by Jan Moran
“She’s fine. Always busy.” Caterina realized Giovanna must be about the same age as her mother, but she had such a youthful, happy disposition that she seemed younger than her years. How could they have been friends? Or had her mother changed over the years? “What was my mother like then?”
Giovanna inclined her head. “She was sad when she first came here. She’d lost her mother and father. Luca and I tried to make her laugh, and we did.” Her smile faded, and she turned around.
“And what else?”
“Well, you know the rest, don’t you?”
“My mother never spoke of her life in Italy. What can you tell me?”
“She never told you?” Giovanna’s brows shot up in astonishment. She leaned on the counter and studied the wine bottle for a long moment.
“I’d like to learn more about my family here. And my father.”
Giovanna dipped her head. “I’ll save this wine for later, if you don’t mind.” She slipped the bottles into a hand-carved wine rack in one corner of the kitchen. “You’re my guest, and I’d like to share our wines with you first.”
“I’d like that very much.” Why had Giovanna dodged her question? “Brunello di Montalcino wines are legendary.”
Giovanna brought a wine bottle from the rack. “I think you’ll like this vintage,” she said, handing it to her. She inclined her head. “Americans eat earlier than Italians, don’t they?”
Caterina laughed. “That’s true,” she said. “We ate in Rome, but I’m famished again. It must be the time difference.”
Giovanna reached for an apron. “I’ll start supper.” She pulled a wooden high chair to the bar. “Here’s a seat for Marisa.”
Caterina lifted Marisa into the chair, and the little girl looked around her new surroundings with interest, babbling as she did. “Mmm, ma-ma-ma.”
“She’s such a happy baby.” Giovanna handed Caterina a pair of antique clippers. “Would you mind cutting some herbs from the garden outside? Basil, parsley, and oregano, per favore. I’ll watch Marisa.”
Caterina stepped outside onto the stone terrace. A broad swath of hills waved beneath their hilltop perch, while mountains rose like whitecaps in the distance. Vineyards dotted the patchworked agricultural landscape below. Caterina peered over the terrace edge. A sprinkling of red and yellow wildflowers dotted the hillside. A smile spread on her face. She felt so free here. The shackles of her old life were loosening their grip.
She spied the raised herb garden and strolled toward it. Herbs grew in abundance under the hot Tuscan sun. She rubbed the bright-green basil leaves, releasing a brisk scent before snipping a couple of leafy stalks. The oregano leaves were small and powerful, and she cut several long strands, as well as ruffled parsley that danced in the mountain breeze. Had her parents clipped herbs from these gardens, too?
Caterina returned to the kitchen with bunches of aromatic herbs in her arms, inhaling the sweet, zesty freshness. The scent of sautéed garlic was rising in the air from a stovetop under a bricked archway. Giovanna was slicing vegetables for a salad and had several pots on the burners. It reminded her of Nina’s kitchen, and she felt a pang of homesickness.
“We have salad, bread, capellini with Roma tomatoes, and veal Marsala.” Giovanna placed a small plate of thinly sliced tomatoes and soft mozzarella cheese drizzled with olive oil and dusted with herbs before Marisa, who exclaimed gleefully.
Caterina laughed. “I think she likes Italian food.” She sliced Marisa’s food into small pieces and watched her eyes widen as she tasted the new treats.
“Let’s open our wine now.” Giovanna pulled the cork from the bottle with ease and poured a small amount into a glass for Caterina to taste, followed by a splash in her own glass. “It should air, of course, but you can taste it now.”
Caterina swirled and inhaled. “Magnifico. I detect black cherry and black raspberry.” She sniffed again. “Smells earthy, of leather and dark cocoa beans.” This was a special wine, rare in the world of winemaking.
“It’s our Brunello di Montalcino.” Giovanna’s voice rang with pride. “It has a touch of violet, too. Can you detect it?”
“I know it well. We served it at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco—when we could get it. I used to be the sommelier there.” She paused with her glass in midair.
Caterina breathed in, savoring the wine’s aroma. “This is made solely from sangiovese grosso grapes grown within the commune, isn’t it? Every bottle is aged at least five to six years, if I’m not mistaken.” She took a sip. What an amazing wine it was. She let the wine roll back on her tongue before swallowing. “Beautiful. The tannins are rich and smooth as suede.”
“You’re right. And we often age it as long as ten years—or more.” Giovanna’s smile broadened at Caterina’s familiarity with their winemaking process. “The brunello, or sangiovese grosso grapes, are perfect for extended periods of aging. We don’t blend our grapes with any other varieties.”
Caterina listened intently. “How is the terroir and climate here for wine?”
“It’s unique. It’s fairly dry here, compared to the rest of Toscana. The northern slopes are cooler than the southern slopes, and the western slopes receive the most sun and sea winds. We have vineyards on all sides of the mountain so that we can blend the best wine using only our sangiovese grosso.” Giovanna poured the dark, fleshy red wine into their wine goblets.
“Excellent idea. I understand your soil, like ours in Napa, has volcanic material.”
“It does. Clay and limestone, too, which adds complexity.”
“I can’t wait to learn more.” Caterina raised her glass to Giovanna. “Salute.”
“Salute.” A genuine smile crinkled Giovanna’s kind face. She clinked her glass with Caterina’s. “It’s so nice to meet someone who is knowledgeable and passionate about wine.”
“Especially an American, no?” Caterina winked.
“And a woman, too.” Giovanna laughed. “Especially after—what did you call it? Prohibit—”
“Prohibition.” Caterina laughed along with Giovanna, and Marisa waved her arms and joined in the laughter, too.
“There aren’t many of us who produce Brunello. You can count the wineries on two hands. Foreign clients are discovering this incredible wine, so every year, our sales grow a little. This is good, especially after the devastation of the war.” She shook her head. “After Mussolini was arrested, so many died in Toscana at the hands of the Nazis. San Pancrazio, Civitella, Cornia.” She frowned and averted her eyes. “So many from our families.”
Caterina expressed her condolences, and Giovanna nodded her appreciation. “While we will never forget, we must move on and rebuild.” She stirred a sauce on the stove. “We’ll eat on the terrace; it’s a lovely evening. Go on. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Caterina picked up Marisa and moved her high chair outside to the table. The sun had set, and stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky, reminding her of their panoramic view in Napa.
“Here we are.” Giovanna placed a dish on the table. The two boys who had helped with the luggage followed her, carrying more food. “Grazie,” she said to them, adding a few words in Italian.
“Are they your sons?” Caterina asked.
“In a way. Their parents died in the war, so la signora took them in. They help here when they’re not in school. They’re good boys.”
“Do you mind if I ask, are you married?” Caterina asked.
“I’m widowed. My first husband died of a rare heart condition not long after Ava and Luca left. My second husband died in the war before we could have children. There are many other women like me here. What can we do?” She shrugged and smiled after the boys. “Sometimes your true family is the one you create, not the one you’re actually related to.”
Giovanna’s words reminded her of the ones she’d left behind at Mille Étoiles.
They sat down, and Giovanna explained how she made each dish. Caterina thought she’d never had such a delicious
Italian meal before, and she complimented Giovanna.
“I love to cook,” Giovanna replied. “And eat, of course,” she added, patting her stomach. “That’s what we do here—eat and drink and live a simple life.” She sipped her wine. “So, how long do you plan to stay with us?”
“I plan to make it my home.”
“Really?” Giovanna looked thoughtful.
“I can’t wait to meet some of my father’s relatives. Maybe you can tell me more about them.”
“I’ll try.” Giovanna hesitated with her glass in midair. “I should warn you, though.” She put her glass down and grew somber. “There might be … how do you say—” She paused and thrust her hands into the air. “Explosions tomorrow at the reading of the will.”
“Explosions?” Caterina repeated, momentarily mystified. “Oh, do you mean fireworks?”
Giovanna laughed at her error. “That’s right. We have explosive tempers. Some in your family have very clear ideas about what they think they should receive. And you’re not from here.”
“So we’re outsiders,” Caterina said, grasping the situation. She tore a piece of bread for Marisa, who eagerly gnawed the crust as she had the biscotto.
“Some people might be jealous. La signora had her own mind. She did what she wanted. And she wanted to provide for her granddaughter, even though she’d never met you. Ava sent her photographs of you when you were young. I’ll show you Violetta’s photograph album later. You might like to have some pictures.”
“Yes, I would, thank you.” Caterina was learning all sorts of new details about her family here. Why had her mother thought this would be so horrible?
Giovanna wound the capellini with a spoon and fork and ate, chewing thoughtfully. “You’ll meet the attorneys tomorrow. They are driving here from Roma for the afternoon.”
“I admit I’m a little nervous.” Caterina sipped her wine. “What do you recall of my father?”
Giovanna hesitated and then smiled. “You know, you’re nothing like your father.”
Caterina was perplexed by her reply. “Did you know him?”
Giovanna nodded and looked ill at ease.
Caterina thought of the sweet memories of her father that her mother had shared. “I never knew my father. My mother told me he was handsome and charming, and he had the gift of persuasion. Can you tell me more about him?”
Giovanna shifted in her chair and seemed at a loss for words.
“My mother told me he was a good man, the best husband she could have asked for, and a wonderful father. I wish I’d known him longer before he died.”
Giovanna began to choke on a mouthful. Her face darkened, and she took a large swallow of wine.
Caterina jumped up to help her, but Giovanna caught her breath. “No, I’m fine. I’m just … surprised.”
“About what?”
Giovanna looked shocked; her face had paled, and her eyes darted from Caterina to the table and back again. “Oh, dear child, your father is—”
“Is what, Giovanna?” What on earth had so affected her?
“Alive. Oh my dear, your father is not dead at all.”
Caterina could hardly believe what she’d heard. Every nerve in her body snapped to attention. “Are you sure?”
“Assolutamente.”
“How can that be? I’ve mourned his death all my life, and now you tell me he’s still alive?” Her blood surged through her veins. What had her mother done?
Giovanna touched her hand. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. Ava did this to protect you when you were young. I warned her. But I thought she would have told you by now.”
Her head swimming with fury, Caterina clenched her fists. “How could she have lied to me all these years? He was—is—my father. My wonderful father. I had a right to know.” She paced in back of Marisa’s chair, whose wide eyes followed her every move.
Frowning, Giovanna looked distressed. “Please sit down, Caterina. There’s more you should know.”
Caterina sank onto her chair. How could her mother have done such a thing? “She said my father had died in an automobile accident. I’ve got to see him. Where is he? Is he here in Italy?”
Giovanna took a sip of wine. “Perhaps your mother embellished the story for your benefit.” She ran her hand over Caterina’s. “Your father is a … difficult man. He has an evil side to him. This is why your mother protected you.”
Caterina stared at Giovanna. Is this what her mother had warned her about? But why? He was her father. Surely he’d never hurt her.
Anger filled Caterina, numbing her reason. She was furious with her mother, even more now than before. Who was Ava Rosetta?
Giovanna rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around Caterina. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s not your fault. How could you have known?” And how could Ava have kept this from her?
Marisa watched from her high chair, her lips quivering as she watched her mother. When she started to whimper, Caterina turned to cuddle her, assuring her that she loved her.
“You’re such a good mother,” Giovanna said.
“I’m trying, but she’s tired,” Caterina said. “And so am I.” Thoughts of Juliana and Faith and Nina rushed to mind, and she choked up. She missed the people who had comforted her in the past. Now she was alone, except for Giovanna, whom she’d only known a few hours. Should she trust her story?
Giovanna rose from the table. “You should rest. Tomorrow will be an explosive day.”
14
AUGUST 1956 — NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
Ava woke to the sound of rattling windowpanes and paintings. Her heart beating wildly, she clung to the bed as the ground convulsed and several sharp jolts shook the house.
It wasn’t long before Raphael burst through her bedroom door. “Are you okay?” He was panting from his sprint across the property.
“I am, but these morning wake-up calls have got to stop.” Ava worked her feet into the slippers she now kept by her bed. She heard Nina call to her from the living room and assured her she was okay. “Let’s get dressed and check on everything.”
Nina poured juice for them while Raphael shut off the gas. After the last incident, she had secured the breakable items in the house. Raphael had started working with his crew on the cave and winery.
They’d all lived in California long enough to know that aftershocks could be as large as the original earthquake. And this one certainly had been.
Dressed in jeans and boots and cotton work shirts, Ava and Raphael started toward the winery. Dust was blowing on the morning wind. The smell of dry, raw earth assaulted her nose.
“Mon Dieu!” Ava cried, and she began running.
Boulders from the mountain were strewn across the property like tumbled dice, their new equipment smashed in the path of destruction. As Ava gazed around, her lips trembled, and she drew her brows together in defeat. Everything was ravaged, strewn with rocks and reddish-brown dirt and twisted beyond repair. Ava was so shocked that words escaped her. She glanced helplessly at Raphael.
Raphael caught up to her and held her in his arms. “It’s only property, Ava; it can be replaced.” As he spoke, he stroked her back.
“No, no, Raphael. God has turned against me.” Ava buried her face in his chest.
“Ava, this is an act of nature, that’s all.”
Was it? Ava felt as if her heart were splitting. Everything she held dear was slipping from her grasp. Caterina, her vineyard. She sobbed into Raphael’s shirt.
He turned her face up to his and ran his lips across her brow. “We’ll manage. We always have.” Gently, Raphael took her hand and led her through the rubble.
Ava picked her way through the rocks and ruin, coughing from the dust that had been kicked up. “Look at this place.” Her entire life was in shambles, in every imaginable way.
“It looks bad, but maybe we can salvage something.” Raphael squeezed her hand. “We’ve pulled through tough times before, Ava.”
Ava looked up, inspecting the processing room outside the cave. To her dismay, boulders had punched through the roof, and the strong timbers had collapsed. Underneath it all, their equipment had been destroyed. The grape hopper, the crusher—now mangled beyond repair.
“It’s going to cost a fortune to replace all this.” Ava’s shoulders slumped as they surveyed the extent of destruction. “We’ll have to harvest soon. What are we going to do?”
Raphael placed his hands on Ava’s arms and drew her to him, determination lining his face. “We’ll find a way, and we’ll rebuild better than before. You’re going to blend a superb wine this year. The best restaurants and hotels in the country will be clamoring for it. Mark my words, Ava.”
Ava brushed her eyes. “Not this time,” she murmured through her anguish. “I can’t do this again. I simply don’t have the strength anymore.” Not without Caterina.
“You’re the strongest woman I know.” Raphael cupped her face in his hands. “And I’m here for you.”
Feeling overwhelmed and defeated, Ava jerked away from Raphael and sank to her knees. She bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. “No, it’s too much this time.”
Raphael didn’t know her financial situation. She had invested all the money she had and everything she could borrow into the new equipment. This was the first year of the grape harvest from the new fields she’d acquired, which were planted from grafts from her original French rootstock. She’d even sold their old equipment in order to purchase the new equipment. She had nothing left.
Raphael knelt beside her. “We can do it, Ava. I’ve seen you snatch the vineyard and winery from the brink of disaster more than once. Don’t you remember the Depression?”
Ava choked upon hearing his words. Some years had been leaner than others, but never had their situation been so dire. Raphael smoothed his hands over her neck and shoulder, kneading the tension from her taut muscles. But it was too late.