a sennight ago—and decided to visit the new settlement in Vinland recently discovered by Erik's son, Leif. And that was a whole other saga…how Leif was luring Norsemen to his new land under the pretext that it was some kind of paradise, when in fact it was not. Oh, 'twas true there were grapevines here and there; and much greenery, and there did appear to be more arable farmland than there had been in Iceland or the Norselands, and the climate was a bit warmer.

But there were also wild native people of red-hued skin, who ran about almost totally naked, wielding sharp axes and emitting strange war cries. He did not understand the guttural tongue they spoke, but it would be his guess that they did not want to share their grapes. That supposition was confirmed when one of Leif's Irish slaves confided to him that these native inhabitants liked to take the scalps of white men. He and Leif had gotten into a fist-throwing exercise starting when he'd merely commented that Leif might be called Leif the Lucky, not because he'd saved some men in a shipwreck one time, but because he still had a scalp. The man had no sense of humor.

All the men, and a few female maidservants from this longship, Fierce Dragon , as well as his other two longships, Fierce Wind and Fierce Hammer , were sleeping on land tonight in Leif's crude settlement. Leif had told him that he and his brood were not welcome until Magnus said he was sorry. Ha! It would be a hot day in Niflheim when he apologized to the likes of that ill-bred Norseman.

"Perhaps we should go home," Torolf suggested.

"Nay!" Magnus said without hesitation. They had come too far, and they had not given any of these new lands a chance yet. But then he wondered if he was being selfish. "Do you want to go home?"

"It is not that, Father. It is just that…well, Erik and Leif are strong-willed men, as you are. I wonder if there is room in Greenland or Vinland for two strong-willed leaders. I cannot see you taking orders from those two."

Hmmm . Torolf had a good thinking head on him. He made good points. "What would you think of our traveling a bit farther south? Would it not be a noble enterprise for us to discover our own new land?"

Torolf's voice was bright with enthusiasm when he answered. "Yea, I like that idea. And who is to say there are not many other lands beyond Vinland? No doubt there are dozens."

"We will have to put it to a vote in the morning when the men return to the ships. It is not a decision to be made on their behalf. We will give them a choice."

Even in the dim light he could see Torolf nodding. And he could see how excited Torolf was at the prospect of such an adventure. "Even if some of the men decide to stay behind with Leif, or return to Iceland, we can offer them one of the longships," Torolf pondered aloud. "Two will be enough for our purposes. Bloody hell, even one would suffice."

"Let us pray to both the Norse gods, and the Christian One-God that they bless our journey," Magnus concluded in the end.

"Let us also pray for new worlds to conquer and brave exploits to give fodder to the skalds for their sagas," his son added.

So it was that he and Torolf fell asleep finally, dreaming of brave new worlds. It was a strange slumber, though, because the skies went pitch black and a thick fog covered the horizon as far as the eye could see. In the stillness of the night, the only sounds were the lapping of the waves and the shrill squeaking of the killer whale. The giant mammal seemed to be trying to give them a message. How strange!

And, strangest of all, during the night, the anchor slipped from its mooring, and Fierce Dragon drifted off on its own mystically directed quest. Of course, Magnus was unaware of this event till morning. But he did hear the whale make a sound that he would swear was laughter.

And as he slept soundly that night, he kept dreaming of an old, white-haired woman who was fondling prayer beads as she chanted, "Holy Mother, I offer this novena that you may grant my petition. Please send a man…." The words of the supplication always drifted off, but Magnus had a fearsome suspicion.

He was the man the old woman was calling for.

Lost in a fog (more than usual)…

When Magnus awakened the next morning, he knew immediately that something was wrong. He just felt it in his aching bones like the premonition of danger most Vikings sensed afore battle.

But he was not about to be attacked.

Was he?

He stood abruptly and drew his sword. His movement jarred Lida, whose ankle was still tied to his. She began to whimper. He made a shushing sound. She goo ed at him, then fell back asleep. Only then did he gaze about, unable to see much of anything in the thick fog. He did notice that his longship was moving, and that should not be the case if it was firmly anchored.

"What is it, Father?" Torolf asked in a hushed whisper. He was standing, too, with drawn sword.

"I do not know. Dost think we have been overtaken by some sea monsters? Perchance the whale? The old legends speak of such fanciful things. The air does reek of some mystery."

Torolf made a scoffing sound of disbelief. "The old myths speak of a veil dividing this world from the underworld, but then they also speak of two-headed dragons and fire-breathing sea monsters. I have ne'er believed those stories of magic and mayhem."

"Me either," Magnus said.

But he and Torolf were clearly having second thoughts. Wasn't a fog somewhat like a veil?

Just then the sun shone through the fog, and in the parting mists he saw the most unbelievable thing. There was a mountain, and on its side was a huge sign that read, Hollywood .

"Holy Thor!" Torolf exclaimed. "We have entered the world of Holly and Wood. Dost think it is heaven or hell? Or somewhere in between?"

"I am hoping for in between," Magnus said. "That would mean we are still alive. Besides, a land plentiful in greenery and wood must be a prosperous. A land of opportunity, I am thinking."

They were unable to speak any more because the fog pressed down on them, causing an unnatural drowsiness to overcome them. He and Torolf dropped to their knees, then spread themselves flat on the bed furs, succumbing to the mystical haze that appeared to be entering their bodies.

Just before the vapors overpowered him totally, a question occurred to Magnus…one that disturbed him mightily.

Where will we be when we awaken?