by Jan Moran
“Besides skewer you in the international press?” The Morels were talking to a man who was taking notes. They looked in their direction and laughed.
“We should stay and mingle with the reporters.” Caterina fidgeted with the handles on a small black purse she’d bought in Rome. “This is a good opportunity to put Mille Étoiles on the international map.”
He winked at her. “Especially if we have to salvage your reputation and that of California winemakers.”
“I’m ready to do whatever it takes.” Santo was right, and she knew it. She thought of her mother and Raphael and Nina and all the other workers who depended on Mille Étoiles for their livelihood. She brushed her hair over her shoulder. A win might also accelerate her reputation as a winemaker in Europe.
No matter what the judges’ decision was with regard to their wine, she would do what she could while she was here.
A dozen stern-faced judges were seated in the front of the room at a long banquet table draped with fine peach-tinted linens. A podium anchored the center. A few judges were checking their lists and making final notes, while others who had completed their voting chatted among themselves. Rows of chairs were arranged for the announcement of the winners.
Around the room, newspaper and magazine writers were speaking to other winemakers, and photographers were snapping photographs of prestigious winemakers and their wines.
As they walked through the crowded room, Caterina caught a glimpse in the mirror, pleasantly surprised by the stylish image she and Santo conveyed. She thought of how they’d grown up together in dungarees.
Santo’s handsome face was tanned from the summer sun, his dark hair glinted with copper highlights. She touched her leopard print–brimmed hat and stood straighter in her chic ebony suit. At least they looked the part of successful winemakers.
Feeling confident, Caterina approached a group of reporters. “Bonjour.” She introduced herself and Santo. “We’re from Mille Étoiles, a winery in Napa, California. We’ve entered our red cabernet wine.”
The reporters traded uncomfortable looks, and the group quickly dispersed, with only one Italian reporter murmuring her apology. “I’d promised to speak to another winemaker, please understand.”
Caterina turned to Santo. “So much for that idea.”
Santo looked worried. “You’ve made quite an impression.”
“Yeah, like a bad case of measles.”
He put his arm around her and drew her close to his side. “That’s why I came.”
“For the measles?”
“No, silly, to support you.” He glanced at the crowd. “This is a vicious group.”
“Or just set in their ways.” She sighed. “Let’s find chairs and sit down. No one will talk to us, anyway.”
“So what? We’ll let our wine speak for us.”
They shared a smile, like a secret between them.
Monsieur Morel sat in the front, gloating, while his wife perched her thin frame next to him and toyed with her cigarette holder, smirking at them.
Caterina ignored them. “Let’s go to the back.” While they made their way to the back of the room, she thought about Santo and how hard he’d studied and worked.
He’d built quite a lucrative consulting practice in the intervening years. He’d once shared with her his dream of building a world-class winery. He deserves this, too.
Santo had paid his dues. Just as Caterina had, he’d also grown up learning all the fine points of viticulture from Raphael, a fourth-generation viticulturist, and winemaking from Ava, a fifth-generation winemaker. He’d combined this experience with his university education in viticulture, his sense for business, and his natural creativity.
Santo had earned the right to receive credit for his accomplishments, too. Caterina sustained the unwelcome comments and glares; she understood the reticence of her fellow male winemakers to allow a woman entry into their rarified circle. But Santo had so much to offer.
“How’s this?” Santo gestured to a pair of chairs. “A straight exit to the door in case the natives turn hostile.”
“Good idea.” Caterina eased into a chair and crossed her legs. Her leg touched his, and a jolt of electricity shot through her. Averting her eyes, she adjusted her leg away from him. From the corner of her eye, she could’ve sworn she saw a look of amusement cross his face.
Victor Devereaux approached the podium and called for attention. The votes had been tallied.
The winemakers took their seats while reporters and photographers scurried into position. Working backward, Victor began to call out the names of the winners in the white wine categories. Congratulatory comments and polite applause followed the announcement of each finalist as they waited for the grand winner in each category. They listened to the parade of riesling, pinot gris, sauvignon blanc, gewürztraminer, chenin blanc, and chardonnay, among others, along with blended varieties from important regions in France, as well as other countries.
Next came the red wines, with entries of pinot noir, sangiovese, tempranillo, grenache, zinfandel, merlot, syrah, cabernet sauvignon, and other blended wines. The great wines of Burgundy and Bordeaux, the Pomerol and Margaux and Saint-Émilion, wines from Italy and Argentina—all were represented in this prestigious contest. Santo and Caterina clapped loudly when a Brunello di Montalcino from the property Giovanna oversaw won its category.
Santo took Caterina’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Desperately wanting to win, yet knowing it was nearly futile, Caterina held her breath before each finalist was announced. Their wine was passed over each time, while the Morels accepted an award for their wine.
“We can leave after this,” Santo said, leaning toward her.
Caterina knew he saw the torment in her eyes.
When Victor came to the final contestant in their category, he paused and peered closer at the paper he held. Covering the microphone, he consulted with Odette, his assistant. She nodded emphatically to him. He returned to the microphone and cleared his voice. The Morels smiled haughtily and prepared to rise to accept the honor.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise winner.” He gazed around the room and cleared his throat. “Mille Étoiles, of Napa, California, is our grand winner in this category, for a wine blended by Caterina Rosetta and Santo Casini.”
Caterina sat stunned, hardly daring to believe what she had just heard. Santo let out a yelp and hugged her. Instead of the congratulatory comments and applause, the room was hushed. Everyone seemed astonished at the vote. Monsieur Morel huffed, and a wave of dissonance surged through the room. Victor Devereux, obviously sensing the growing discord, quickly moved on to the final awards, the grand prize winners for the competition.
The overall winner for white wine was announced, and the room erupted with congratulations and camera flashes. The beaming winemakers poised for photographs.
“And now,” Victor said, “the grand prize winner for red wine.” He cleared his throat and looked directly at Caterina. “Mille Étoiles.”
“We’ve won!” Caterina cried, feeling as if she would explode with happiness.
“We did it!” Santo jumped to his feet. “Our baby won!” He hugged her and whirled her around, laughing with joy.
“I always knew it was special.” Caterina laughed with him until tears sparkled on her lashes. She hardly noticed the controversy erupting in the room.
One of the judges demanded, “Who chose that?”
Odette showed the judge his ballot, and then several others insisted upon reviewing theirs, too.
“This is preposterous,” Monsieur Morel said. “There must be a mistake. Their American wine will never measure up to our standards.”
“Yes, a mistake must have been made,” Madame Morel added, flicking an ash. “They are inferior.”
Another judge said, “That’s impossible. I must change my vote.”
“Something is wrong,” the person in front of them said. “They should be disqualified.”
As the tide of se
ntiment surged against them, Caterina threw a desperate look at Santo. Would they lose what they had worked so hard to achieve?
24
Watching the outburst among the wine judges, Caterina hardly dared move.
Victor Devereaux was exasperated. He pounded on the podium, demanding attention. “All decisions are final,” he said, raising his voice. “You had time to make your decisions.”
“Il n’est pas possible,” someone from the audience said. “An American wine has never earned such accolades. There must be an error or miscalculation.”
Caterina clutched Santo’s hand. She and Santo had earned this.
“Non, non, non,” Odette insisted. “These entries were carefully concealed and tracked, and all votes verified. There is no mistake.”
Victor held up his hands to quiet the crowd. “Let us welcome a pair of fine young winemakers into our club.”
“But they’re novices,” Monsieur Morel said, flinging his hands up.
“Unbelievable.”
“A travesty.”
“I suggest you try their wine for yourself.” Victor motioned to Caterina to approach the podium.
“How can you even propose that?” Madame Morel stood, incensed, and tugged on her husband’s arm.
Amid the grumbles of the crowd, Caterina and Santo made their way to the front. When they passed the Morels, Caterina couldn’t help but smile in triumph.
Santo winked at them and leaned in to the husband. “Guess you should’ve paid more attention when you visited Mille Étoiles.”
Madame Morel stubbed out her cigarette with a vengeance. Her husband took her by the arm, and they stalked out, muttering their displeasure.
Caterina suppressed a laugh, and they turned to Victor, who welcomed them with a broad smile and open arms. They accepted a small trophy and posed with him for a photograph, and then he kissed them on each cheek.
“Well done.” Victor seemed genuinely happy for them. “Don’t let a few of your more vocal competitors dissuade you from your art. I look forward to following your work.”
Caterina and Santo thanked him, and then the meeting ended. A lone reporter approached them.
“Hi there,” the young woman said. She glanced around. “I thought there’d be a line waiting to interview you.”
“Hardly,” Santo said. “If there were a line forming, it would be to flog us. You’re an American?”
“Yeah. Guess we’re not too popular right now.” The woman laughed. “I write about European culture for The New York Times. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Caterina and Santo spent a few minutes speaking to the woman and then posed for a photograph with their wine.
After that, a couple of winemakers approached them and offered congratulations. Caterina was truly appreciative of their sentiments. She thanked them and invited them to visit Mille Étoiles if they ever came to California.
When the crowd dissolved, Santo offered her his arm. “You were perfect, and amazingly, no one got hurt. For a moment I thought we had a riot on our hands. Care to join me for a glass of celebratory champagne?”
“Absolutely.”
A few minutes later, they toasted their success in the Ritz Bar.
“Now the real work begins,” Caterina said. “Juliana is going to send out press releases, and we—or my mother, that is—will contact buyers to share the good news with them.”
“And sell more cases,” Santo added, finishing her thought.
“With high pre-sales, my mother can borrow against the purchase orders rather than the property to make equipment repairs before harvest. I can’t wait to call Juliana. And tell them about the Morels.” She was giddy with joy, the champagne contributing to her light-headedness. This was the break they needed. Mille Étoiles Wines had been recognized on the world stage.
“Let’s call Juliana now,” Santo said. They went to the hotel concierge, who placed the call for them.
It was still quite early in the morning in California. Juliana answered on the first ring, and Caterina figured she’d been waiting for her call. “Did I wake you?”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t slept all night. I hope you have great news.”
“We do. Juliana, we won!”
“In which category?” Juliana asked.
“The grand prize.” Caterina let out a small squeal. “Mille Étoiles was voted best red wine of the competition.”
Juliana whistled. “Congratulations, this is a huge deal. I’ll get right on it. You’ve probably saved the Mille Étoiles wine business.” She hesitated. “Did Santo make it there?”
“Yes, he’s here with me.” Caterina glanced up at Santo. Now wasn’t the time to chastise her friend; besides, she had to admit it was nice celebrating their win together.
Juliana promised she’d call Ava and Raphael right away.
After they hung up, they decided to find a casual brasserie for dinner. They were both tired from the stress-filled day, although it had ended better than either of them had imagined. Santo wanted to drop his luggage at his hotel first.
“Where are you staying?” Caterina asked as they stepped into a taxi to go back to their hotels.
“At a little hotel a friend of mine in Italy suggested.” Santo gave the driver the address, and Caterina looked at him quizzically.
“That’s where I’m staying. Who’s your friend?”
“Giovanna Rosetta. She used to watch me when I was little. A few weeks ago, an investigator visited me in Davis and told me I had inherited property in Montalcino.”
Caterina closed her eyes, remembering that she’d heard his name called during the reading of the will. Our lives are far too intertwined. And then another thought struck her. “You’re not going to Montalcino, are you?”
“Well, I might now.” A teasing smile touched his lips, his vivid blue eyes taunting her.
“Why didn’t you say anything before I left?”
“You left in the middle of the night to drive to San Francisco, remember?”
She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. Damn him. She slipped on a pair of large, dark sunglasses she’d bought for the trip. “How did you get in that will? Don’t tell me you’re related to my grandmother.”
“My mother’s sister married Violetta’s best friend’s son. It’s a small town. I knew Violetta when I was a kid. I used to visit her before I moved to America. She knew my parents and thought highly of them, so she paid for my passage to New York. She thought it would be a good opportunity for me.” His cocky smile faded. “You never met her, did you?”
Caterina shook her head. “I didn’t even know I had a grandmother.”
“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t realize she was your grandmother. Your last name is fairly common there. Raphael and Ava never really connected things for us.”
Caterina was silent for a moment. “What was Violetta like?”
“She had a great laugh, incredible violet eyes, and thick white hair piled on top of her head, always secured with jeweled combs. She baked the most amazing bread, and her cannelloni was the best I’ve ever had. She was a woman who had strong opinions, but she always had the best of intentions.” He motioned toward her. “Sort of like you. And she always smelled of violets.”
“Violetta di Parma,” Caterina said, remembering. She glanced at Santo under her lashes. “How long do you plan to be here?”
“A few days,” he said. “I’ve never been to Paris. Why don’t you stay, too?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to make a telephone call.” She wondered if she could ask Giovanna and her sister to look after Marisa for another day or two. She hated to be apart from her baby girl, but she really needed to speak to Santo, and she had to do it just right.
When they arrived at the hotel, Caterina asked Madame Robert to put in a call to Giovanna. The only telephone was downstairs in the office. Santo left to put his bag in his room and freshen up.
“Marisa is an absolute angel,” Giovanna said on the telephone. “A
lma and I love looking after her. You and Santo enjoy Paris.”
“I’ll still miss her.” Caterina was thankful for Giovanna. “Kiss Marisa for me, and I’ll see you soon.” She hung up the receiver, delighted at the thought of spending a few extra days in Paris with Santo, away from curious eyes.
Madame Robert suggested a restaurant nearby. It was a lovely summer evening, so Caterina and Santo decided to stroll along the Rue des Archives and explore the side streets.
It was still early for supper. A boulangerie they passed smelled heavenly. They stopped at the Jewish bakery and Caterina and Santo shared raspberry rugelach and candied fruit stollen. They proclaimed the pastries the best they’d ever had.
Caterina loved the cobblestoned streets of Le Marais, one of the oldest districts in Paris. “Madame Robert told me that Victor Hugo once lived here in the Marais.”
Santo looked interested. “Do you still read like you used to?”
“Not as much, but I still love a good book.” Between work and Marisa, she had little time. “Look, there’s a bookstore. Let’s go inside.”
They browsed for a few minutes, and when Santo tapped her on the shoulder, he held up a pair of Hugo’s novels, Les Misérables and Notre-Dame de Paris. She loved that they were in French, and he bought both books for her before she could protest.
Continuing along, they peeked into boutiques that had the most elegant clothes. Santo bought perfume for her from one of the shops. L’Heure Bleue, an enchanting perfume from Guerlain, reminded her of iris, rose, and jasmine, flowers that grew at Mille Étoiles and Montalcino. It had a warm, ambery sillage.
Santo nuzzled his nose to her wrist. “That’s marvelously mysterious on you.”
“And you must have this one.” Caterina held up a bottle she’d chosen for him.
He closed his eyes to inhale. “That’s sensational, what is it?”
“Eau de Fleurs de Cédrat. Reminds me of Napa in the spring, when the citrus trees bloom.”
“You have a good nose, mademoiselle,” the salesclerk said before she wrapped up both perfumes for them. The woman took her time to prepare their package and added several small vials for them to try later.