The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  Caterina held her breath and waited, willing Susana to elaborate.

  Susana raised her chin to the waiter and ordered a carafe of wine. “Please don’t tell your mother we told you.”

  “I promise I won’t.” As Caterina sipped a mineral water, Susana began her story.

  “Luca, Natalie, Franco—we all grew up together. Natalie Sorabella was the prettiest girl in our class; all the boys liked her. Her eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue you’ve ever seen, as deep and rich as the Mediterranean Sea. She wasn’t like some pretty, but vain, girls. She was a real friend, kind and loyal and sweet.”

  Imelda placed her hand on Susana’s and interjected, “But Natalie’s father was poor; she had no dowry for a good marriage. Luca adored her, but Violetta sent him away; that’s when he met your mother in France. By the time he returned, Natalie had already married. Luca was devastated and proposed to your mother shortly thereafter. We remember when Ava arrived. What a sweet, sad girl she was. Her mother and father had died, so it was a good marriage for Luca because she had a fine dowry from her parents’ estate.”

  Caterina listened intently. A window to a new world was opening before her. “Then what happened?”

  “Luca was still drawn to Natalie like a bee to a flower. Poor Ava. She suffered a miscarriage, and some said it was because of Luca.”

  Caterina could tell they were holding back. “And Franco?”

  The sisters exchanged another doubtful look. “The ugliness began when Natalie became pregnant,” Susana said. “Luca became even more obsessed with her. He doted on her so much that many suspected he was the true father. Then, when our dear Natalie died in childbirth, Luca went crazy. He blamed her husband. He claimed Franco let her die to spite him.”

  “And did he?”

  “No. Franco loved his wife. But the baby was much larger than anyone imagined, and Natalie was weak from a prolonged labor.”

  Caterina thought about the references in her mother’s letter to Giovanna. The puzzle was taking shape in a terrible manner.

  “Luca had his father’s pistol.” Imelda sighed. “He was convicted of murdering Franco and was sent to prison. I’m so sorry to have to tell you.”

  “I needed to know.” Caterina sat back, trying to temper her shock. “But he and my mother went to America.”

  “Luca’s mother, Violetta, petitioned the judge, and it was decided that the offense was committed during extreme grief, so Luca was released. Your parents left for America right away. I think they had to.”

  Ava’s letter made more sense to Caterina now. They continued talking through the rest of lunch, but Caterina’s heart ached for the misery Ava and Violetta must have endured. This explained why Ava had concealed the truth. How does a mother tell a child that her father is a murderer?

  After lunch, Imelda and Susana left Caterina at her hotel to change clothes for the afternoon event. Caterina took a short bath and brushed her hair.

  She opened her package and put on her new lingerie, a black bustier and silky hose. As she slithered into the lacy silk ensemble, she felt very feminine, very French. She slipped her feet into her favorite heels, which elongated her legs. She stood tall as she assessed her new look.

  Feeling daring, she sat at the vanity and applied vibrant red lipstick. She’d bought a new Max Factor color in San Francisco called Red Contrast, which was supposed to illuminate the lips and provide high contrast in the face. She pressed her lips together and glanced at herself in the antique mirror. A sensual smile curved back at her. She felt emboldened.

  Her heels clicking across the wooden floor, Caterina strode to the bathroom and brushed the last wrinkles from the chic ebony suit she’d purchased from I. Magnin’s, her favorite department store, located on Union Square near the St. Francis Hotel. The local residents had dubbed it the “White Marble Palace,” and Caterina felt special just walking in. The slim-fitting, nipped-waist dress and three-quarter-sleeve jacket had been designed by Christian Dior and imported from France. It was perfect for today.

  She was relieved she could fit into the snug waistline again. For summer, she wore it with matinee-length pearls, six-button white gloves, and her favorite black hat, which was trimmed with a white ribbon and flashed a leopard print facing under the brim. Growing up at the vineyard in Napa Valley, she had dressed more casually, but she’d always loved beautiful clothes. She’d inherited that from Ava, who always looked stylish, even in her pressed cotton shirts and dungarees at the vineyard.

  As Caterina finished dressing, she reflected on Ava’s struggles, contemplating the courage she must have had to survive. Knowing this, she was even more determined to make a success of their entry in the wine competition.

  Her gaze lingered on her mother’s yellowed letters she’d left on the dresser. Until now, Caterina had never given much thought as to how her mother had coped or how she had felt. The letters she’d read sounded like they were from a friend rather than the stern mother she’d known. Still, there were so many unanswered questions.

  As Caterina secured her hat with a hatpin and pulled on her gloves, she couldn’t help but wonder what had ultimately transpired between Ava and Luca. Why had Luca left? Or did Ava banish him?

  Pieces of the puzzle were still missing.

  21

  JUNE 1929 — NEW YORK CITY

  Seated at the Queen Anne writing desk at the Plaza Hotel, Ava gazed at the telegraph that had just arrived. Her grandfather’s friend from France, who now lived in Napa, California, had wired the banking information she’d asked him for.

  Did she dare put her plan in motion? Luca couldn’t be bothered about the future; he was living the high life with his new friends here in New York. Their cash reserves were dwindling with his lavish lifestyle.

  The truth was that she simply couldn’t bear living in a hotel a moment longer with a madman she feared. But was she up to traveling across a vast, unknown country alone? And taking the chance that Luca might not join her later?

  Part of her hoped he wouldn’t follow her. But she knew he would. He’d follow her money. Violetta had informed him she’d spent his inheritance to gain his freedom. He would have to work or start a business.

  Ava raised her head and stared at herself in the gilt-edged mirror. Though her face was smooth, she felt old, much older than her years.

  Ava secured her waves with a platinum clip and trailed a subtle lilac perfume on her wrists and behind her ears. As she did, she thought of Violetta and all that she had left behind in Montalcino. She would make Violetta proud, she resolved.

  She rose and chose one of her best dresses from the cherrywood armoire, smoothing the lavender silk Jean Patou design over her satin slip. She’d lost so much weight on the voyage after her miscarriage that the dress hung loosely on her. She arranged a matching felt cloche hat over her neatly coiled hair and then clasped her T-strap shoes. She called the bell desk for a taxi.

  Before she could leave, Luca burst through the door. “Where you goin’?” His speech was slurred, and it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. He flopped on his back onto the bed, his broad chest heaving from the mere exertion of walking to their suite. His long legs dangled onto the Persian carpet.

  “Shopping.” Ava slipped the telegram into her purse.

  Luca stretched a hand toward her. “Come to papa, baby.”

  He stank of alcohol. Ava suppressed a shudder. “I will not. You’re drunk again.”

  “I’m celebrating.”

  Ava pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and picked up her purse.

  “Don’t you want to know what?” He paused to belch. “It’s Tuesday,” he said, pulling his shirt free and unzipping his pants. “Let’s celebrate together.”

  Ava had once been seduced by his charming manner and dimpled cheeks, but she had finally had enough. “Don’t let me stop you,” she said in a cold voice. “Aren’t your friends waiting for you somewhere?”

  Luca scowled at her and zipped his pants. “Is that th
e way you want it now?”

  “I want you to stop playing with your friends and plan a future for us. For the family we both want. You destroyed our life in Italy; don’t do it here, too.” Ava turned away before he could reach her, and she slammed the door to their suite behind her.

  When she arrived at her destination, Ava gazed up at the grand edifice. She paid the driver, gathered her purse, and marched into the New York City bank that held her inheritance. Her heart was pounding so she was certain it could be seen and heard in that hushed haven of money. She sniffed. The bank even smelled like money.

  She approached a man in a dark suit. “How might I help you, young lady?” He smoothed his thinning hair.

  Ava sat down, crossed her legs demurely at the ankle, and introduced herself. “I’d like to transfer money to my bank in San Francisco.” She was thankful her parents had insisted she study English in school.

  “Is your father”—his gaze dropped to the diamond ring on her left hand—“or husband here with you today?”

  “My husband? Why, no. Should he be?” Ava gave him a sweet smile.

  “One moment, please.” The man looked up her account and frowned. “His name is noted on the account. Why don’t you bring him with you tomorrow? We’ll be happy to help you then.” The man started to rise.

  “But the account is in my name only.” Violetta had insisted on that. Why should that matter? It was her money.

  “Maybe they do things differently in France, but you’re in America now.” The banker gave her a condescending smile. “He really should be with you. That’s a mighty large sum of money for one as young as you.”

  Did he think her incapable of making decisions? Ava glanced at his nameplate on the desk, thinking fast. She had to make the transfer. “Monsieur Richard Halifax,” she began, giving his name her fullest French pronunciation. She blinked, widening her eyes. “That’s impossible.”

  Preening under attention, Mr. Halifax lowered himself into his chair again. “Why is that, madam?”

  “You see, my husband is waiting for me in San Francisco, and I am on my way to meet him.” She remembered her dear mother, how she playfully flirted with her father, even after years of marriage. “Sometimes you must use your womanly wiles,” her mother had told her, laughing. Though it might be demeaning in this case, she was desperate. Demands would get her nowhere. Ava sniffed and fluttered her lashes.

  Mr. Halifax looked uncomfortable. He took a pressed handkerchief and handed it to her. “Please don’t fret; I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “That’s so kind of you.” She pressed the fine cloth to the corner of her eye. “Here’s the telephone number you can call to verify the account. And make the transfer.” She slid the telegram across the desk. She thought of Violetta and her iron will. She would not leave until the transfer was made. And she would call Violetta if she had to.

  The banker made the call, and while he spoke, Ava continued to dab her eyes with his handkerchief for effect. How dare he insist I return with Luca! She was incensed.

  Mr. Halifax hung up the telephone. “Your banker in San Francisco confirmed your account.” He drummed his fingers on the desk.

  Ava leaned forward. “Monsieur Halifax, I am eternally indebted to you. Merci.” Another smile, another flutter of the lashes.

  A moment later, he nodded his assent, acquiescing to her will. “Well, seeing as how you’re in a bind, and your husband is expecting you, I’ll make an exception.”

  An exception to transfer money from her own account? She signed the documents he slid before her, and when the transfer paperwork was complete, she clenched her jaw and thanked him.

  As Ava walked out, she heard him mutter something about independent-minded Frenchwomen corrupting the gentlewomen of America and its way of life. She smiled in triumph and hurried from the building.

  My sins are certainly multiplying in America. She walked straight to a nearby church and confessed her sin of lying. Yet she felt entirely justified. What else could she have done? She couldn’t live the life of a quiet, compliant wife with a man such as Luca. Before Ava had left Italy, Violetta had counseled her to be decisive and strong in America.

  The next day while Luca was out, Ava packed her clothes and boarded a train for San Francisco. She left a letter for him, knowing it was cowardly, but she feared his violent reaction and reprisal.

  Luca’s actions were completely foreign to her. Her mother had never been subjected to such cruelty or brutality from her kind father. This was not the sort of marriage she wanted. But she and Luca had been married in the Catholic Church. In her religion, marriage was for life.

  The train pulled from the station, and Ava felt as if she were breaking free from the past. A frisson of excitement bubbled to the surface of her mind. She was on her way in a new country. The 1900s had been the beginning of a new modern century. Women in America even had the right to vote in national elections. France and Italy could not be far behind, she imagined. Maybe Violetta was right to send us here.

  Despite Prohibition, she’d heard vintners were having good harvests in California. Nevertheless, her vision expanded with every mile that rambled behind her.

  As she sat on the train watching the sprawling landscape blur past her window, she prayed Luca would find sobriety and make his way to her. She’d left him a little money, but he would have to make a decision soon. And if he didn’t, she was prepared to forge her own path. This was America, the land of opportunity.

  * * *

  As the steel locomotive powered across the vast country, Ava’s burdens fell by the wayside. This was the first time she had felt truly independent.

  She bobbed her hair into a short, sassy style as the train climbed the Rocky Mountains, loosened her corset as they crossed the California state line, and decided she’d buy a new wardrobe with skirts that climbed high to her knees when she saw the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean. By the time the train eased into the San Francisco station, Ava stepped onto the platform a new woman.

  The buzz on the platform left her light-headed with excitement. She giggled at the slang words she heard people toss like confetti in the air—the bee’s knees, the cat’s meow, and the heebie-jeebies. She hailed a porter and took a taxi to a grand hotel on Union Square a fellow passenger had recommended.

  “The St. Francis, please.” Ava settled back. The glittering city by the bay sprang around her, and she loved it.

  The next day, she visited her bank and confirmed her funds, checked on her beloved grapevines in her trunk, and then went shopping for appropriate clothes for city and country living. Finally, she contacted her grandfather’s friend Charles Valois and arranged to meet him in Napa.

  The older man picked her up in Napa at the train station. He wore the casual tweed clothes of a gentleman farmer. He was French, and he still had his standards.

  Ava greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, and they spoke in their native language. He drove her to his home, which was situated on a higher elevation. His wife, Ines, had prepared lunch for them on the terrace overlooking the valley. Charles opened two bottles of their best wines for her to taste.

  “I’m impressed,” Ava said when she tasted the wine. She arched a newly thinned eyebrow in surprise. The robust red was nearly as good as what she’d tasted in Bordeaux and Montalcino.

  “It’s the climatic conditions,” Charles explained. “The weather, the soil, the rainfall, and the heat—everything here conspires to make wines that rival the best wines in Europe.”

  “I’d like to continue our family tradition,” Ava said, sipping the wine. She added that Luca would be joining her soon.

  “The only drawback right now is the Volstead Act, which bans the sale of alcoholic beverages, including wine. President Wilson vetoed the bill, but Congress overrode his veto.”

  “You’re still growing grapes and making wine. How do you manage?” she asked.

  “We provide sacramental wine for priests and rabbis,” Charles said. “We als
o sell grapes for home winemaking use, which is allowed in limited quantities. In addition, we can produce and store wine in our cellars for personal consumption. Prohibition won’t last forever. Those who know say it mightn’t last more than a few more years.”

  Ava listened carefully, savoring the magnificent wine. How silly that only the devout and infirm can enjoy wine. She had the money to wait it out, and if she gained contracts for sacramental or medicinal wine, she could last longer. “Do you know of any vineyards or land I might purchase?”

  Charles and Ines traded a look. “As a matter of fact, I do. There’s an old vineyard on Howell Mountain. Would you like to see it?”

  After lunch, the three of them piled into a farm truck, and Charles wound up a narrow mountain lane. “This vineyard dates to the last century. The entry is through these tall cypress trees.”

  Charles parked the truck, and the three of them got out to walk the property. Charles showed her the original vineyard with its gnarled grapevines and abundance of sun.

  “It’s perfect.” The back of Ava’s neck tingled with excitement.

  “I can show you a couple of more places, but in my opinion, this one is the best,” Charles said. They’d been there so long that the sun was setting. Charles lifted lanterns from the truck, lit them, and handed one to Ava. “The sunset from the far vantage point is splendid. Monet would covet such a view—it’s nature’s masterpiece.”

  He was right. The setting sun burnished the sky with incredible brilliance. Blazing hues splashed the sky with glorious kaleidoscope colors of turquoise, orange, gold, and pink. Ava stood at the upper edge of the property and gazed across the land. It was one of the most beautiful natural pieces of property for a vineyard that she’d ever seen. And to think that it was here, in America. It seemed as if God had answered her prayers. Violetta had indeed done her a favor, after all.

  She arched her neck back and lifted her eyes to the heavens. Above her, a thousand stars dotted the sky, brightening as night encroached. Ava caught her breath, mesmerized by the diamond-pricked blanket flung high above.