Come Pour the Wine
Page 47
He took her face between his hands. “What makes you what you are?”
“Oh, Dominic, all of us are what we are, I just happen to love you enough to want you to be happy.”
“But what about you?”
“Memories are wonderful things, too, Dominic … and what we had briefly together will be the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. Nothing is forever and sometimes people get caught up in circumstances and situations they have no control over. We didn’t plan to fall in love … It just happened. I have no regrets. I’d do it over again.”
“You know what it will mean if we go on like this?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure, absolutely sure … because I won’t be as free as I’ve been. There will be times, no matter how much I want to be with you, I won’t be able to, and what will happen to you, what kind of a life will that be, waiting for a man to telephone? Having an hour or two whenever, it’s possible … is that enough?”
They sat silently. “I don’t know, Victoria, I just don’t know.”
“Then until you do, we’ll pretend just for tonight … tomorrow will be time enough for decisions. Now, darling, change the record to something more gay. ‘Clair de Lune’ is only lovely when you’re happy … then fix a drink while I fix dinner, and later I’ll love you as though there were going to be no tomorrow.”
Dominic and his oldest son watched from the windows of the airport as Catherine and the children descended the landing steps, then walked excitedly toward the building. Gina Maria saw her father and she waved furiously, calling out to the others, “There’s Papa and Dom.” She began to run so that she was the first in Dominic’s arms. “Papa … Papa, I’m so glad to see you. I missed you.”
Dominic held and kissed the little girl so tenderly, so lovingly. How good she felt in his arms. God, how much he had missed her. One by one, the older boys held Papa by the shoulders and Vincente’s arms were around Dominic’s waist. The excitement at seeing him was overwhelming, as Catherine stood to one side and observed. The thought entered her mind at this moment, how much they loved him, almost more than her, it seemed. A peculiar kind of resentment mingled with jealousy rankled within her that for all her devotion, her being there when they came home from school, plus the millions of other attentions she gave them, they prized Dominic as though he were some kind of a god. The thing she found so difficult to understand was him being away so much of the time, when did they have the opportunity to develop such fatherly affection? The whole thing was simply a puzzle to her. But she stood by, smiling as though she were enjoying the fatherly demonstration. Finally, Dominic said, “Let me look at all of you,” as they clustered around him. “I can’t believe it, you’ve all changed so this summer … Gina Maria, you’re a young lady.” He laughed at the sight of them. By God, they were handsome kids, so lean and tanned and healthy looking.
If nothing else, that was something to be damned proud of. Then the laughter ended as he looked at Catherine smiling at him.
“Dominic, darlin’, you look simply wonderful … seems a little celibacy hasn’t done you too much harm. You’re just as handsome as ever … I’m happy to be home, Dominic.” He thought, well, here we go again, it’s starting all over, with the little southern subtleties. She reached up, wanting to kiss him on the lips, but he turned his cheek. She disregarded the rebuff and continued as though she had not noticed. No matter … she’d be bigger than him. He was still licking his wounds, but he’d get over it just as soon as they got back to the business of being a family again. She turned her attention to Dom and kissed him. “Let me look at you … I swear you’re lookin’ more like my Daddy every day. How was school, sugar?”
For Christ’s sake, why did she have to call him by that ridiculous name. “It was okay, Mama … fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that… my goodness, Dom, I did miss you, but thanks for sending the cards … not as often as I would’a liked, but considerin’ how busy you must have been, I was grateful for the few. Now, let’s all get started. I think it’s time we went home.”
And home for Catherine had never seemed quite so sweet. She walked from room to room savoring the joys and beauty of all her past efforts. It had been a long and tedious job, furnishing this place, but it paid off. It was her … the way she wanted it, not some decorator. The few she had tried threw up their hands in despair, leaving her with her drapes down. She fought with them, saying in no uncertain terms, “This is my house and it’s gonna reflect my personality” … And it did! The colors were vibrant. The gold damask silk paper ran rampant on the walls. The marquetry, heavy with bronze ormolu, was in abundance. The Sevres, the urns, the Capo-di-Monte, the candelabras, the Dresdens, the paintings, the statues sitting regally on their pedestals and the crystal fixtures. Catherine’s house had enough to stock an antique store. It was a never-ending project that went on … and on … and on. As her eyes wandered about, she knew the dining room chairs could stand recovering although they had been done last year, but what with the wear they received … oh, well, it would be fun, why have to have reasons for everything. She hurried into the kitchen to see Stella. In Italian, Catherine said, “Stella, we’ll have something very special tonight. Remember, this is our homecoming and I want everything just perfect. Perfetto.”
“Si, Signora. You had a good time with your Mama, huh?”
“Oh, yes, Stella … but there’s nothing like home.”
“Si, Signora.”
“Stella, how was Mr. Rossi while I was away?”
“He was fine, Signora.”
“That makes me happy … Stella, did he have dinner home every night?”
“No, Signora …”
“I don’t mean every night, but was he home often?”
Stella hesitated. She, too, was Sicilian and it took one to know one and she knew Signora was pumping her, but with her allegiance a little more toward the Signore, she answered, “Si, Signora, he was here often except when he was away for business.”
“Was he away often … on business, I mean?”
“Ah … mezzo … mezzo, Signora.”
“Ah … I see, half and half. You think he had dinner with his madre?”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned the palms of her hands up, “I don’t know, Signora.”
“I see … well, Stella, make a grocery list of what we need. Prosciutto … do we have everything in the house for the antipasto?”
“Si, Signora.”
“That’s good … now, melons with the prosciutto. I think maybe three large honeydews will be enough … and we need sweet butter, cream and parmesan cheese for the fettuccine … and Stella, we’ll have scaloppine di vitello al Marsala with pine nuts … Signore Rossi loves that… so I’ll order veal, olive oil we have, but we need fresh mushrooms, lemons… the Marsala wine we have … parsley and zucchini … you’ll stuff them. Now, let’s see. I think six butter lettuces will be enough for the salad, with olive oil and wine vinegar. Fresh fruit for the centerpiece … and … oh … Stella, do we have cheeses for the dessert?”
“Si, Signora.”
“That’s good … and for the zabaglione … eggs, sugar, the wines we have … so, I think that’s about all.” Catherine took her pencil and pad and went through the pantry shelf by shelf and jotted down things she would order in addition to this evening’s meal.
When she left, Stella began to make the pasta with the little machine Catherine had ordered from Italy and as she turned the handle and listened to the gears mesh, she thought Mama mia, if the Signora knew that the Signore had spent his evenings … more important, his nights in the bed of another woman, oh! Madonna mia! Stella cringed, it would be like an explosion … worse than the bomba atomica. But her lips were sealed … never would she breathe a word that when she sent his suits to the cleaner, there was the sweet fragrance of perfume completely unfamiliar and different than that of her Signora’s. And how much of a detective did she have to be when a man stayed out all night, returning at
eight in the morning to change his clothes … and how sophisticated, when she found the bed unused every day.
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About the Author
Cynthia Freeman (1915–1988) was the author of multiple bestselling novels, including Come Pour the Wine, No Time for Tears, and The Last Princess. Her novels sold more than twenty million copies worldwide. Born in New York City’s Lower East Side, she moved as a young child with her family to Northern California, where she grew up. She fell in love with and married her grandmother’s physician. After raising a family and becoming a successful interior decorator, a chronic illness forced her to adopt a more sedentary lifestyle. At the age of fifty-five, she began her literary career with the publication of A World Full of Strangers. Her love of San Francisco and her Jewish heritage drove her to write novels with the universal themes of survival, love, hate, self-discovery, joy, and pain, conveying the author’s steadfast belief in the ability of the human spirit to triumph over life’s sorrows.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980 by Cynthia Freeman Enterprises, Inc.
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-3571-1
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