The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  Adopting their babies out might have been the right decision for some girls who selflessly gave their children to those who could provide for them, but it was not for her. Maybe those girls were stronger than she was, or maybe they were in more desperate situations. Caterina would sooner take a knife and carve out her own heart—that’s what it had felt like when she’d been asked to sign the adoption papers.

  Faith rested a hand on her arm. “Aren’t you going to Napa this weekend?”

  Caterina nodded. Her mother had asked her to help choose wines for a wine-tasting competition. Ava Rosetta was a respected winemaker who had standards so lofty that Caterina had often wondered if she could ever match her mother’s stature in the industry—or in life.

  “Why don’t you take Marisa with you? It is your home.”

  Why not, indeed? Guilt prickled her neck. Each day that Caterina concealed the truth of her mistake, her lies by necessity grew larger and more complex. She squirreled away cash and constructed elaborate excuses for her whereabouts. She couldn’t continue her charade much longer. Her stories had swirled into a vortex of lies that was sucking her spirit from her.

  More than that, she wasn’t being fair to Marisa. There had been no doubt in her mind that the day would come when she would have to choose between the love of her mother and the love for her child. The bleak thought tore at Caterina’s soul.

  Faith’s reddish curls framed a freckled face drawn with concern. “I must tell you that we have a new girl coming in two weeks. We’re going to need your room.”

  Caterina blinked back hot tears. “I’ll tell her this weekend.” She’d been in denial; now it was time to accept the consequences of her actions. She’d have to ask her mother if she could live at home with Marisa, at least until her sublet apartment was available again. She clutched Marisa in her arms.

  Whatever her mother had to share with her this weekend surely paled in comparison to the truth Caterina planned to reveal.

  2

  Ava swung open the arched wooden door and stepped outside the main entry of the château just as a shiny red-and-white Corvette convertible peeled past toward the property exit, which was flanked with rows of towering Italian cypress. She stiffened, her defenses on high alert. Santo must have been visiting his older cousin Raphael, who was like a father to him, at his cottage. He has every right to be here, she reminded herself, but his presence made her nervous. At least Caterina isn’t here.

  Watching him, Ava slid her hands into the pockets of her slim cotton slacks in an effort to appear nonchalant. She recalled the private conversation they’d had nearly two years ago. Though Santo might think her obdurate and unyielding, he didn’t know the real reason behind her decision. And she had no intention of reopening wounds of the past to tell him. Santo rarely came to Mille Étoiles, but when he did, they kept their distance from each other.

  Gravel crunched behind her, and she turned.

  “So what do you think about that fancy new car?”

  Raphael walked toward her, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his dungarees, his bronzed face in stark contrast with his white shirt. He had strong cheekbones, a well-defined jaw, broad shoulders, and a muscular, athletic build.

  Ava tented her hand against the sun. As he came closer, she said, “Nice sports car. Santo must be doing well.”

  “He is.” Raphael stopped beside her and lifted a strand of hair that had tangled in her discreet diamond stud earring. “I’m awfully proud of him.”

  The citrus scent of Italian bergamot surrounded him like an aura. Ava appreciated how it melded with the enticing aroma of his sun-warmed skin.

  “He has several well-paying clients, and he’s been lecturing on viticulture at the university. Told me he’s been saving money for the future, but he received a windfall and decided to splurge on the car.” Raphael spoke with an Italian accent, his baritone voice reverberating in his broad chest.

  “He’s a smart young man. Just like you.” Ava smiled up at Raphael. What would she do without him? A seasoned foreman, a vigneron from Montalcino, Raphael was an expert in viticulture and managed the vineyard workers. Years ago he had brought young Santo to Mille Étoiles to live. Because of her husband’s actions, she’d always felt guilty about the poor orphan.

  “What’s on your agenda today, Ava?”

  “Overseeing preparations for the party this weekend.” She nodded toward the grand stone château behind her. Mille Étoiles was designed after her family home in Bordeaux, France. “I fear the ivy will take over if it’s not trimmed soon. Do you have workers who can tame this wild mess?” Creeping strands of ivy stretched toward twin turrets and crept along tall arched windows crowned with wedged keystones. She had important guests this weekend. Everything must be pristine. Mille Étoiles had a stellar reputation that she worked hard to maintain.

  “We’ll see to it,” Raphael said. “Do you have time to look at the new equipment?”

  “Of course.” On Raphael’s recommendation, Ava had purchased new grape de-stemmers and crushers for the upcoming harvest. “We sure paid enough for it. Is it gold plated?”

  “It’s a good investment, Ava.”

  “I know it is.” She’d borrowed heavily for the new equipment. “A couple of good seasons will pay for it. But if the weather turns foul, Mille Étoiles will be financially strained.” Too much sun, rain, or ice could ruin a crop or compromise the quality of wine. So far, weather conditions had been nearly perfect this season, but all that could change in an instant. Every year brought a new set of challenges.

  “Making wine requires a gambler’s steely nerves. But you’ve bet well so far.”

  “I always worry, Raphael.” Ava gazed out from their vantage point. A foggy morning marine layer drifted beneath their mountainous perch, partially obscuring the patchwork agricultural valley below. They walked across the property, kicking up dirt with their boots and stopping to inspect pristine grape clusters—or berries—as they went. The vineyard’s lacy vines were groomed to perfection.

  At this altitude, where the rigors of nature heaped stress upon the grapes, the cabernet sauvignon berries were compact, their juice intense, and their tannin levels enviably high.

  Ava and Raphael were guardedly pleased. The more environmental stress, the better the potential for a fine red wine, due to the higher ratio of skin to interior fruit.

  They inspected the equipment and spoke to a few workers, satisfied they were as prepared as they could be for harvest. Ava left Raphael in the vineyard and returned to the house.

  In the kitchen, shiny copper pots and dried herbs hung from wooden rafters, and hand-painted tiles brightened stone walls. Even on the hottest days, the thick walls kept the interior temperature cool.

  The housekeeper, a plump Mexican woman with black and gray hair wound into a thick bun at the nape of her neck, stood at the counter paring potatoes. She glanced up and flashed a smile. “You just missed that nice young man from New York again.”

  “I have the papers he left.” Frowning, Ava poured cool water from a pitcher on the table. Nina had been working at Mille Étoiles since Caterina was a baby. Nina’s daughter, Juliana, had grown up with Caterina; they were as close as sisters. Ava and Nina had also grown to rely on each other over the years, especially during the lean years of the Depression.

  “Do you know he said he’d never tasted guacamole? But he sure liked mine.” Nina’s face lit with pride.

  “Did he say what he wanted?” Not that she wanted to talk to that investigator. After his first visit, Ava had been ignoring his calls. She lifted the water glass to her lips. Caterina must not learn of this.

  “He said he didn’t need to talk to you again.” Nina inclined her head toward a business card on the counter. “He left his card for Caterina. He said something about an inheritance from her father’s family. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Ava shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I don’t think there’s much to it. But I’ll tell her tomorrow when she arrives.�
� She slipped the card into her pocket and changed the subject. “How are the party preparations coming along?”

  “Don’t worry, everything will be done,” Nina replied with a smile. “It’ll be good to see Caterina. We don’t see much of her anymore.”

  Ava sipped her water. She wished Caterina would return home to live. She hoped someday Caterina and her husband would run Mille Étoiles.

  “Ted and his parents are coming,” Ava said. Ted and Caterina had been going steady throughout college. Everyone thought their marriage was a fait accompli, but Caterina had called off their relationship. Afterward, she’d been vague about her reason. Ava still wondered why Caterina hadn’t confided in her.

  Nina looked up with surprise. “Does Caterina know Ted is coming?”

  “Not yet. But Ted is still crazy about her. I think she was skittish about marriage. Now that she’s been working, maybe she’s had time to reconsider.” When Ted’s mother had told her that Ted had stopped seeing his girlfriend and still talked about Caterina, Ava started planning to reunite them.

  She hoped Caterina and Ted would take up where they had left off. It needn’t be a long engagement. Ava smiled to herself. If Caterina became pregnant soon, she’d welcome a grandchild. A whole houseful of grandchildren someday, that’s what she prayed for. Then, her job would be complete.

  In the meantime, she had to nip this investigator’s actions. There was nothing that Caterina needed from Italy.

  * * *

  After dinner, Ava retired to her bedroom. She was worried the New York investigator might not give up. All day she’d thought about what to do.

  Ava sat at her antique French writing desk. She slid open a drawer and removed a thick sheet of creamy writing paper embossed with the star-studded grapevine imprint of Mille Étoiles. I’ll write to the probate attorney, she thought, pursing her lips. I’ll insist that Caterina’s inheritance be rescinded.

  Outside her bedroom window, a full moon ignited the heavens with silvery light that spilled onto her desk. Ava sighed. Caterina would have every right to be upset. Yet if she didn’t know the truth, it couldn’t hurt her.

  As it hurt me.

  Ava had shielded Caterina from pain and heartache since the day she was born. Why should Caterina—a beautiful, modern young girl with her life ahead of her—care about something that had happened so long ago? In America, one could revise one’s life, far from the eyes of ancestors.

  And their transgressions.

  Her enameled fountain pen hovered over the paper. Caterina had come into the world with curiosity blazing in her luminous, gold-flecked green eyes. After Mama and Papa, her next words had been questions. Why? Where? How?

  As a mother, it was Ava’s duty to look out for Caterina, to help her get started in life. She passed a hand over her face. Being a single parent was challenging.

  Ava peered outside and saw Vino, one of Santo’s white Italian Maremma sheepdogs, running in circles and acting strangely. He was probably on the scent of a rodent scampering through the property.

  With a heavy heart, Ava realized it was too late to cancel the inheritance. She put down the pen and massaged the sore joints in her hands. Work at the vineyard was physically demanding. Caterina had worked beside her until she’d left to attend the university in San Francisco. She missed her daughter, but more than that, she feared once Caterina discovered the truth, she’d never speak to her again.

  The truth. Ava had been telling her edited version for more than twenty years. If Caterina uncovered her secrets, it could have dangerous, devastating consequences. She flexed her fingers and noticed her hands were shaking.

  Ava sank her face into her hands. Why can’t people leave well enough alone?

  3

  After winding her way up Howell Mountain, Caterina turned into the gravel drive that curved to the magnificent stone château on the property. As she drove, she saw silvery shadows dancing in the breezes that flowed through meticulous rows of wizened vines. Caterina had always thought they looked like little gnomes in the moonlight.

  After greeting Caterina, Ava led her to the wine cellar for a tasting before dinner. Caterina decided this was the best place to tell her mother about Marisa; there, no one would hear the inevitable argument.

  “Which wines will we taste tonight?” Caterina perched on a hand-carved stool and waited for Ava to pour the wine.

  “Why don’t you tell me what they are?” Ava arched a finely drawn brow as she took in the outfit Caterina had changed into after her drive from San Francisco.

  Caterina sat up straighter. Already she felt scrutinized. She wore a full-skirted, white cotton piqué dress with a short matching jacket. As she fiddled with the pearls around her neck, she realized she’d chosen quite the virginal outfit for her confession. Would it make any difference? In contrast, her mother looked elegant in a slim, wide-necked burgundy silk dress.

  The cellar had been constructed in the old European fashion, using stones from their property to build the underground room where racks of wines were stored to age. Though the air in the cellar beneath their castle-like home was cooler than the sun-drenched fields on their Napa Valley property above, Caterina felt perspiration gather around her torso.

  She shifted as she watched her mother open a bottle of wine, her familiar movements etched in Caterina’s mind. Ava kept the label turned away from Caterina.

  Everything Ava did was precise. The flick of her wrist, the set of her jaw, the tilt of her chin. A steady draw on the cork, taking care not to damage it. Next, the inspection, her dark eyes trained to quickly capture the slightest imperfection. The sniff of the cork, followed by an almost imperceptible nod of approval as she eased the wine from its dark womb, its color that of the garnets glittering on her earlobes. A swirl to aerate the oxygen-starved elixir, a glance at the streaks left on the crystal balloon, and a steady inhalation. Her eyes were half-closed in concentration, evaluating the wine.

  Ava’s superior standards had lifted Mille Étoiles’s wine to the upper echelons of the industry. Under Ava’s constant evaluative eye, Caterina had been taught perfection. Now, watching her mother was like gazing into a mirror.

  Caterina chewed her lip in thought. Not only had she violated her mother’s principle of perfection—and those of her religion—but she’d also violated her own standards. She was her mother’s daughter.

  Caterina moistened her lips to speak, but the words lodged in her throat. What shall I say?

  Her mother offered her a wineglass. “Tell me what you think, ma chérie,” Ava said, her French-accented voice reverberating in the cellar.

  Caterina met her mother’s gaze. Ava was testing her, challenging her. Had her mother ever made a mistake? She always displayed confidence. That was one of her secrets.

  Rage was another—and perhaps the only point where her mother fell short of the mark on perfection. When crossed, Ava would unleash a furious tirade, her face contorting like some demon-possessed goddess. Ava was a beautiful woman—slim, elegant, and well mannered. No one—outside of the vineyard, that is—would imagine her potential for wrathful anger. And only Raphael could calm her.

  Caterina had often puzzled over the source of her mother’s anger and strictness. Ava had everything—Mille Étoiles, a fairly obedient daughter who loved her, and the admiration of all who knew her. And yet, Ava Rosetta remained a woman of contradictions—she had a soft heart, but a stern spine. Was she angry over her husband’s early demise? Did she feel cheated out of a larger family?

  Whatever the reason for Ava’s interminable anger, Caterina needed all the courage she could muster this weekend.

  Caterina swirled the wine and then sniffed it. She held the wine to the light, inspecting its opacity. Next, she tasted, holding the liquid in her mouth, dissecting nuances. She shifted the wine farther back on her tongue, detecting different impressions, observing the evolution. Plum, apricot, oak … and a sharp burnt flavor.

  Caterina spat the wine into another glass. She fel
t the weight of her mother’s inquisitive stare noting every slight movement on her daughter’s face. The lift of a brow, the tug of a lip, the twitch of a nostril. These had meaning to Ava. Caterina kept her expression stoic.

  “Well?”

  “It’s rot, and you know it. That’s not our wine.”

  A shadow of a smile crossed Ava’s face. “Popular rot, nevertheless.” She reached for the open carafe and poured a glass. “Well done. Your reward, ma chérie.”

  “Why would you do that to me?” Caterina drank from a glass of water, swishing cool well water in her mouth to cleanse her palate. “I’m a trained sommelier.”

  “You have to know the popular competition, as well as our fine competitors,” Ava said. “There’s always something to be learned.”

  That much was true, Caterina acknowledged. The future of their vineyard and wine label depended on Ava’s—and soon, Caterina’s, too—ability to recognize, create, and promote excellence. She brought the glass to her nose, inhaling the familiar bouquet, and then repeated the tasting process. This time she allowed the wine to linger on her tongue, savoring its complexities before swallowing.

  Caterina and Ava exchanged nods of approval.

  “This is the one we should enter into the competition,” Ava announced.

  “I thought you asked me here for my opinion,” Caterina said. “I’d like to try others before we decide. What about the ’52 Howell Mountain cabernet?”

  Ava held her glass in midair. “We’ll have that tomorrow.”

  Caterina cleared her throat to speak. Now is the time to tell her. But before she could part with her secret, her pulse quickened, beads of sweat formed on her upper lip, and her jaw seemed to freeze in place.

  “Maman—”

  Ava paused. “Yes, what is it?”

  Caterina stared at her. The words she longed to say were thick on her tongue. I want you to meet someone … her name is Marisa, she’s your granddaughter, and she’s beautiful.