The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  It seemed fitting.

  And then it struck her. Now that her mother knew about Marisa, she would certainly share this with Raphael, and he would tell Santo. Caterina’s eyes welled at the thought. She deeply regretted that she wouldn’t be the one to tell Santo about Marisa—his daughter. She blinked rapidly, trying to conceal her emotion.

  An American recording of Italian singer Mario Lanza drifted on the air, masking Caterina’s silence.

  “The explosions—the fireworks—will begin soon, I think.” Giovanna poured a glass of wine for herself. “In preparation,” she added, nodding to the wine. “Would you like a glass?”

  Caterina declined, though she’d certainly accept the offer later. “How far is the other house—my house now, I guess—from here?”

  “Not far. We’ll have to see it before the sun sets. There’s no electricity.” Giovanna sipped her wine and studied her. “No one has lived there since…” She shuddered and crossed herself.

  Caterina frowned. “What, Giovanna?” So far, this trip had raised more questions than answers.

  Giovanna’s expression saddened. “It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”

  * * *

  After lunch, Caterina rocked Marisa to sleep for her nap. Once she was asleep, Giovanna showed Caterina into the grand salon where the will was going to be formally read. “Let’s sit where we can see everyone.” Giovanna motioned to two high-backed chairs. Tapestry-covered sofas flanked a long, hand-hewn wooden table, around which stood carved wooden chairs.

  Outside, the sound of crunching gravel and car doors heralded the arrival of the attorneys from Rome. Dressed in somber black suits and starched white shirts, the two men greeted them with courtesy, their faces expressionless.

  “This way,” Giovanna said. The attorneys followed her to the salon and snapped open their briefcases on the table. As they were organizing their documents and carbon copies, more people began to arrive and file into the room.

  Caterina smiled and nodded at other attendees, but curiously, no one acknowledged her. She stole glances at each person, wondering who might be related to her. She stared at an impeccably attired older woman who had stately carriage. Is she my great-aunt? There was a younger woman with her, casually dressed, who kept looking in Caterina’s direction. A cousin? On the other side of the table, she saw a couple with two girls and two boys, perhaps eight to fourteen years old. Were they distant cousins?

  A middle-aged man dressed in work clothes greeted Giovanna with warmth. By the time everyone was settled, about twenty people filled the room. They all seemed to know each other. Caterina felt the glare of eyes on her, the stranger in the room.

  Once everyone was seated, the attorneys opened their files, and the older gentleman began to read the last will and testament of Violetta Maria Romagnoli Rosetta, resident of Montalcino and matriarch of the Rosetta family. He read the document in Italian, and while Caterina understood quite a bit, she had difficulty understanding everything that was said. Giovanna’s name was mentioned, and she seemed pleased and relieved.

  At one point, the older woman whispered to her companion and then turned an icy stare in Caterina’s direction, lifted her chin, and glared down her nose at her. What did that mean?

  The attorney read one section, and the couple with four children smiled and embraced. Another line was read, and the man who had greeted Giovanna said, “Grazie, la signora,” and smiled heavenward.

  The reading continued, and all heads swiveled toward the older woman, who remained stone-faced. The younger woman clasped her hand, but the older woman shook her off.

  “Santo Casini.”

  Caterina snapped her head up, surprised. As the attorney spoke, Caterina heard him say vigneto, which was Italian for vineyard. Santo must have received notice, too.

  “Caterina Rosetta, daughter of Luca Rosetta, granddaughter of Violetta Maria Romagnoli Rosetta.” Silence filled the air, and all heads turned in her direction. Caterina’s heart pounded.

  “La Casa di Romagnoli.” The attorney went on, but Caterina had a hard time following the legal terms in Italian.

  Just as Caterina uttered grazie, the imperious older woman stood and strode across the room. Giovanna clutched Caterina’s hand.

  The woman halted in front of her and began to rant in Italian, gesturing with both hands.

  “But I had nothing to do with this,” Caterina said, rising to defend herself and her honor.

  Giovanna sprang to her feet, speaking rapidly to the woman and trying to calm her.

  The woman turned and spat on the floor in front of Caterina and shook her hand in front of her face. “You thief! You … your papà … not welcome here. Leave!” She flicked her hands, turned on her heel, and stalked from the salon.

  The younger woman raced after her, yelling at Caterina, “That should be mine! You have no right to do this!”

  “I’ve done nothing,” Caterina said, incensed. What was she talking about?

  The room burst with chatter. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once, pointing to her and then gesturing and shaking their heads.

  This is Giovanna’s explosion. Caterina’s first thought was to flee, but then she squared her shoulders and glared at everyone. “I … will … not … leave. I am your relative, but did any of you come to introduce yourself? To welcome me? No. Only Giovanna. And I never knew my father.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now, I’m going to see the house my grandmother, mia nonna, wanted me to have.”

  She could hear people gasp, and the babbling began again.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Caterina swung around to face the attorneys. “Do you need me anymore today?” When the men shook their heads, Caterina spun back to the other attendees. “I didn’t come here to steal anything from anyone, and I will not be treated like I did. I don’t deserve such rudeness.”

  Caterina marched from the room with Giovanna close behind her. She was shaking with fury and shame. The burnish was off the pastoral existence she’d imagined for herself and Marisa. Reality had abruptly set in. Will my father’s reputation haunt us here? She slammed the door behind them.

  16

  NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

  The bank president steepled his hands behind his massive oak desk, his expression dour. “I understand your position, and I’m sorry, Ava. You know I hold you in high esteem, but the bank has a new owner. I’ll be honest; it’ll be tough to get this request through the loan committee.”

  Ava had been afraid of this, but still, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d known Douglas Lattimer for years, and he’d always personally approved her loans for seasonal working capital. She pressed her damp palms against the skirt of her celadon-green linen dress.

  “Douglas, Mille Étoiles has been a good customer. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  He removed his horn-rims and rubbed them with a cloth. “In the past week, almost every vineyard owner has been here asking for a loan, Ava. I’m afraid we can’t handle them all.” He put his glasses on and flipped through her file. “We’re also missing a number of documents in your file. We need Luca’s death certificate. Beg your pardon, but he’s still on the deed.”

  “Didn’t I give that to you already? I’m sure I did years ago.” Ava put a pleasant smile on her face, though she was trembling inside.

  “Maybe it was misplaced. But I’ll need to have that before presenting your request.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure I can find it, Douglas.”

  He closed her file. “Ava, you need that. You can get another copy from the records office.”

  Flushed with anger and embarrassment, Ava gathered her document folder, fumbled for her purse, and stood. “I must say, Douglas. I’ve never been treated with such disrespect. And from you, of all people.”

  “Look, Ava—”

  “You gave Clyde Henderson twice what I’m asking for to replace his equipment. His wine isn’t half as good as ours, and you told me yourself he’s always late on h
is payments.” Ava remembered what he’d shared with her at the last winemaker’s dinner she’d had. The secrets a good bottle of wine could uncork. Wine loosens the tongue of even the most ardent soul. “Why, Douglas?”

  His face reddened, and he lowered his voice. “Look, Ava, if you had a cosigner, maybe I could push it through.”

  “Did Clyde have a cosigner?”

  “No, but that was different.”

  “How?”

  When he didn’t answer, Ava spun around. It was a boys’ club, and she would always be considered an interloper. She saw a sea of male heads swivel as she strode through the bank. She stepped outside, squinting against the bright summer sun. The grapes would be ripe soon. They were no closer to replacing equipment. Soon they’d have to decide whether to harvest or drop the fruit. She fought a surge of panic.

  She started for her car, her heels striking the pavement with vengeance. As she turned the corner into the parking area, she bumped into a young woman, dislodging the hat she’d chosen with such care that morning.

  “Ava, are you okay?”

  Ava pushed her hat back into place. “Oh, Juliana, I’m just so angry right now.”

  “What happened?”

  Ava expressed a puff of air between her lips. “Douglas Lattimer. Why, the nerve of that man! We’ve repaid every cent we’ve ever borrowed. Imagine the money that bank has made from Mille Étoiles.” Huffing, she waved a hand in resentment. “He’s of no help now, and we must replace our equipment before harvest.”

  Juliana hesitated for a moment. “Aren’t there other banks you could try?”

  Ava lifted her chin. “There sure are.” But would other bankers also sit in judgment of her? She peered at Juliana. Like Caterina, she had also matured into a young woman seemingly overnight. Where had the years gone? She fiddled with her white cotton gloves. “Have you heard from Caterina?”

  “She called to say she’d arrived.”

  “I see.” Her heart sank; Caterina had not called her. “Is she staying at … her house?” Those words felt strange on her tongue.

  “Not yet. She said something about a private villa. I’m really not sure.”

  Ava took this in. “I have to ask. Did you know about…?” She had trouble articulating her words. Caterina’s daughter. My granddaughter. She’d always looked forward to being a grandmother, though she hadn’t imagined it would be like this.

  “Marisa?” Juliana spoke softly. “Yes, I did.”

  Checking her anger, Ava cleared her throat. “I’m glad Caterina had someone to talk to. I just wish it had been me.”

  “I know. She asked me to keep her secret, and I did.” Juliana reached out and squeezed her hand.

  Ava appreciated Juliana’s understanding, but it was little comfort to a mother’s broken heart. After she left Juliana, she slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses to conceal her despair. Her principles had deprived her of her only child. She’d never dreamed Caterina would move to Italy.

  Has she met Giovanna? Had it not been for her cousin, Ava wouldn’t have survived the shame of her marriage there. Giovanna had been married to the eldest son of Luca’s father’s brother. They were so close that Ava had once entrusted her deepest secret to Giovanna.

  After Ava left Italy, they’d drifted apart, their letters becoming more infrequent as the years passed. She and Giovanna had completely lost touch during the Second World War. She missed her dear friend but knew she’d never see her again. It was the price she’d had to pay for obscuring the truth.

  She wished Caterina had heeded her warning. Would she ever see her daughter again?

  MONTALCINO, ITALY

  After she stormed out of the salon where the will had been read, Caterina climbed the stairs to check on Marisa, who was still napping. Caterina drew her fingers across Marisa’s downy cheek. She’s an angel.

  Marisa slept on her stomach with her head turned to one side, her knees drawn up under her, and her diaper-clad bottom hunched in the air like a little frog. Securing her peach pillbox, Caterina leaned over and kissed Marisa’s forehead. She opened a window for fresh air and left the door ajar so she could hear Marisa when she woke. She tiptoed from the bedroom.

  When Caterina returned downstairs, Giovanna was waiting.

  “The relatives are gone now,” Giovanna said. “Come, I have something to show you.”

  Caterina followed her, still seething over the scene at the reading of the will. Her father’s family wanted nothing to do with her. How dare they insinuate she had somehow stolen the home Violetta had bequeathed to her? How could they have thought that of her?

  They walked through the salon, and Giovanna motioned to a grouping of old photographs in polished silver frames. Caterina sucked in a breath. “That’s me when I was little. And my mother.”

  “Violetta always cared about you.” Giovanna turned to a full-length portrait of a striking woman painted with broad, dramatic brush strokes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, which was framed with deep amethyst earrings that matched the intense color of her eyes.

  “This was your grandmother,” Giovanna said. “Violetta was a stunning beauty in her time and was painted by the most popular portraitists of her day. This one is by Giovanni Boldini, known as the master of swish. You might know his Portrait of Madame X—scandalous it was, at the time.” Giovanna waved a hand around the large room.

  The ceiling soared overhead with redbrick archways, which framed an array of tastefully arranged paintings, including exquisite landscapes and artfully draped nudes. Small spotlights had been mounted above each painting.

  Giovanna went on, “Violetta was an art collector. She even painted some, too.”

  “Really?” Caterina leaned in for a closer look at the Boldini canvas. She found her grandmother’s high cheekbones and the heart shape of her face eerily familiar. It was almost like gazing into a mirror.

  “That was Violetta,” Giovanna said, pride evident in her voice. “As a young woman in her first year of marriage.”

  “She’s breathtaking.” Caterina admired the resolute tilt of her chin and the unflinching expression in her eyes.

  “You certainly favor her. When you stepped from the car, I was shocked. It was like rolling back time. Maybe that’s why your relatives reacted so vehemently to you. She was strong-minded; she always made her own decisions. Not everyone agreed with her ideas. Even the Nazis cowered before her. She commanded respect.”

  Hearing that, Caterina felt a little better. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at her grandmother. This was Luca’s mother. The grandmother she wished she’d known. Was she really like her? “Her eyes were amazing. Mine aren’t anything like that.”

  “She was named for her eyes.” Giovanna turned to her. “You have beautiful eyes, too. Your husband is a lucky man. Is he joining you here soon?”

  A wave of shame and discomfort washed through her. The question she’d feared was before her now, suspended in space, waiting to be answered. She thought of the stories she had fabricated and the one she was prepared to tell here in Montalcino. My husband, oh yes, he was a wonderful man, but he died quite suddenly not long ago.…

  A shudder raced through her. That sounded eerily familiar now. It was similar to the tale her mother had told her about Luca. Was history repeating itself? But no, her mother hadn’t been pregnant out of wedlock. She couldn’t possibly understand.

  Giovanna had a pleasant smile of expectation on her face, waiting to hear about her undoubtedly magnificent husband. Caterina turned to face her, painfully aware of how disappointed Giovanna would be in her. But it was time to tell the truth. If Giovanna spurned her, like her mother had, it would be a shame, but she and Marisa would survive.

  “I’m not married. I have no husband.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Giovanna said with sympathy. “You are like me, yes—a widow?”

  “No, I’ve never been married.”

  Giovanna’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Dio mio.”

  Caterin
a was becoming accustomed to myriad responses from people. Anger from her mother, sympathy and support from Juliana, moral conclusions from strangers. And now shock from Giovanna. She braced herself. Would Giovanna ask them to leave? Her San Francisco landlord evicted women for such a crime.

  Giovanna was visibly startled, but she composed herself. “I admit I’m surprised. But it’s not my place to judge. You’re brave to be a mother alone.”

  “I don’t know how brave I am. I didn’t set out to campaign for a change in societal attitudes toward unwed mothers.”

  “I’m sure you’ve suffered rejection. But you have a beautiful daughter. God will forgive you, even if society and your relatives won’t.” Giovanna glanced at Violetta’s painting. “You really are like her.”

  Caterina followed her gaze. Violetta’s expressive eyes also held courage and compassion, and Caterina found it comforting.

  “You inherited the will of Violetta Rosetta. No one could tell her what to do—not even her husband. She honored him as she vowed, but she spoke her mind and did what she thought was correct.” She lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “That’s one reason everyone was afraid of her. Violetta refused to be part of their petty social games and narrow views. This is a small community with a long memory.”

  “It’s like that at home, too.” The relatives’ reaction made more sense to Caterina now.

  “You came to Montalcino to escape persecution?”

  Caterina hesitated. If she hadn’t had the good fortune of meeting Faith and Patrick O’Connell, she might have ended up in one of the oppressive maternity homes she had seen for wayward women—society’s manifestation of attitudes toward women who had done nothing more than what nature intended, though the men were seldom chastised or held accountable. “I also came to find my family.”

  A thought occurred to Caterina. Why should she be concerned about the acceptance of a faceless, collective society or now-distant family? The only acceptance that matters is self-acceptance. As for her own values, she had acknowledged her failings. Life must allow mistakes. Otherwise, how would anyone ever learn, improve, or teach others? With distance, she saw her life more clearly.