The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  They walked up the leaf-strewn path to the large wooden front door. She put Marisa down and withdrew a key from the pocket of her yellow seersucker sundress. Giovanna took Marisa’s hand while Caterina fit the key into the keyhole and tried to open the door.

  “I can’t turn it.” Caterina couldn’t wait to go inside and take inventory of the furnishings and repairs. She jiggled the lock and tried to turn the key the other way. “Now it’s stuck.”

  “Here, let me try it,” Giovanna said. “These old locks are temperamental.”

  “O-pen,” Marisa intoned, and banged her tiny fist on the door.

  Caterina stepped aside and took Marisa’s hand while Giovanna tried to coax open the door.

  “I can’t budge it.” Giovanna stepped back. “Maybe it’s a sign,” she mumbled.

  Caterina barely caught her words. “A sign?”

  Giovanna shrugged. “This house needs new life. You and Marisa will do that.” She nodded emphatically. “There’s a locksmith in town. We can go to his shop today.”

  Disappointed, Caterina picked up Marisa and walked to the side of the house. She rubbed dirt and grime from a window and peeked inside. “Oh, look, there’s furniture in here!” she exclaimed. “There’s a large wooden chest and chairs in the living room.”

  Her spirits soared. “I see wood beams in the ceiling, and there’s a brick archway leading into what’s probably a dining area or kitchen.” Caterina loved what she could make out and couldn’t wait to get inside. She’d start by cleaning and airing the house, painting the walls, and preparing a room just for Marisa. Ideas swirled in her mind. She wanted it to be a happy home with bright colors and lots of sun streaming through the windows.

  Yet a memory nagged at her. Her mother knew something about this cottage, but she wouldn’t say what had happened here. What mystery did these walls hold?

  “It was a pretty little place inside, as I recall.”

  “Why has it been vacant so long?” Caterina hoisted Marisa higher on her hip and started off for the vineyard. What had Giovanna meant by “a sign”? she wondered.

  Giovanna hesitated, biting her lip. “Violetta didn’t want to rent it out again.”

  “Why not?”

  “And here’s the best part,” Giovanna said, ignoring her question. She stopped at the edge of the property, smiling with pride. “Your vineyard.” Giovanna pointed out the boundaries.

  Caterina gazed over rows of impeccably maintained vines stretching across the hillside. Despite her questions, she was growing even more ecstatic over what she saw. “Someone is taking care of the vineyard. Looks like the grapes will be ready for harvest soon.” She inspected some of the tight grape clusters supported on sturdy, gnarled trunks. Bluish-black grapes shone to perfection in the morning sunlight.

  “Violetta leased the land to a winemaker. You can continue to do that.”

  “I plan to make my own wine.” Caterina had been hoping the vineyard went with the house and was overjoyed to discover it did.

  Caterina was thrilled at the prospect of starting her own vineyard. She’d been thinking about the equipment she’d need, the label she’d design, and a thousand other details. She couldn’t wait to start this step of her plan.

  This is our new life. Caterina gazed out over the property, letting this knowledge sink in. The vineyard was all she’d dreamed it would be. The house and gardens around it would require more work than she’d anticipated, but that didn’t dampen her enthusiasm.

  This was her first home—hers and Marisa’s—and she was utterly elated. She hugged Marisa to her chest, and then twirled around with her. “This will be our fresh start,” she said, happiness welling within her.

  As if she understood, Marisa laughed and flung her arms around Caterina’s neck.

  Giovanna laughed with them, and Caterina pecked her on the cheek. Although the relatives on her father’s side had spurned her, Caterina was so happy to have found a friend in Giovanna, who promised to help her learn her way around Montalcino and Tuscany.

  They decided to visit the locksmith right away, so Caterina followed Giovanna back to the Fiat automobile she drove. As Giovanna started the car, Caterina said, “I didn’t have room to bring many clothes, and I’d like to get some summer things for Marisa, too.”

  “After we meet with the locksmith, there are several little shops we can visit,” Giovanna replied.

  They drove into the village, and Caterina marveled at the narrow cobblestone streets that curved along the hillside. Stone structures covered with sturdy tile roofs stood joined as if supporting each other as they clung to the hilltop. Giovanna parked alongside a nondescript faded redbrick arched doorway, and they went inside. Giovanna greeted a wizened old man who was surrounded by piles of ancient doorknobs, locks, and skeleton keys. After she explained the situation, the old man shook his head vehemently.

  He turned his shaggy gray head toward Caterina. “You are the American?”

  Word got around fast in the tiny town. Caterina smiled pleasantly, clutching Marisa to her side. “That’s right.”

  He motioned emphatically as he spoke, punctuating his words. “That house is bad luck. The lock is keeping you out. It’s for your own good.”

  Giovanna cut him off, unleashing a tirade of reprimands and gestures. Caterina wondered, is this what had concerned her mother? She wondered again, What took place there?

  The locksmith looked indignant at first and then became sheepish under Giovanna’s continued admonitions.

  “Basta, basta,” he muttered, waving his hands.

  Giovanna turned to Caterina. “The locksmith will find time next week to repair the lock,” she announced, shooting him a stern look before they left.

  “He seemed awfully superstitious.” Caterina didn’t know whether to be annoyed or concerned.

  “We move at a different pace here than in America,” Giovanna replied, ignoring Caterina’s comment. “Would you like to walk through the fortress, and then we can do a little shopping for you and la bambina?”

  Caterina wished she could have gotten into the house today, but she was beginning to learn that here in Tuscany, time had an easy fluidity and was meant to be enjoyed. No one rushed about like those in San Francisco. Still, the old locksmith’s strange behavior lodged in her mind.

  They left the car and walked along narrow medieval lanes. Caterina marveled at the stone walls of the fortress, which Giovanna called la Rocca. They climbed high onto the ancient ramparts, taking turns carrying Marisa until their thigh muscles burned from the effort. Once there, it was worth it; the panoramic view of the undulating Tuscan countryside was astounding.

  “Look over there.” Giovanna gestured toward another mountain. “That’s Monte Amiata.” As they walked around the fortification, Giovanna pointed out the regions of Val d’Orcia and Maremma. “And there, across the Crete, is Siena.”

  Afterward they threaded their way back through stone-flanked streets and past the picturesque clock tower, whose bell tolled on the hour.

  Alongside a pretty piazza, Giovanna took Caterina to a little shop festooned with red awnings where she found several dresses and play clothes for Marisa. Next they went to another tiny, ivy-covered boutique that sold the sort of colorful, casual sundresses and skirts that Giovanna wore and Caterina had admired.

  Caterina selected a few skirts, added some bright sashes, and then chose a pair of slim-tapered cotton slacks, a casual white shirt, and a turquoise shirtdress.

  Giovanna held Marisa while Caterina tried on her clothes. Caterina emerged when she was finished and saw Giovanna hugging Marisa to her chest, singing a song to her. If only Ava had accepted Marisa as Giovanna had.

  Giovanna looked up and smiled. “If I’d had a child, I would have wanted her to be just like Marisa. She’s a sweet, precious girl. Surely Ava will change her mind.”

  “I hope so.” Caterina sat beside her and took her hand. She trusted this woman who had been her mother’s dearest friend. “Would you like to l
ook after Marisa for a couple of days?”

  Giovanna’s face lit with excitement. “I’d love to. You’d trust me?”

  “You’re part of my family, Giovanna.” Caterina squeezed her hand. She thought of the notes that Juliana had given her on the way to the airport, detailing the information that Bessie Waters, the editor’s wife, had relayed to her. “I have important business in Paris for Mille Étoiles, and you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  “What will you do in Paris?”

  “There’s a competition for wine, and I plan to enter ours from Mille Étoiles. If we can win, or even place, it will boost our sales.” And help save their winemaking business, even if they lost the property to Luca. She and Ava might not be speaking, but that wouldn’t stop her from doing what she could when her mother was threatened. The wine competition had been on her mind, and she’d read Juliana’s notes several times since boarding the plane to Italy. “However, I have to ask you for the bottles I brought.”

  After they left the boutique, they sat at a shaded table under a gnarled olive tree outside of a café. Red, pink, and white geraniums spilled from colorful painted pottery. Giovanna ordered wine and an antipasto platter of meats and cheeses.

  “Everything sounds delicious, especially the ragù sauce.” Caterina read the handwritten menu.

  “It’s good, but mine is better,” Giovanna said with a sniff. “Try the tagliatelle alla boscaiola—that’s fresh pasta with porcini mushrooms. It’s a traditional dish here in Toscana.”

  The owner, a jovial white-aproned man who smelled of garlic and oregano, brought them a carafe of red wine and a bottle of green extra-virgin olive oil from his farm. Giovanna poured a little into a fragrant puddle on a plate. “This is a specialty of the region, too.” She reached for a hunk of crusty bread.

  Marisa loved the farfalle pasta, and the owner brought her soft roasted red peppers, green beans, and sweet oranges.

  “This is absolutely delicious,” Caterina said. “I’ll have to buy a larger dress size in no time.”

  Giovanna smiled. “It’s how we always eat. Don’t worry about gaining weight; you’ll work it off once you begin renovating the cottage. Eat, relax, enjoy. This is how we live.”

  And that’s how it should be, Caterina thought, relaxing. The sun warmed her shoulders, and a light breeze flicked wisps of hair from her forehead. From where they sat, the view across the hillsides and valley was spectacular. In the distance, mountain peaks spiked the horizon. Caterina smiled and sipped her wine. What could be better? A thought crept into her mind. Sharing it with someone you love.

  After the main meal, Giovanna asked for cappuccino and cantuccini, a twice-baked oblong cookie with almonds and pistachios that Caterina knew as biscotto.

  As they ate, Caterina asked about her father, but Giovanna swiftly changed the subject. Caterina was disturbed that Giovanna wouldn’t share more with her, but she decided not to press her. Maybe she didn’t think it was her place, or perhaps the time wasn’t right.

  They languished and chatted for a long time. Giovanna talked about some of Caterina’s relatives. Two of her young uncles had died in the war, an aunt had died in childbirth, and one cousin was living in Austria.

  “Do you think they’ll ever welcome me?”

  Giovanna lowered her voice. “If they know Marisa is illegitimate, they will shun you. Our priest will not even baptize children born out of wedlock.”

  Caterina sat back, stunned. The simple life she’d imagined here vanished like smoke. “Marisa was baptized in San Francisco,” she said indignantly. “I’m tired of lying, Giovanna.”

  “Think of Marisa. Would you want her to go through life with the stigma of illegitimacy? Deprived of opportunities? No. Better to say your husband died in America.” She dipped her chin to make her point. “God will forgive your lie.”

  “Ma-ma-ma,” Marisa said, waving her hands.

  Caterina caught her tiny hand and kissed it. Maybe Giovanna was right. She might stand on principle, but she’d also vowed that no one would ever hurt her daughter. Though she hated to, she’d have to construct another fantasy if they were to live here. Regardless of where she went, she realized she’d have to live with her transgressions and conceal the past to start anew.

  After they returned to the villa, Caterina climbed the curved staircase with Marisa and put her in the crib for a nap. Marisa drifted off immediately, and Caterina quietly hung up her new clothes. She sorted through what she’d brought from home that would be suitable for Paris.

  Caterina was relieved Giovanna hadn’t opened the wine she’d brought from Mille Étoiles. She and Santo had blended a world-class wine. The tasting would be blind—none of the judges would know the origin of the wines. Will the French judges recognize a California wine? Nevertheless, she was determined to gain entry into the most important wine competition in Paris.

  A win would be an important step toward saving the Mille Étoiles wine business. It could also help her build a reputation here in Italy for her own wine.

  Caterina selected the most sophisticated outfits she’d brought with her—a black Christian Dior suit and a peach silk shantung dress and jacket. She packed her high-heeled pumps and rolled her strand of pearls in a silk jewelry bag to carry in her purse. When she was ready, she glanced around, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Marisa was still sleeping. Caterina folded her new sashes and opened a bureau drawer. Handmade linens filled the drawer, so she shifted them to make room. As she did, she felt a paper stuck in the rear of the drawer. She tugged it free.

  It was a thin envelope, yellowed with age. She placed it on top of the dresser, meaning to give it to Giovanna. But when she turned it over, there was something familiar about the handwriting. The letter n in Giovanna’s name had a little point on it, and the i in Italia had a large upper loop.

  Her mother wrote like that.

  Caterina looked closer. The postmark read New York City, 1929. Twenty-seven years ago.

  Curious, she lifted the flap. The paper crinkled with a faint musty odor. The letter inside was covered in spidery faded ink. She looked at the signature.

  Ava.

  Caterina smoothed the sharp creases as if she could brush away time—the years as well as the intolerance and misunderstandings that separated her and her mother.

  What was she like when she was my age? 1929. No, younger than I am now. And just married. Surely she had been full of hope and happiness then.

  She began to read, translating as she went.

  Dearest Giovanna,

  My dear cousin, I’m writing to you from the stateroom of our ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The sea is endless; never could I have imagined its sheer vastness.

  The relentless motion has added to my nausea. I have prayed to every saint I could think of—St. Rita, St. Anne, St. Gerard—and asked for the blessing and health of the tiny life I carry. I pray Violetta is right, that a child will complete us, make us a family.

  Long ago I forgave Luca for forcing himself on me before our marriage—or did I somehow invite his ardor? Even so, I cherished the child we conceived from that sinful union. If my miscarriage was God’s punishment, then I fear another one now.

  My heart aches at the thought of all that has transpired these last few months. Every day I pray for the souls of Natalie and Franco.

  How can I ever thank you for your kindness? Without you and Alma, I could not have survived the tragedy and Luca’s incarceration.

  I’ve tried to be brave about this journey, but alone in my stateroom I weep every night at the thought that I might never see my beloved France or Italy again. I understand and accept these terms that gained Luca’s release from prison—but my freedom has been curtailed as well.

  Nevertheless, I am committed to making the best of our exile. In the eyes of God, he is my husband, and I am bound to him until death.

  It pains me to confess this, but as soon as we set foot on the ship, Luca began to cavort with a group of
Russian aristocrats. I scarcely see him; when I do, he is far from sober. My only consolation is that the sale of alcohol is prohibited in America, except for religious and medicinal purposes. I never imagined that I would celebrate such a restriction, but in Luca’s case, it seems warranted. Nevertheless, I shall miss my wine with dinner—unless we find a way to make our own, I suppose.

  It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning now, and Luca still has not returned to our bed. He returns only to bathe and dress. My bruises serve as a reminder to not question his whereabouts anymore.

  I should not complain; I am grateful at least to have the money from my family’s estate. What would we have done otherwise?

  My warmest embrace to you,

  Ava

  Shocked by what she’d read, Caterina lowered the pages. The solid ground of the family she thought she knew shifted beneath her once again. She had never dreamed that her mother’s marriage was fraught with such difficulties.

  Ava’s letter also raised more questions than it answered.

  What had her father done for which he was incarcerated? Why was he released?

  It was hard to understand everything without knowing what had transpired before, but one passage struck a chord and she read it again.

  Ava was pregnant before she married.

  Caterina ran a weary hand over her face. The half-truths and outright lies were mounting on both sides of the divide between her and her mother. More than ever, she had to find answers to her past. Then a thought struck her. Were they more alike than different, after all?

  19

  The next morning after breakfast, fueled by her desire to find more letters from her mother, Caterina searched the guest room where she and Marisa were staying. When they’d first arrived, Giovanna had mentioned that at one time the room had been hers.

  While Marisa played near her with her painted blocks from San Francisco, Caterina pulled out drawers, crawled under the bed, and looked behind furniture. But she found nothing. Marisa clapped as she watched. She wore one of the new pink rompers they’d bought in the village, and Caterina had dressed in a turquoise sundress.