The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  Violetta knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? Let me see your face.”

  When Ava dropped her hands from her face, Violetta sucked in her breath.

  “Stay here.” Violetta clucked her tongue. “You’re in no condition to return to the party.” She kissed her forehead. “My poor, poor girl.”

  9

  AUGUST 1956 — NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

  Caterina woke with an excruciating headache just as the dawning sun began to light the sky. Santo and Ava had intruded upon her dreams, and she’d had a restless night.

  After yesterday’s argument with her mother, she had spent the rest of the day with Juliana talking about Marisa and Italy and considering her options, which were few. While they chatted, they painted Juliana’s room a soft shade of robin’s-egg blue. They left the windows open to air the room, and Juliana decided to sleep in her old room in Nina’s cottage. By the time they returned that evening, the windows of Mille Étoiles were dark, and Ava had gone to bed.

  Caterina threw off her chenille blanket. Before she left, there was only one thing she wanted from Mille Étoiles. She didn’t know how long it might be before she returned.

  She changed into a white pullover top and slim pedal pushers, tied her tennis shoes, and hastily brushed her thick hair into a ponytail. She wound her way through leafy vineyards where vines were bowed with ripe cabernet grape clusters.

  Pausing to catch her breath, Caterina gazed out over Napa Valley, which was bathed in tendrils of early morning light as the music of birdsong trilled in the air. Above her on the mountain, which soared to twenty-two hundred feet from sea level, rows of grape vines cascaded along the slopes. Here the delicate grapes were high above the fog that rolled in from the San Pablo Bay, protected from the threat of moisture that could ruin a crop in a few days. Vines planted above fourteen hundred feet were spared this hazard.

  She wondered if Italy would have such perfect conditions, and a pang of loss shot through her.

  She’d always loved being above the fog. The climate was different up here, and the grapes grown on these mountainous slopes reflected the terroir, the unique blend of soil and weather that produced some of the best wine grapes in the world.

  Leaves rustled behind her, and Caterina turned. It was Vino, Santo’s fluffy white sheepdog. “Hey, boy, are you following me?” She bent to scratch his neck. His eyes implored her to play.

  “Not now, boy, but I’m going to miss you.” After a moment, he scampered off, sniffing around, but something soon spooked him, and he began barking and darting around the hillside. Birds squawked overhead at his antics and circled around him.

  Caterina glanced around and shivered. Despite the ruckus, the vineyard was eerily still; hardly a leaf fluttered in the clear-skied morning.

  She strolled past winemaking equipment Ava had just purchased to modernize their method of processing grapes.

  The heavy oak door to the wine cave had been left open for ventilation. She’d often taken solace here as a child. Blinking from the bright sunshine outside, she hesitated at the entrance to adjust to the dim light within.

  She hugged her bare shoulders in the cool, humid air and breathed in the complex scents jostling for prominence: French oak barrels, aging wine, stone, and soil—the musty scents she loved. No matter how warm it was outside, it was always cool in the cave, the near-constant temperature sheltering the precious wine stored within.

  The cave had been burrowed into the side of Howell Mountain decades ago. Gray stone walls led to a curved ceiling, and the cave splintered into branches. As a child, she used to slip away and hide there with her books and blankets, reading late into the evening until her mother or Raphael found her. The cave had been her refuge, but today something seemed off-kilter.

  Just my nerves. Maybe it was because the cave sparked so many memories of Santo. She glanced around, thinking about how much she would miss it here.

  Vino began howling outside.

  She strolled past oak barrels stacked against the cellar walls, her tennis shoes slapping on the cool stone floor, admiring the smooth, precision-crafted French oak barrels, each one identified and marked. The markings on the barrelheads were called the cooperage. They identified where the wood came from, the barrel size, and the name of the cooper, or barrel-making company. The char, or firing rendered on the interior of the staves, which imparted flavor to the wine, was also included in these markings, among other details.

  Allier, Vosges, Tronçais—each barrel was stamped with the name of the French forest where the trees were grown. The toasted oak imparted flavors of vanilla, clove, and other spices, which lent a unique signature to their wine. They were one of only a few wineries in California that insisted on such expensive barrels.

  She passed the chardonnay—another one of their wine specialties—and turned into a different branch of the cave, where bottles were resting at the perfect incline for aging. Seeing no one, she turned back toward the cabernet barrels.

  When her parents had immigrated to the United States, her mother had brought with her some of the coveted rootstock from her family’s vineyard in Bordeaux. Caterina thought about how her mother had nursed the rootstock through her travels from France to Italy and across the Atlantic Ocean to America. Out of habit, Caterina knelt, checking the barrels, making sure there were no leaks. They were all full and dry.

  “Buongiorno, Caterina.”

  Caterina yelped, startled at the sight of Santo. She caught her breath, trying to rein in her emotions. “You might have warned me,” she managed to say. She thought he’d gone, but he must have been staying in Raphael’s cottage at Mille Étoiles. She’d been with Juliana yesterday. Why was he still here?

  “The lights were on.” Santo hesitated. “It’s been a long time,” he said, his deep voice dropping another notch. “You look good, Cat.”

  She took a step back as if to avert the magnetism that always drew her toward him. Even in the dim light, Santo’s vivid blue eyes shone like twin sapphires against his tanned skin, searing through the defenses to her heart as they always had. His cotton shirt and worn blue jeans hugged his body, which still looked firm and muscular beneath the cloth. She swallowed, instantly nervous. “Why are you here?”

  “Raphael wanted to see me.” He paused, taking in her face as if memorizing every feature. “And Juliana called, said I should come back for a vintner’s reception.” He moistened his full lips. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I didn’t think anyone would mind if I took a couple of bottles of wine. I wanted to get an early start on my way back to Davis.”

  Caterina couldn’t think of how to respond.

  She stared at the labels on the wine bottles he held in his hands. Howell Mountain Cabernet, 1953. “That’s the wine we blended,” she managed to say, touching a label. “That’s what I came to get, too.”

  “Then you take these.” He handed the bottles to her. “I want you to know, that was the best summer of my life.”

  Memories surged through her. Then why didn’t you return my calls? She wanted to scream. Instead, she averted her gaze to conceal the hurt in her eyes. “Vino must have followed you. Guess that’s why he was acting strangely.”

  Santo looked at her curiously and nodded. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” He stooped to inspect a seam on a barrel.

  Caterina’s despair was so intense it was almost palpable. She wanted to flee—as she had at the party—but her feet remained rooted to the spot. She tilted her chin in defiance of her emotion, yet she couldn’t deny her feelings for him. For nearly as long as she could remember, he had been an important part of her life.

  Born in Montalcino, Santo had lost his parents when he was just a baby. As a small boy, he was passed from one of his father’s relatives to another in Italy and then sent to New York to live with yet another. At the age of ten, he arrived at Mille Étoiles to live with his older cousin Raphael, who had become like a father to him.

  From the moment she’d met S
anto, Caterina had been intrigued by him. His independence, his soft Italian accent, the thick dark hair that curled around his collar. She’d taught him English; he’d taught her Italian. He’d once slain imaginary dragons alongside her here in this cave. Memories poured like salt into her reopened wounds as she recalled how close they had once been.

  Until her mother had stepped in, calling her relationship with Santo improper. You’re growing into a young lady, her mother had said. Time to leave your childish ways and childhood friends behind. By that, she knew her mother meant Santo, not Juliana. Santo, the farmhand, the boy without family. Unacceptable to her mother.

  And now, so was she.

  Satisfied with the seal on the barrel, Santo stood and trained his eyes, which were an arresting shade of lapis lazuli blue, on her. The silence between them was awkward.

  “I would’ve thought you’d be married by now.” Instantly, she regretted her words.

  “Marriage is an important, lifelong commitment. Not one I take lightly, cara.”

  Cara. Caterina remembered with a sinking feeling the last time he had used that term of endearment.

  “And you? I saw you with Ted at the party.” His expressive eyes didn’t waver from hers, and she sensed sadness in his voice.

  She shook her head. For some reason, she couldn’t get her words out now. Everything she’d thought of saying to him over the past two years—all the angry tirades, admonitions, confessions—suddenly vanished. Instead, she simply drank in the nearness of him.

  Santo reached out and trailed a finger along her cheek. “Can you ever forgive me for forcing myself on you?”

  “But you didn’t.” Their desire had been mutual. Involuntarily, she pressed her cheek to the warmth of his hand. How many times had she yearned for his touch? For him? But he had denied her. Did she wish they’d never made love? At first, when she couldn’t reach him, she’d often wished that, but after Marisa was born, she’d never regretted it, even though her challenges had multiplied. A lump formed in her throat, and she took a half step back. “I called you. I wrote to you. Many times.”

  Santo blinked hard. “I know.”

  “Then why didn’t you answer or call me back?” Why did you leave me? Yet she knew the answer. If he’d ever loved her, he wouldn’t have broken off their relationship. Even now, her heart was still raw.

  “I’m truly sorry, Caterina.” His voice sounded burdened.

  What’s done is done, she decided, steeling her mind. She was leaving for Italy soon. She cradled the wine he’d given her in her arm, angling her head from him to hide her anguish.

  “Why did you run away from me at the party?”

  A torrent of emotions rushed through her. Where should she begin? But the words lodged in her throat.

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “Then I guess this is good-bye.” He turned to leave.

  Caterina longed to call to him, to dash after him, to bare her soul to him and tell him about their baby. But her voice faltered, and her feet remained immoveable.

  As she watched him walk away, she heard a low rumble that sounded like a subterranean train hurtling toward them.

  Santo whirled around, and they stared at each other in fear for a split second before a sharp jolt knocked them to the ground. The wine bottles Caterina held crashed to the floor, and shards of glass projectiles shot through the air. Red wine splashed onto the stone floor.

  The ground beneath them rippled like pudding, and Caterina screamed as she skidded across the vibrating stone floor. She stretched a hand to him. “Santo!”

  Santo struggled to stand, but the ground continued to swell and shift beneath him. He clawed his way toward her.

  The earth beneath her heaved upward, and the stone floor shifted with the motion, rolling like liquid lava.

  The cave creaked on its ancient footings as ceiling stones loosened and fell around her. Behind her head, barrels shifted and gave way, careening through the cave, bouncing off walls. The barrels snapped and spilled their contents; wine sloshed around them. She blinked, rubbing dirt and wine from her face and eyes. Shifting with the rolling motion, Santo poised to leap toward her.

  The magnitude intensified, and another jolt shot through the earth. An earsplitting roar erupted from the earth, and Caterina watched with horror as a crack in the stone floor widened beneath her legs. She scuffled back from it, her arms over her head, evading barrels. Any one of them could kill her. The gash widened, and Santo dove across the gap to her, darting through the rocks falling from the ceiling into the crevice. “Keep your head down!” he shouted.

  With Santo holding her, she staggered to a wall, and she and Santo pressed themselves against it. Caterina curled into herself, and Santo wrapped his arms around her, shielding her.

  The lights overhead blinked, threatening extinction. The seismic shaking continued, and all around them, wooden barrels and glass bottles rattled and smashed to the ground.

  The earth seemed to sway forever. They watched the scene, helpless to defend themselves against the destruction that unfolded around them as if in slow motion. The lightbulbs overhead popped, and Caterina and Santo were thrust into darkness, a terrifying complete blackness that blotted out everything but the screeching, crashing sounds surrounding them.

  Caterina clung to Santo, and his grip on her tightened. She heard him whispering a prayer and realized her lips were moving along with his words. Is this the end? Squeezing her eyes shut, she sent up a fervent prayer for Marisa’s safety. Oh Lord, forgive me. I should have told Santo about her.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the earth ceased rumbling, and the cave was quiet, except for the steady dripping of wine.

  After a moment, Santo rolled off her, and Caterina slumped against the wall.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, feeling her limbs in the dark. “Anything broken?”

  “I … I think I’m in one piece.” She felt her wet scalp and found a tender spot. “I think I feel blood. Or wine.”

  He touched her head, examining the wound. “It’s a small cut. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” he said, helping her to her feet. “There’s a lot of glass around us. Do you have your shoes on?”

  She nodded and then realized he couldn’t see her. “I do.”

  Santo gripped her around the waist. “Stay with me.”

  They fumbled through the dark, feeling their way in tiny steps. Santo brushed debris aside with his shoe before each step. It seemed to take forever before they crossed the crack in the floor, which was now littered with rocks. Caterina coughed on the dust swirling through the air.

  Santo stopped. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She could hear the worry in his voice. She cleared her throat. “Keep going.”

  They made their way to the entrance but found the door had swung shut. Santo felt for the door handle. When he turned it, the massive oak door didn’t budge. He shoved a strong shoulder into it, then the full force of his weight, but the door was jammed. “The hill must have slid,” he said, slightly winded. “We’re trapped.”

  “Shh, what’s that?” On the other side of the door, rocks clattered amid a dog’s mournful whines and plaintive howl.

  “That’s Vino!” Santo cried. “Here, boy! Come on, Vino, dig us out!”

  A moment later, whimpers of pain replaced Vino’s howls, and his digging stopped. Santo pressed his ear against the door. “He sounds hurt.”

  Caterina cupped her ear to the thick door. “Oh, poor baby.”

  They heard more whimpering. Then nothing.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Vino! Vino!” Santo shouted. The dog’s anguished moan floated through the door. “He sounds hurt; I think he needs help. Vino!” They listened again and heard a few more cries.

  Santo banged on the door. “Vino!” Silence. “He must be hurt pretty bad.”

  Caterina sucked in a breath. “Do you think—?”

  “I don’t know.” He called to the dog, but there was no respons
e.

  “We might have died,” Caterina said softly, and she touched his shoulder. Overwhelmed with emotion, she thought about Marisa. Is she safe? What about her mother and Raphael, Juliana and Nina, the O’Connell family?

  “That was a big one,” Santo said.

  “There should be candles on the tasting table,” Caterina said, turning in that direction. They had a long table and chairs set up in another branch of the cave for wine tastings with buyers and important clients. They felt along the cave wall, crunching over bits of glass, until at last Caterina knocked her shin against a table leg.

  Rocks littered the tabletop. She felt her way through the wreckage, found a candle, and then picked her way to a spot where a cabinet should have been. She took another step and stumbled onto it. “There are matches in the cabinet, but it seems to have fallen over.”

  “Got it,” Santo said, hefting the cabinet onto its side. “Here we are.” He struck a match between them, illuminating their faces.

  Santo’s face was smudged, his hair was coated with dust, and his shirt was torn. His eyes—Marisa’s eyes—were rimmed in red and shone with such concern for her that she felt like bursting into tears. She swallowed and realized she must be a mess, too. She smoothed strands of hair from her forehead and averted her gaze. “Here, light this candle.”

  He touched the flame to the wick, and the room flickered into view. Caterina found another candle. “Wait on that one,” he said. “Might have to conserve our light.”

  She nodded and brushed away nervous tears. It would take time for someone to find them and then dig them out. She wished she’d never come here this weekend. She only wanted to be with Marisa and take her far, far away to someplace safe where no one would judge them.

  She wished she could confide in Santo. He had already rejected her in favor of another woman—his soon-to-be wife, evidently—but she couldn’t handle his rejection of Marisa, which she figured likely. She chewed her lip, tasting blood.

  She thought of Juliana’s words. He has a right to know. Santo had no idea what she was concealing, though she had no intention of telling him right now, not after her mother’s dreadful reaction, and certainly not before she left for Italy.