by Jan Moran
“Within a few weeks. His money ran out, and he left New York City to find me. The day he arrived, I was terribly ill with influenza and expected at the attorney’s office to finalize the documents for the purchase of the property. Of course, I was shivering with fever and couldn’t move from my sickbed, so I gave Luca a power of attorney to sign the documents in my name.”
“But he didn’t do that, did he?”
Ava shook her head. “Later, when I found out, I wanted my name added to the documents, but he refused to do so. No one would help me. It was 1929; I was nineteen and a foreigner in this country. It was simply the way things were done.”
Even today. After having felt like an outsider in Italy, Caterina could easily imagine her mother’s situation.
“When I felt better, I began to sketch a smaller version of my parents’ château in Bordeaux for the architect. Our first vintage from the old vines was a success. We were fortunate; Luca charmed everyone he met, and soon we gained contracts to supply wine to churches and synagogues during Prohibition. Not everyone was as lucky; a neighbor of ours, a woman whose husband died of a weak heart, made deliveries of her special cosmetic creams and ointments to the fashionable ladies of San Francisco every week. I suspect her delivery truck contained more wine than creams, but with Prohibition winding down, no one seemed to care.”
“How was Luca then?”
“Better. We were happy for a time. I loved my baby, I had a beautiful home, and I was confident that I was doing what I was put here on earth to do. Winemaking was my art.”
“When did things change between you and Luca, Maman?”
Ava shrugged a shoulder. “Our tranquil life didn’t last long. Luca quickly lost interest in the vineyard. I completed the planting of the vineyards, as well as the construction of the house. I tried to provide balance and calm in our lives. But Luca drank a lot of our first harvest. When he was drunk, he became cruel, and the more he drank, the more his behavior changed, even when he was sober. I confided his increasingly hateful behavior to my priest and my doctor, but they made me feel like I had somehow failed in my duty. They told me to try harder.”
Caterina bit back a comment. That advice was still doled out today. When would it change?
Ava cast her eyes down as she went on, “One night he perched—naked as a newborn—from a high window ledge in the château, firing a pistol into the night, shouting obscenities about an imagined assailant. Fortunately, only a few defenseless grape clusters were lost in his murderous rage, but his behavior swiftly worsened. I often feared an accident.”
Caterina listened, imagining her mother as a young bride in a foreign country with a heavy load of responsibility.
Ava’s shoulders drooped as she relived the past. “Once, I told the doctor my broken nose and bruised cheeks and limbs were the result of a fall. No one really believed me, but no one offered help either. Men didn’t become involved with other men’s affairs.”
Caterina caught Ava’s hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t imagine living with such a man.
“And then the unimaginable happened. One night Luca returned home late. I awoke from the deepest slumber with a knife pressed to my throat. He was drunk, ranting about how you were not his child but a child of another man who would lay claim to Mille Étoiles. Even today it hurts me to repeat these words. How could such thoughts have entered his mind? His eyes held a wild, evil look that I’d never seen before.”
Ava touched her neck as she spoke, and Caterina’s heart went out to her.
“He had the advantage.” Ava’s voice was strained as she relived the event. “I knew a struggle would end my life. I held my body still as stone, my breath constricted in my chest. I dared not move, even as the tip of his blade drew blood.” Ava touched a small scar on her neck and held Caterina’s gaze. “You slept in the bassinet next to my bed.”
Caterina sucked in a breath, imagining herself in such a situation with Marisa by her side. It was unfathomable.
“I prayed Luca wouldn’t notice you. I thought, would your mother be murdered as you slept? Would he turn his blade upon you? Horror gripped my soul, blinding my reason.”
Ava’s eyes misted. “At that moment, you rustled in the innocence of your sleep. Luca released his clutch about my throat and turned his wild-eyed attention to you, but before he could move toward you, a savage fury overtook me. I didn’t know myself capable of such actions. I clawed his eyes with my nails and crushed his throat with my elbow. Finally, as his knife clattered to the floor, I dove after it and thrust it upon him.
“As I inflicted the wound upon his skin—how disconcertingly easy it was to lay open the bare skin of his arm—a look of shock glazed his face, and he seemed to awaken from his demonic possession. A pious woman might have dropped the knife and forgiven her husband, but I was no longer that kind of woman. I advanced on him and drove him from the house, a knife in one hand, a gun from my lingerie drawer in the other, even as your wails pierced the night.
“‘Go from here!’ I screamed. ‘You are dead to me and dead to my child!’ I threatened to kill him. God forgive me, but I meant it. That night I banished him from our home and our lives forever.
“Raphael found me shivering on the stone steps, a gun in my lap, blood oozing from my neck. He led me upstairs, cleaned my wound, and rocked you back to sleep. I was so shaken I couldn’t sleep for several nights, fearful he might return.”
Caterina ached in her bones for her mother, feeling as old as the gnarled vines surrounding her. Sniffing, she wrapped her arms around Ava in a protective embrace. The sordid story was almost unbearable; the details were worse than she’d ever imagined. “He might have killed you. And I might have died, too.”
Ava rested a moment in her daughter’s arms and then pulled away to continue. “There’s more. A devoted wife might have searched for her husband. Did he need medical help? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. He was dead to me. I concocted a story and told everyone he had left on a business trip. A month later, he sent a letter. I returned it unopened and sent a letter warning him against contacting us again. Then I told everyone he had died in an auto accident during his trip. No one questioned my story. Raphael was the only one I confided in, and only for his protection.”
“You could have divorced him.”
“Actually, I prayed he would die and leave me a widow, however improper that might have been. If I were a divorcée, I couldn’t remarry in the church, and I simply couldn’t subject you to gossip and speculation. Better that your father was dead, I thought. The daughter of a widow is not shunned in society as is the daughter of a divorcée. This is America, land of the free, but prejudices remain. I was determined that you would have a brilliant marriage someday—unlike my own travesty.”
Caterina squeezed her mother’s hand. Since having Marisa, she understood what lengths a mother would go to in order to protect her child. “Je comprends, Maman.”
They walked on through the vineyard, Vino still by their side.
“Merci, ma chérie, but I cry at what a wicked, deceitful woman I became. I never mustered the courage to share this with you. I am ashamed of my actions, yet I would do it again to protect you.”
“Your secret was a heavy burden to carry.”
Ava nodded. “It has been. From that day on, sleep eluded me; my nerves were constantly on edge. I began to rant at the slightest provocation. I didn’t know if I would ever be myself again. And I didn’t have the heart to write to Violetta and tell her everything that had happened, only that he was gone. Violetta knew what her son was capable of, but I could not bear to write of such things to her at the time. The years swiftly passed, and the war cut off communication. I pray she forgave me for my lack of contact.”
Caterina draped her arm around her mother. “I’m sure she did.” Her head was swirling with emotion, even though the events her mother spoke about had happened a quarter of a century ago. Luca had terrorized her mother then and continued to do so today. She blinked, tr
ying to clear the image of the heinous scene in Ava’s bedroom. “It wasn’t your fault that Luca was a tormented soul. You were young when you married. You did the best you could under great duress.” Maybe Ava hadn’t always been truthful, but she’d made her decisions from a place of love.
“Thank you for saying that. I tried, chérie.” Ava sighed. “If only that gun had been loaded, we wouldn’t have Luca to deal with now.”
They walked on in silence as Caterina let her mother’s story sink in. She thought of Santo and how different he was from Luca.
Caterina had to ask the vital question that burned within her, though in her soul she feared confirmation. Giovanna and Alma had told her what they recalled and what they’d heard, but she needed to know the truth from her mother. If she knew.
“Maman, about Franco and Natalie.”
Ava’s jaw flexed. “Santo’s parents were a lovely couple.”
Everyone she’d met in Italy had agreed. She forged on. “Luca was in love with Natalie, wasn’t he?”
Her mother’s eyes glazed over. “Yes.” Ava’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Caterina’s tongue felt thick. She rolled the despicable words around her mouth before sending them out, never to be retrieved. “Do you think Luca is Santo’s real father?”
Ava nodded and hung her head. She placed a hand on Caterina’s shoulder, her frame heaving with emotion. “I’m so sorry I never told you.” Tears slipped from her eyes as she released her deepest secret.
Caterina screamed denial in her mind. No, no, no! “Are you absolutely certain?” She clung to a frayed thread of hope.
“That’s what he told me,” Ava murmured. “How I wish it were not so.”
The bright, hopeful core of Caterina’s soul dimmed against her father’s deed. She gasped for breath, feeling as if she’d been jerked from life’s placid surface into hell’s raging fury below.
Ava sobbed against Caterina’s shoulder. “At one time, Santo was in love with you, ma chérie.”
How could life be so cruel? The solid floor of her reality split as her world pitched and heaved on the quake of veracity. Nausea careened through her.
“He came to me and asked for your hand in marriage, but I sent him away. It could never be. I broke the poor boy’s heart.”
And mine. Caterina raked her teeth across her lower lip. How would she ever tell Santo?
Ava framed Caterina’s face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, but see how much worse it might have been?”
A fresh pain knifed through Caterina’s heart. At once, she understood why her mother had kept so much from her. To inflict sorrow upon one you loved was infinitely more painful than shouldering the burden alone.
Which is why Caterina couldn’t tell Ava her beautiful little granddaughter was Santo’s child.
32
Seated beside her attorney in the small, stifling courtroom, Ava clenched her jaw and swung her gaze to the witness box, where her nemesis had been facing her all morning.
Luca sat near the judge, preening in the spotlight and confidently answering questions in a deep, mellifluous voice—the same honeyed Italian cadence that had turned her head as a young girl—put forth by his attorney, Russell Glenhall. He’d cleaned up, too. Wearing a charcoal suit and a white starched shirt, Luca was the picture of a successful, responsible businessman.
Ava knew better. She still bore the scars to prove it.
Behind Ava in the first wooden pew sat Caterina, Raphael, and Nina. Fellow winemakers and friends filled the courtroom.
“Mr. Rosetta, please tell the court why you did not return to Mille Étoiles after Mrs. Rosetta banned you from the house.”
“I desperately wanted to, but my wife threatened me if I returned.” Luca cast a cool look in Ava’s direction, challenging her to prove him wrong.
More lies. Ava scrawled a note on a notepad for her lawyer, Walter Bren, a seasoned attorney in Napa whom she’d known for years.
Luca had been on the stand for two hours, and he’d spun a sparkling tale of decency and good works. Ava had been the evil perpetrator, depriving him of his beloved daughter and squandering vineyard profits to sustain a lavish lifestyle of servants and San Francisco shopping trips.
Ava ached for Caterina that she should have to endure these lies from the man who was her father in name only. Did Caterina believe any of it? Did the judge or jurors?
When Luca trained his eyes on Caterina, it was all Ava could do to maintain control. She glanced back at her daughter, whose lips were set in a thin line, her eyes narrowed. Ava fumed in silence.
After her attorney conducted cross-examination, which Luca smoothly lied his way through, the court broke for a small recess and then resumed. A parade of witnesses attested to Ava’s good character and business history, and then it was Ava’s turn in the witness box.
“State your full name for the court record, please.” Walter Bren regarded Ava with an expression of pleasant confidence.
“Ava de Laurette Rosetta.” She sat erect in her navy linen suit, crossed her legs at the ankles, and slid her pumps to one side. Being in a courtroom shouldn’t make her uneasy; after all, she knew most of the men on the jury from Napa.
In the front row of the jury box sat the local dry goods storekeeper, a plumber, and a postal clerk. There were her fellow vintners and farmers, men who had been slow to welcome her into the fold but who, over the years, had come to respect her winemaking abilities. She’d lent them equipment when they needed it. They’d commiserated together in inclement weather and celebrated successful harvests. They were her neighbors; she knew their wives and children. But would they support her now?
Like her, everyone was dressed formally today; gone were their casual daily work clothes. Every man wore a suit to enter the solemn court of the Honorable J. Quincy Thurston. Pews of gray and black formed solemn lines, as if any moment they would rise for a funeral procession.
Walter continued his questions. “When did you arrive in the United States?”
“In 1929.” A memory of the bitter March voyage across the Atlantic sprang to mind, and Ava shivered despite the heat in the courtroom. She’d lost a child on that journey, and the husband who sat across from her had been too inebriated—or heartless—to even visit her in the infirmary.
She reined in her emotions. Her lawyer continued his line of questioning, and she gave succinct answers, just as he’d instructed her to do during the past week.
Under oath, Ava was truthful about the past. She looked at Caterina as she recounted incidents she’d finally shared with her daughter. Walter rested his hand on the witness stand beside her. “And did you lie about your husband’s death?”
This was the question they’d rehearsed, but that didn’t make it any easier to admit her guilt. “Yes.” Her voice sounded thin and hollow to her ears. She was under oath; she’d sworn on a Bible to tell the truth.
“Why, Mrs. Rosetta?”
She drew air into her lungs, fortifying her resolve. “I was afraid of him. And divorce is not condoned in my faith.” Walter continued his questions. With an unwavering gaze at Luca, she answered, telling of the abuse and injuries she’d sustained at his hands and the financial hardships she’d endured. She told the court about Luca’s imprisonment and subsequent banishment from Italy. When asked about the difficulties of running the vineyard, she turned and spoke to the jury. And when questioned about the difficulties of raising her child alone, she spoke from her heart to Caterina.
Her attorney did not ask about her husband’s infidelities. She said nothing of Natalie or the other women she suspected Luca had been with.
Russell Glenhall cross-examined her, and Ava struggled to keep her anger in check. Yes, she had lied about Luca’s disappearance and death. How many ways will he ask that question? Russell droned on, pinpointing details, while Walter made notes. She refuted most of Luca’s statements.
After Ava concluded her testimony, some of the men in the courtroom audience were shaking thei
r heads. Do they believe me now? She had lied to everyone about Luca’s death for so many years. Her former banker, Douglas Lattimer, stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with her as she made her way back to her attorney’s side. No one else returned her gaze. Not her postman, not her plumber, not her fellow farmers and winemakers.
Nevertheless, Ava kept her expression stoic. She had admitted her mistakes and told the truth, which was more than Luca had done. All the ugliness of her past life was now laid bare, dutifully recorded for posterity and public consumption by the court reporter. It was as if she had been stripped naked, and she felt vulnerable. Of course, she had regrets. But she would do it all over again to protect her daughter.
Over the next hour, the lawyers presented their closing statements, and Judge Thurston excused the jury for deliberations. The men filed out. None of them looked back at Ava.
With a smug smile, Luca sauntered through the courtroom with his attorney. Like a lioness protecting her cub, Ava glared at him as he approached Caterina.
“Buongiorno, principessa.” Luca held his hands out to his daughter.
Ava’s heart thudded with anger, and she could have vaulted across the room in a blinding attack, but Walter pressed a hand on her arm. “Don’t do it, Ava. Not here.”
Caterina glared at Luca. “Don’t speak to me,” she snapped, gesturing. “You weren’t worthy of my mother’s affection. You are no father to me.”
Hatred blazed in Caterina’s eyes. Ava opened her mouth to add something, but Raphael cut her off.
“Go on, Luca,” Raphael interjected. “Keep your distance from Ava and Caterina.”
“And who are you to care about them?” Luca whipped the back of his fingers from under his chin in a vulgar movement toward Raphael.
“More than you ever were.” Raphael put his hands on his hips and stood his ground.
“Come with me, Mr. Rosetta.” Russell cut in and steered his client from the courtroom.
After Luca left, Raphael was at Ava’s side in a moment, along with Caterina and Nina and Juliana, who had joined them, too. Caterina flung her arms around her mother, and Ava could feel her trembling, not with fear but outrage.