by Jan Moran
Caterina met Juliana’s almond-shaped eyes in the mirror. They were large and expressive, just like Nina’s. “I’d like to, but I’ve been spending every moment I can with Marisa.” She flicked a new black Helena Rubinstein Mascara Matic on her lashes. The cosmetics magnate often sent Ava gifts of test products before launch for her refined opinion, just as Ava offered Helena the first choice of prized vintages for her wine collection.
“Is this too much for you, Cat? I mean, I understand; I wish I’d had a baby with Al, but most single girls—”
“No,” Caterina cut in. “I can do this. I’m her mother.” She sat on a tufted rose-colored window seat to adjust the tiny buckled straps on her ebony high heels. “And I have to tell my mother about her this weekend.”
Juliana grimaced and sat next to her. “Want me to be there with you? She’ll blow up like Mount Vesuvius.”
“Thanks, but I need to do this alone.” Caterina gazed from the window across the darkened vineyards. “What happened to the lives we once imagined we’d have?”
“I guess we grew up.” Juliana smoothed her lipstick-red dress, which had a full flounced skirt nipped into a tiny waist, a copy of the Christian Dior style the fashion editors had dubbed “The New Look” after the Second World War.
Caterina watched her friend, proud of what she was accomplishing in her life. Juliana had been a baby when her father had deserted her mother and returned to Mexico. Shortly afterward, Ava had hired Nina at Mille Étoiles.
After her fiancé died, Juliana had tried to find work at a vineyard, but because she was a woman, few were willing to hire her. Through Caterina, Juliana made friends with wealthy women at the St. Francis and was helping several of them create wine cellars for their husbands and their business associates. She was also arranging advertising for one winery and helping another with special events. Slowly she was building a reputation as a wine publicist, her dream job.
Juliana had overcome a tragedy; surely Caterina could overcome the challenges in her own life. She rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on the windowsill. “Remember when we used to climb to the top of Howell Mountain and share our secrets? If the moon was full, like it is tonight, we imagined our wishes would come true.”
The mountaintop spot was where they’d confided their deepest secrets to each other over the years, where Caterina had told Juliana she was pregnant, and where Juliana had cried in her arms over her fiancé’s death.
Caterina chuckled softly. “Good thing most of our wishes didn’t come true. Remember Jeremy?” She winked at her dearest friend.
Juliana dissolved into gales of laughter. “Oh, Jeremy, my first crush. I haven’t thought of him in years.” She dabbed her eyes and smiled. “I’ve sure missed you, Cat. And how is Marisa?”
“She’s adorable, and she’s getting so big.” Caterina blinked hard, thankful she hadn’t adopted her out.
A shadow crossed Juliana’s face. “Have you tried calling her father again?”
“He doesn’t want to hear from me,” she said, perhaps a little too sharply. She wished Juliana wouldn’t talk about him.
“I see him sometimes in Napa. He’s working a lot.”
“Jules, what do you want me to say? I’ve tried.” She had once spent long hours with him, testing and refining wine in the cool, stone-lined cave at Mille Étoiles, which was burrowed into the side of Howell Mountain. She pushed the memory from her mind.
“Have you ever met his fiancée?” Juliana widened her dark eyes. She’d wound her straight black hair into a chignon, which made her deep brown eyes loom even larger in her pretty, well-defined face.
“No.”
“You have to tell him about Marisa.”
“Why? So he can reject her, too?” Caterina huffed as she stood to check the seams in the back of her stockings in the mirror.
“He’s a good guy, Cat. I’ve always thought he’d do the right thing if he knew.”
Caterina glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, come on, Jules. He dodged my calls for months. Even sent my letters back unopened, marked ‘return to sender.’”
“He has a right to know, don’t you think?”
“He had his chance.” Caterina raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t told him, have you?”
“No.” Juliana’s eyes darted away, and she picked at a thread on her dress.
“Jules, you promised you wouldn’t say anything.”
“And I won’t. But now that Marisa’s older, maybe you should. He’s her father.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. Faith needs our room.” She tugged on her hose with vengeance to straighten a rear seam.
“Careful. You’ll tear your hose,” Juliana said. “What about the apartment you sublet?”
“I can’t return with Marisa. I just found out the landlord won’t let single mothers live there. Evidently there’s a morals clause in the lease.” Landlords could be choosy. There were so many people who’d left the armed services after the war and started families that apartments often had waiting lists.
“What a jerk. Well, you can stay with me for as long as you like.” Juliana had rented a room in a boardinghouse in the village of Napa, much to her mother’s consternation. Nina insisted unmarried women should live with parents until they were married. Juliana argued that she’d already been engaged, so she was practically a widow.
“Thanks, Jules, but I’m sure your landlord would have something to say about three people living in your room. No, I’ll have to find an apartment as soon as I return.” She blew out a breath. “Being a mom is so difficult at times. I think some women, like Faith, must have a natural gene for it.” She leaned toward the mirror, picked up a tiny brush, and swept on red lipstick.
“You’re a good mother to Marisa, and you love her. So what if Faith is better with a diaper? It’s not like Marisa will be in one forever.”
Caterina pressed her lips together and smiled at that thought. Juliana was right. She sat next to her and bumped her shoulder.
“Look, I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Juliana said. “But I know you; you’ll make the right decision. You’re the best person I know.”
“If that were true, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“It took two, didn’t it?” Juliana squeezed Caterina’s hand.
“Look!” Caterina cried out, motioning toward the sky. A star shot silently through the Milky Way. “You can make a wish now.”
Juliana turned toward her with a pointed look. “I already have.”
Caterina shook her head. “I’m not telling him.”
“Someday you will.”
An Elvis Presley song came on the radio, and Juliana jumped off the window seat to turn up the volume. “Oh, I love this song. Come on, Cat, let’s put our troubles aside and have a good time tonight. We both need it.” She swirled around in her red satin dress, snapping her fingers to the music. “Heartbreak hotel,” she sang.
“So who are you planning on dancing with tonight, Jules?” Caterina watched Juliana sway to the music. Her gaiety was like a shower of sparklers in the night, even if sadness lurked beneath her sheen. At least Juliana was trying. How long had it been since she’d felt free enough to enjoy herself?
Juliana whirled around. “You know I’m not looking for anyone.”
“You don’t have to. All the guys are looking at you. Maybe you should give one of them a chance.” Juliana had dated Alfonso Villarreal throughout school. He’d worked in army intelligence and had been sent to South Korea. A week before he was scheduled to return, he’d been killed in an ambush. Heartbroken, Juliana hadn’t dated since. Caterina removed a stopper from a perfume bottle and dabbed it against her neck and wrists.
A shadow crossed Juliana’s face. “I’m not ready yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dance.” She sniffed the air. “Smells pretty. Chanel No. 5?”
“Ted’s favorite.”
“Hmm. Chic. But I thought you had another favorite.” Juliana twirled around, humming. “So
mething richer, sexier.”
She did. Shalimar—an exotic, sultry floral blend enriched with vanilla. She’d never worn it again after the night Marisa was conceived. The perfume bottle was stuffed in a box in the back of her closet, along with other photographs and mementos.
Caterina had been up half the night thinking about what to do with her life. She’d dated Ted for a long time in college. She had fond feelings for him, but it wasn’t the passion she’d experienced that one, fateful night. Had that been love or merely lust? If she’d never discovered the depths of her passion, maybe she’d be satisfied with Ted now.
And would Ted even accept Marisa?
Juliana waved to her. “Hey, where’d you go? You look like you’re a hundred miles away.”
“Thinking about tonight.”
“Come on, dance with me,” Juliana said, twirling around. “Put a smile on that gorgeous face, Kitty Cat. You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Juliana put her arm around Caterina. “Chin up, tonight everything is copasetic.” She winked conspiratorially.
Caterina hugged Juliana, smiling at her use of the old nickname she hadn’t heard in years. Juliana was irrepressible; that’s what she’d always loved about her. “Come on, let’s go, Jules. The party has already started.”
The two friends glided down the stairs and opened the French doors to the patio, which was lit with colorful Japanese lanterns. The night air was balmy, and a thousand stars twinkled overhead. A band played in one corner, where a Pat Boone look-alike crooned out the latest love songs—her mother’s concession to the young people there.
Juliana tugged her arm and nodded to the crowd that had already gathered. The editor of Wine Appreciation magazine was there. To his left was a wine broker who sold to the important restaurants and hotels on the West Coast.
Two other winemakers stood nearby; Caterina could hear them discussing the pending harvest. Everyone was hoping the favorable weather would hold out.
Last year, some vineyards had lost their entire crop when the grapes were slow to ripen. They’d removed leaves to let in more sun, and then the temperature had soared, scorching the exposed grapes. The weather was the winemaker’s fickle partner.
“Look, there’s Ted and his parents,” Juliana said. The Thornwald family was speaking to Ava. “Shall we?”
“Give me a moment.” Caterina accepted a petite vegetable terrine from a silver plate of hors d’oeuvres a server offered to her, along with an aperitif—a tradition to which her French-born mother strictly adhered. Tonight it was a raspberry-flavored cocktail blended of sparkling white wine and cassis.
Caterina smothered a laugh as she watched a woman pick at the terrine in puzzlement. While the rest of America was eating meatloaf and deviled ham, French fare still reigned at Mille Étoiles. Ava would have none of the American hot dogs or commercially canned vegetables. The only alternatives were Nina’s fresh Mexican seafood and tortillas and Raphael’s pasta.
“Vive l’apéro,” Caterina said to Juliana as they toasted.
“Caterina, how nice to see you.”
Caterina turned around. It was the editor, Gilbert Waters, and his wife, Bessie, a woman of her mother’s generation who had gone to school in France. They exchanged kisses on the cheeks in the customary manner, and Juliana followed suit. “How have you been?”
“Busy, busy,” Gilbert said. “We’ve been traveling so much.”
Bessie glanced around and spoke sotto voce. “Have you heard about the new international wine competition in Paris?”
Caterina perked up, although she tried not to appear too interested. “No, I don’t believe I have.”
Bessie’s eyes lit. “It’s a blind competition pitting international wines against one another.”
At that, Caterina shook her head. “The French will never allow that. Other wines compared against theirs, on their soil? Never.”
Gil cast a sly look at her. “Won’t that be interesting? It’s being hosted by a wine broker. Mille Étoiles should be there.”
Caterina raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a newcomer could enter?”
Juliana shrugged. “Why not ask? Gilbert, do you know how to find out more about entering?”
“I think I can get details and a contact for you,” Gilbert said.
Juliana darted a look at Caterina before answering with nonchalance. “Maybe I’ll call you later, Gilbert.”
Mr. and Mrs. Waters excused themselves to speak to other guests.
Caterina grew quiet, thinking about their amazing Howell Mountain cabernet. If it had aged as well as she thought, it might be a contender. It was a phenomenal wine, a true wine of the terroir, with a distinct sense of place that reflected the soil, climate, and altitude. She recalled the nuances it held, hints of toasted oak, chocolate, spice, blackberry, minerals, and even volcanic matter. But was it good enough to compete on the world stage?
The traditional French style of winemaking held that terroir, or where grapes were grown, was of prime importance. American-style winemaking emphasized the type of grape, so wine in America was sold by the name of the grape, such as pinot noir, rather than the terroir, or place, such as Saint-Émilion, or Médoc, in France.
“A competition could backfire on us,” Caterina said. “But see if you can get more details.”
“I sure will.” Juliana’s eyes lit with excitement. “Think of the publicity you could get if you won.”
The competition intrigued Caterina, and she longed to showcase California wines. Six decades before, John Patchett had planted his first vines in Napa and hired Charles Krug as his winemaker. The Korbel brothers were producing sparkling wine. Gundlach Bundschu, Beringer, Inglenook, and Buena Vista had also staked their claims and were producing both reds and whites.
The old vines on Mille Étoiles had once produced a wine that had won a medal at the grand Paris Exposition in the latter part of the last century. However, when her parents acquired the land in 1929, the vines were dormant, casualties of Prohibition.
Looking in her mother’s direction, Caterina saw Ava nod at her. “I’ve been summoned, Juliana.”
“Shall I go with you?” Juliana squeezed her arm.
“No, I’ll face this on my own, thanks. Go mingle—it’s good for business.”
Caterina wove through the guests, acknowledging one here and another there with a few gracious words and a smile. Napa Valley was such a small intertwined area, where somehow everyone knew everything about their far-flung neighbors. Caterina swallowed against the anxiety welling up within her. Or so they thought.
“Hello, Ted, Mr. and Mrs. Thornwald.” Caterina met her mother’s eyes. Ava was beaming.
Ted swung around. “Hello, Caterina. You’re looking quite nice tonight.” Ted was cordial, but Caterina could sense hurt under his polite veneer. Perhaps her mother had been wrong about him.
“Indeed, I must say, you look quite worldly now,” Mrs. Thornwald said, peering down her nose at Caterina. Ted’s mother was a woman who took pleasure in the finer things in life. Impressive jewelry, an impeccable coiffure, the perfect family. She’d traced her lineage to San Francisco’s founding fathers and made sure everyone knew it.
Here it comes. Caterina arranged a pleasant expression on her face. “Just a little older, ma’am.”
“And still not married?” Mrs. Thornwald sniffed haughtily. “You young girls simply don’t have time for what’s really important in life, do you?”
Caterina shot a look at her mother, whose smile was frozen on her face.
“Now, Hilda,” Ted’s father cut in. “This young generation does things differently from the way we did before the war. Caterina, Ava tells us you’re doing a fine job at the St. Francis as sommelier. We should dine there soon. Ted, you’ve always liked the St. Francis, haven’t you?”
“Thank you, sir. That would be delightful.” Caterina slid her gaze back to Ted. He’d gained some weight, but he was still slender, tall, and blond, with the sort of ic
y eyes that always seemed to be holding something back.
“May I freshen your drink?” he asked, his pale blue eyes resting coolly on her.
“Caterina, show him where to go, please,” Ava said, taking charge of the situation. “Go with him.”
Her mother was determined to put them together again. Ted offered her his arm—as courteous as always—and she rested her fingertips lightly in the crook of his arm. They made their way across the patio.
“It’s been a long time, Caterina. How’ve you been?”
“Terribly busy,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Seeing anyone?”
“I haven’t dated anyone since you, Ted.” That much was true.
A smile spread across his face. “Look at you. You’re a beautiful girl, and you’re not dating?” He steered her off to the side patio where they could be alone and then turned to face her. A lantern above them cast an eerie red glow on his face. “Cate, I think I understand why you bolted like that on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s still Caterina.” She’d never liked the nickname he used for her. An old memory surged through her mind. Ted had once told her that her name was too ethnic. Cate, he had said, is much more sophisticated. Cate Thornwald, now doesn’t that sound better than Caterina Rosetta?
She stared at him. She liked her first name. Everyone pronounced it in their own way—her mother softened the r with her French accent, and Juliana and Nina rolled the r with their Spanish pronunciation. And then there was Marisa’s father, with his throaty baritone and mesmerizing accent that elevated her name to poetry. And sometimes, to him, she had been simply cara. She lowered her lids to mask the pain in her eyes.
Ted smoothed his hair. “Okay. Caterina it is.”
She was curious. “So why do you think I left?”
“My father told me nice girls are sometimes scared of intimacy. I want you to know that I respect you.”
Caterina held his gaze. “I was scared, Ted.” That much was true. Only not about what he thought. She forced herself to think about Marisa and what was best for her.
He ran his knuckles along her jawline. “I’d like to start over with you. We can build a life together. And I still love you.”
