The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  “I met a pair of women on the train to Paris.” Caterina told them about the story that Imelda and Susana had relayed to her. “Did Luca and Natalie have an affair?”

  Giovanna and Alma traded uncomfortable glances, but neither of them said a word.

  “You know something, don’t you?”

  Lifting her shoulders, Alma spread her hands. “Everyone knew Luca was in love with her.”

  Caterina tried again. “Do you think Santo is Luca’s son?”

  Alma started to speak again, but Giovanna shot her a withering look.

  “Ladies, I have to know.”

  “Who knows anything for certain?” Giovanna flushed. “There was talk, but how can anything be proved? Santo is a wonderful young man, he’s Marisa’s father, and you’re in love. Maybe it was only gossip.”

  Caterina stared at her. “How could we bring more children into a possibly incestuous relationship?”

  Giovanna passed a hand over her brow. “It would be wrong,” she agreed, frowning with despair. “I suppose there’s a chance that Luca could be Santo’s father.”

  “What’s the probability?” Caterina steeled herself. This was surreal. She usually spoke of probability and percentages in winemaking.

  Alma chewed a fingernail, while Giovanna shifted on her feet.

  Marisa complained, so Caterina put her down and kneeled beside her. “Would either of you risk it?”

  Giovanna sighed and shared a sorrowful look with Alma. Both women shook their heads. No. Giovanna drew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “What a terrible shame.”

  At last, all the disparate pieces shifted into an agonizing picture. Caterina’s darkest fear had been confirmed. She smoothed Marisa’s silky dark cap of hair with a quivering hand. “This is why my mother was against our marriage, why she discouraged even our friendship.” Squeezing her eyes against hot tears, she hugged Marisa to her breast.

  Heartbroken, Caterina thanked them for their honesty and asked them to look after Marisa while she spoke first to Santo. It was imperative that Santo meet Marisa today. As for the rest … She struggled to rise from the floor, her legs nearly buckling from the weight of the truth.

  After the two women left, Caterina put Marisa back in the crib with her toys while she got ready for the most important day of her life. “This is your special day,” she said to Marisa, her voice cracking. “You’re going to meet your father.”

  Easing into the warm, sudsy water, Caterina thought a bath had never felt so good, though it did little to cleanse her sins. She washed her hair and then slicked it into a thick bun at the nape of her neck. Though her heart was heavy, she applied the perfume they’d bought in Paris, put on a new white sundress and espadrilles she’d found in the boutique in Montalcino, and then clipped on peridot-and-gold filigreed earrings that dangled against her neck and accentuated her eyes, disguising the raging storm within her.

  As she thought of their predicament, she ached for Ava, too, for the monumental secret she’d kept all these years in an effort to shelter her daughter. Would I have done the same? She couldn’t say, but her anger toward her softened.

  “It’s your turn, Marisa. Time to change.” With shaking hands, Caterina changed Marisa’s diaper and then brushed Marisa’s dark hair to the side, clipping her curls with a blue barrette that matched her eyes. She chose a cornflower-blue smock dress with white piping and grosgrain bows.

  “There, you look so sweet. This is a day we shall never forget.” She kissed Marisa, signaled for Giovanna to watch her, and started downstairs, her heart pounding.

  Santo was sitting at a table having coffee when she entered the salon. He was studying the little blue toy truck they’d found in the cottage. His hair was freshly washed, too, and he’d changed into a pale yellow shirt and white linen pants—very Italian-style, Caterina noted. She detected the scent she’d chosen for him in Paris, too. He looked so handsome, relaxed, and happy. She hesitated for a moment, fixing the scene in her mind like a snapshot. Santo, in Italy. Before I break his heart.

  Caterina walked toward him. She drew an unsteady breath. Their relationship would never be the same again. Santo rose when he saw her walk into the room.

  Violetta’s portrait gazed down upon her, and Caterina shivered, discomfited. “Santo, let’s talk on the terrace.”

  “Sure.” With a puzzled frown, he took her hand and led her outside across the stone pavers. The aromas of cypress and olive trees, fresh orange blossoms, and ripening grapes wafted through the air, and Caterina thought she would never forget the scents of Montalcino this day. They sat on a stone bench overlooking the verdant valley and rolling hills of Tuscany. Birds trilled in trees that arched overhead.

  “What a view. I’d never tire of this.” Santo draped his arm around her. “You look beautiful, cara. Now what is it you want to talk about?”

  Caterina clasped his hand, hardly knowing where to begin. First, Marisa. She moistened her lips. “Remember when I told you that I’d been trying to reach you?”

  “You mean, after we’d made love?” His eyes filled with sorrow.

  Caterina nodded.

  “It was wrong for me to have taken your virtue and left you. I know I hurt you, and I pray you’ll forgive me. I was honoring your mother and her wishes, but as a man, I should have followed my heart and my conscience. In your mother’s defense, she didn’t know that we’d been together, that we’d made love. If she had, it might have made a difference.” Santo smoothed a thumb along her cheek. “I apologize, and I promise I’ll never leave you again.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Or dodge your phone calls.”

  She clutched his hand for strength and realized she was trembling. “I was calling for a very important reason.”

  Santo furrowed his brow. “Tell me, cara.” His deep voice resonated with love and compassion. “I’m listening.”

  She glanced away, preparing to utter the words she’d endlessly rehearsed. The hills in the distance wavered before her eyes. Blinking, she dragged her gaze back to him. “I was pregnant.”

  A range of emotions—shock, hurt, anguish—washed across his face as he struggled to assimilate her words. “And the baby? Did you lose it?”

  “No.” Caterina’s breath was shallow with anticipation. Her head felt light.

  “You … you had a baby?” Santo’s gaze fell to her abdomen, and he pressed his hand against her flat belly.

  “A little girl.” The facts hung in the air, immutable now. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

  Wincing with remorse, he thrust his hands through his thick, damp hair. “I’m so, so sorry, Caterina. I never imagined that…” His voice trailed off, and then he gripped her hands in alarm. “Where is she? You didn’t adopt her out, did you?”

  “She’s upstairs.” Caterina gave him a tentative smile. “Her name is Marisa. She’s beautiful, and she can’t wait to meet her father.” There. I’ve said it.

  “Marisa, Marisa, una bella bambina!” Santo wrapped his arms around her, his heart throbbing against her chest, overwhelming her with the intensity of his reaction. “Dio mio, I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. I should have been there with you. We should have been together.” He showered her face with kisses before rising and offering her his hand. “Lead me to my daughter, cara,” he said, his voice husky.

  Caterina’s breath caught in her throat. She turned her face up to his, not caring that her cheeks were damp with tears, and brushed her lips against his. This was the response she’d ached for.

  She slipped her hand into his, and he clutched her hand to his chest, kissing her through his own tears. Together they walked upstairs, supporting each other.

  Caterina opened the door to her suite. Giovanna and Alma were with Marisa, though the two women were more subdued than they had been.

  Santo’s eyes lit with joy, and he pressed his hand to his heart. When Marisa turned to him, he sucked in a breath. With her vivid blue eyes, rimmed with dark
lashes, there was no denying she was his daughter.

  Caterina picked up Marisa, smoothed her blue smock, and brought her to Santo. “It’s high time the two of you met.”

  Marisa cooed, and Santo reached for her. “May I hold her?” His eyes glistened with happiness.

  Caterina handed Marisa to Santo, her heart bursting with love at seeing them together. Marisa looked so small in his strong arms. Caterina pressed her hands to her mouth, watching as they explored each other’s faces, swooning when Santo kissed Marisa on the cheek and murmured endearments in Italian. It was all she’d ever hoped for, though their future together was bleak.

  “Una dolce bambina.” Santo stared at Marisa in awe. “She’s the most perfect, beautiful little girl I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  Seeing his joyful reaction brought tears to her eyes, too, and Caterina was so thankful she’d not gone through with the adoption. Imagine if I had. This was the best possible scenario for her daughter. She swallowed against a knot in her throat. Marisa would have her natural mother and father who dearly loved her, even though they might not ever live together as a traditional family.

  And then she wondered how she could possibly endure the pain of seeing Santo but not being with him as a lover and mate. Her heart seemed to wither within her at the thought.

  She would treasure their time in Paris as a rare jewel. At that time, she had not known their actions were sinful. She’d only known that she loved him as she would never love another. Myriad emotions coursed through her, each an intense wave breaking against the foundation of her soul. Caterina drew a weary hand across her brow, determined to suspend time—and further revelations.

  They spent the rest of the day together as a family, and Caterina cherished every moment, framing them in her mind like treasured photographs. They ate lunch on the terrace with Giovanna and Alma, and Santo wanted to know everything about Marisa.

  “What does she like to eat? What does she like to play with?”

  Caterina forced a smile as he went on, enjoying this simple time together, though sadness permeated every fiber of her being. Santo wanted to know what Marisa’s first words were, did she have teeth yet, what day was she born, how much did she weigh, and so many other details, drunk with the sheer delight of being a father. It was all she could have asked for and more than she’d ever imagined.

  Or had a right to. Was God giving her a brief respite before the final punishment?

  Santo gave Marisa the little blue truck he’d brought home from his old nursery, and they played on the terrace. He held her hand as she tottered through the house, supporting her when she stumbled. That evening, he helped give her a bath and told her a story before putting her to sleep in her crib. With eyes glistening with love, he watched over her until she fell asleep.

  Santo’s reaction was all Caterina had ever dreamed of. As she sat beside him next to Marisa’s crib, he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “We can’t change the past,” he said. “But we can create our future.”

  Can we? A wave of sadness coursed through her. She dreaded telling him what their future might really hold.

  Caterina and Santo left Marisa and sat at the table on the terrace. Stars blazed in the ebony sky, and the nighttime song of the cicadas echoed through the valley below. He lifted a bottle of red wine that Giovanna had left for them and poured it into two glasses. The wine shimmered in the sepia glow of flickering candles. Caterina gazed into the flames, wondering how to tell Santo of their possible close relationship.

  “To our future,” Santo said, clinking her glass with his.

  “Whatever that might be.” She lowered her eyes and sipped.

  Santo cocked his head. “Caterina, I have no doubts. I want us to be married. I’d like to spend a few days here in Montalcino—I have some relatives to visit—and then we can return to California.”

  “But I gave up my apartment, and I can’t go back to Mille Étoiles. My mother and I argued about Marisa. She wanted me to give her up.”

  After swirling and sipping, Santo took her hand and caressed it against his cheek. “I’m so glad you didn’t. Then come to Davis with me. I have a small garage apartment. It’s not much, but I’ve been saving a lot of money. We can find a larger place. In fact, I’ve had my eye on something. We can be married as soon as we arrive.”

  Caterina studied the wine in her glass for a long moment. “Santo, I need some time.” Time to discover the truth.

  “What do you mean?” He encircled her with his arm.

  Caterina wished she could wipe clean the slate of the past, but her father’s ill deeds seemed destined to haunt her unless she could prove otherwise. Santo wore such an expression of love; she couldn’t bear to share such potentially devastating news until she knew for certain they were related. Or not.

  “As long as I’m here, I want to learn more about my family. Why don’t you go ahead without us, and we’ll follow when we can.” She’d been thinking about who she could talk to who might have information about Luca and Natalie. Doctors, priests, family members, friends. Who might know?

  He groaned in disappointment. “I’ll hate leaving without you, but it will give me time to make preparations.” He touched his lips to hers. “I’ll miss you. I wish we could share a bed tonight, my love.”

  “You know we can’t do that in Giovanna’s home.” She smiled. “It’s not proper, especially with your daughter beside us. You have a lot to learn about being a father.”

  “I think it will come naturally.” He pulled her to his side, and she rested her head on his shoulder as they watched the night sky, hesitant to return to their separate rooms.

  Caterina ached in the depths of her being. Was the story Imelda and Susana told her true? How would she ever know for certain?

  Worse, whichever path she chose, if she were wrong, she would ruin their lives.

  28

  Caterina leaned against Santo as he laughed and talked with his cousins, aunts, and uncles, enjoying the lively banter. They were visiting Santo’s aunt Rosa, his mother’s younger sister, in her modest Tuscan villa, which was nestled into the hillside and offered vast panoramic views. Unlike Caterina’s own relatives, Santo’s extended family had welcomed her into the family fold. Santo had lived with several of them before he’d been sent to America just before the war to live with another branch of the family. Although he was so young he didn’t remember much about his relatives, they had quickly embraced him.

  All of Santo’s relatives were in good spirits and happy to see him again. The red wine was flowing, the phonograph was blaring Italian love songs, and everyone was eager to hear about Santo’s life in America.

  Rosa touched Caterina on the shoulder. “Come with me,” she said, smiling broadly. “I have something very special to show you.”

  Santo winked at Caterina as she left the kitchen, where he lingered behind, talking and laughing with his cousins. Caterina followed his aunt into a bedroom.

  Rosa creaked open the door to an antique armoire, which was inlaid with an intricate pattern of blond and dark woods. The aroma of dried violets and lavender wafted from the interior. Reaching far into the wardrobe, Rosa drew out a long ivory dress of silk and lace with care. The design was simple and flowing but obviously made with an expert hand.

  At once, Caterina knew what it was. “Natalie’s wedding dress?”

  Rosa nodded, her eyes brimming with cherished memories. “She was a lovely bride. Angelic, innocent, happy. I miss her sweet smile, her quick laughter.” A wistful expression creased her face. She lifted the dress to Caterina’s shoulders and the dress grazed the floor. “Please, try it on. For me. It would make me so, so happy.” Her face bloomed with anticipation.

  Caterina couldn’t refuse her hostess. She unzipped her white eyelet shift dress and stepped out of it. While she lifted her arms, Rosa held the dress over Caterina’s head and let it fall over her slip. The older woman let out a cry and clasped her han
ds to her ample bosom.

  Caterina turned to face the age-mottled, mirrored doors of the armoire. She sucked in her breath at her reflection. All at once, she was transported to the 1920s. The silk rippled around her calves and puddled on the wooden planked floor. With heels, it would be perfect.

  Caterina stroked the smooth, well-preserved silk. Was Santo conceived the night Natalie shed this dress and made love to her husband? Or, if the gossip was true, was she already with child?

  “You should have this dress,” Rosa said, her eyes dancing with delight. “Maybe you’ll wear it for your marriage to Natalie’s son. It would be poetic, yes?”

  “I would be so honored.” Caterina was in awe of Rosa’s offer.

  Rosa framed Caterina’s face in her hands and kissed her on each cheek. “I know you’ll make a warm, loving home for Natalie’s handsome boy and her grandchildren. She would have loved you so much.”

  If only it can be so.

  An idea clicked in Caterina’s mind. “Do you have any of her letters or writings?”

  Rosa pursed her lips in thought. “I don’t know.”

  Caterina clasped her hands. “It would mean so much to Santo, and to me, to read anything she might have written. Even a diary or journal.” Especially that.

  “I’ll look, but it was so long ago.”

  Caterina hesitated. Did she dare ask Rosa about Luca? It might be considered rude, but she was desperate for information. “Rosa, did you ever hear a rumor about Natalie and Luca Rosetta?”

  The smile slipped from Rosa’s face. “It was gossip, that’s all it was. We don’t talk about that in this house. It couldn’t have been true.”

  However, Rosa’s physical reaction belied her words. Caterina clutched Rosa’s hands, pleading with her. “Please, if you know anything, tell me. It’s vitally important to us.”

  Rosa’s face paled, and she waved a hand in resignation. “Luca boasted of an incident before Natalie and Franco married. Our father was livid. He threatened Luca’s life.”