by Jan Moran
“Mille étoiles,” Ava murmured. A thousand stars. With or without her husband, she was home.
22
SEPTEMBER 1956 — PARIS, FRANCE
“Merci, monsieur,” Caterina said. She paid the taxi driver and stepped out, taking care with her ebony suit and high heels. She peered up at the eighteenth-century, town house–style hotel. Its discreet canopied entry was flanked by a small army of bellhops in gold braid–trimmed uniforms and smart caps. The palatial Hôtel Ritz was the centerpiece of the Place Vendôme, an octagonal expanse in the 1st arrondissement of Paris.
Any other time, Caterina would have been excited to visit the legendary hotel, but today she was on a mission. Gripping her precious cargo close to her, she entered the hotel and followed the directions she’d been given to the salon where the judging was to take place.
Anxiety welled within her. She shook off thoughts of old letters, her father, and the past to focus on the competition. If their wine placed or won, it could mean the difference between the continuance or demise of the Mille Étoiles wine label.
To her left was a bar decorated in the Victorian style with red velvet armchairs and dark polished wood. The Ritz Bar teemed with a collection of interesting-looking people. There were handsome businessmen in dark suits and starched white shirts and stunning women in slim suits, wearing gloves, stiletto heels, and veiled hats.
The scene was elegant and lively. As Caterina hurried past, she recalled the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco. She missed her old friends, but this was her life now. She pressed the brass elevator button with determination.
The gilded lift seemed to take forever to arrive. Nervous at the thought of the event, she chewed a corner of her lip until she realized she was destroying the makeup she’d applied so carefully in her hotel room. The door slid open, and an attendant opened the ornate accordion gate for her.
A minute later, she stepped from the elevator and hurried to the lavish powder room to repair her matte red lipstick. Thick carpet muffled her footsteps, and gilt-edged mirrors sparkled with her reflection. She breathed out, regained her composure, and compulsively checked the wine in her bag again.
After a last glance in the mirror, she was on her way. She found the meeting place and opened the door.
She paused at the entry. The salon was full of the crème de la crème of the European wine industry. She recognized a French couple who had visited Mille Étoiles a few years ago while on tour in California. The woman was impossibly thin and smoked a cigarette in a slim gold cigarette holder. The portly, swarthy man seated next to her glared at Caterina. The Morels. They had been rude, Caterina recalled, lifting her chin. They’d belittled their wine and winemaking methods at Mille Étoiles. Ava had sworn she’d never let them back on the property.
Caterina swung her gaze away from them and nodded to a man seated at the reception desk.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the host said. He was a man of medium height with dark-framed glasses, and he exuded an air of restrained sophistication. Bottles with familiar labels stood on tables, while people greeted one another with familiarity.
“Bonjour.” Caterina introduced herself.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Rosetta of Napa, California.” A few people turned to look, curious about the intruder from California. The man pressed his lips into a thin line. “On holiday, are you?”
“No, I live in Montalcino now.” The Morels were smirking, sliding their gaze in her direction and talking to other people at their table. She ignored them. “I’m here to see Victor Devereaux.”
A bushy eyebrow shot up at the mention of the event organizer’s name. “He’s quite, ah, occupied.” Other people in the room cast surreptitious glances in her direction. It was as if she had shouted a vulgarity during High Mass.
Caterina would not be deterred. She took advantage of her height; with her high heels, she towered above him by a head. She pursed her red lips and glared down at him through half-lidded eyes. “I’ll wait.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid.” He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “His schedule is full.”
“He is expecting me. I’m from Mille Étoiles winery in Napa.”
“A California winery?” His tone indicated that such a thing was preposterous. More disapproving heads swiveled in her direction.
“Oui.” Caterina remained immoveable.
“Non, non, non,” the man said, touching the arm of his glasses as if an adjustment in his eyeglasses were surely required, for he couldn’t believe the oddity before him. “He has important business today.” The host turned his back to her.
“Indeed he does. I’m here.” Caterina quickly determined she had nothing to lose by matching his impudence. She noticed a trim, handsome man at a far table staring at her, a smile flickering on his lips. I hope they’re all enjoying this. She also hoped her face wasn’t flushing, and then she decided she didn’t care if it was.
The host expressed a puff of air and turned back to her, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “This event is for serious winemakers, not schoolgirls dabbling in grape juice. Please leave at once, mademoiselle.”
The future of the heritage she cherished hinged on her ability in this moment. She swallowed her fear. Caterina raised her brow in a slight, haughty movement she’d often seen her mother do.
“I have an invitation to see Victor Devereaux,” she began, speaking in English and then switching to perfect, rapid-fire French, her voice rising just as her mother’s did. “And I will not be deterred. If you do not present me to him, then I will visit him at his home this evening to explain why I am interrupting his private time with his family. I am sure he will not be pleased by your insolence, which is clear evidence of your fear of the quality of our wine. Reserve your judging for the wine, monsieur.”
The Morels laughed out loud. The host’s face reddened, and the distinguished man from the back of the room broke out in laughter. He began clapping slowly and made his way to the front of the salon. “Bravo,” he said, now standing in front of her. “What a performance.”
Caterina maintained her composure. If she was going to be thrown out, she’d do it with style. “And you are…?”
“Victor Devereaux,” he replied with a slight bow, his eyes twinkling. He had the golden tan of a man who spent idle time in Deauville, and the upper-crust manners of a Parisian. “My wife’s family is from Bordeaux. I recognized your accent.” To the other man, he said, “Pierre, you may be excused. Mademoiselle Rosetta and I have business to discuss.”
Caterina caught her breath, hardly daring to believe that she’d pierced the inner circle. Inclining her head, she said, “I’m glad I amused you.”
“This way,” Victor said amiably, indicating a nearby table. “I’m curious to know what brings you so far from home. Please, have a seat.”
Caterina eased into a chair, gently placing her bag next to her. She turned her back to the Morels. “I’ve come to enter our wine from Mille Étoiles.” She took care to speak clearly, even though he had switched to English. “We have won several important contests in North America.”
A smile played on his face. “And how did you learn of our competition?”
Caterina told him about the editor of Wine Appreciation magazine. “Gilbert Waters thought we should enter.”
“Really? I know him quite well.” He leaned across the table and spoke earnestly. “You understand this is a blind judgment, yes? If your wine is not of sufficient quality—no disrespect intended, mademoiselle—then it might prove disastrous for your business.” He slanted his head over one shoulder toward a small throng of men and women. “We have members of the press here.”
“Je comprends.” Caterina knew the risk involved.
“Well, then, let’s see your wine.”
Caterina reached into her bag and handed a bottle to him.
As he studied the label, a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “This château, I’ve seen it.” He looked up at her. “This is the estat
e of Alexandre-Xavier de Laurette, a marquis.”
“My mother says our home in Napa is modeled after her childhood home in the village of Pauillac.” Ava had told her about the village, which was situated in the much-heralded wine-producing Médoc region northwest of Bordeaux.
“The property was sold some time ago.” Victor looked interested. “Was Monsieur le Marquis your grandfather?”
Caterina shrugged. After what she’d been through in Italy, being marked as a murderer’s daughter and shunned by his family, she was hesitant to admit to any relatives. “My mother left France when she was young. She and my father came from winemaking families in France and Italy.”
“I see. Well, I’ll have to taste before entry is allowed, you understand?” After Caterina nodded, he motioned to a young woman, who hurried to the table. “Odette, have this bottle opened so I can sample it.”
While the woman was gone, Victor asked Caterina several questions about their vineyards in Napa. He seemed quite interested in California and its climate, soil, and wine industry. They discussed the terroir, and Caterina mentioned the recent earthquake.
“Un tremblement de terre?” he intoned, and he shuddered. “Years ago I was in a large earthquake in Argentina while I was visiting friends. Earthquakes are God’s way of getting our attention, but wine is our way of coping with the aftershocks.” The woman returned with a crystal wine goblet.
Caterina held her breath. This was the moment she’d dreaded.
Victor swirled the wine, inspected the color in the light cast by chandeliers above, and inhaled the bouquet. He stared at her above the rim of the crystal.
Caterina lowered her eyelids, trying not to appear too eager, and waited for his opinion.
He said nothing. He drank a small measure of wine, letting it flow over his tongue, his expression grave and thoughtful. At last, he gave an almost indiscernible shake of his head.
She caught it and released the breath she’d been holding. The answer was non. It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but she had to accept it. He was the final authority on entry. Arguing for a place on the ballot would not serve her well in the future.
“Merci,” she murmured. A hot flush of embarrassment encircled her neck. She could hear Madame Morel’s dismissive comments behind her. She reached for her bag.
“D’accord, we will accept this wine,” he said, his manner pleasant but noncommittal. “Please wait outside the salon, and the verdict will be given later today. Odette will escort you and notify you of final judging.” He stood up, signaling the end of their meeting. “Merci, mademoiselle—bonne chance.”
For a moment, Caterina thought she saw a pleasant expression flicker in his eyes as he wished her luck. “Merci, monsieur.”
As she sauntered from the room, she felt all eyes on her. She tilted her chin and shot a look of triumph at the Morels. She might not be welcome, but she knew Mille Étoiles made a damn fine wine. It was a beautiful reflection of the terroir and was aging superbly. They had achieved a high degree of excellence.
She and Santo. And the family they had created in America. With berries that Raphael had painstakingly grown and harvested; on land to which Ava had devoted her life; from vines her mother had brought from Bordeaux, through Montalcino.
More than that, the love she’d always had for Santo was manifested in their wine. After this vintage, there would never be another wine of its quality from Mille Étoiles. In her heart, she knew it was synergy between them that had created the magic of this vintage.
The decision was up to the judges now. With the frosty welcome she’d received, she was relieved the identity of the wines would be concealed during judging.
Odette ushered Caterina to a public lounge area before returning to the salon. Caterina walked to a chair upholstered in red velvet and rested her fingertips on the silky fabric. She smelled cigarette smoke behind her.
“So you are here to steal more secrets from us?”
Caterina swung around, nose to nose with the despicable woman. “Madame Morel. As I recall, you were the one asking questions of us.”
Monsieur Morel came to the defense of his wife. “Doesn’t matter. Your land, your climate, your methods—it is all inferior. It shows in your wine.” He waved a hand in dismissal.
Caterina bristled. “We shall see, won’t we?”
Madame Morel blew smoke in Caterina’s direction. “You’re wasting your time here.”
“Only with you, Madame.” Seething, Caterina whirled around, anxious to get away from the venomous pair.
Other vintners milled about, masking their anxiety with small talk. Caterina cut through the crowd and strode to the open-air courtyard. She sat on a stone bench under the cool, leafy canopy of a flowering tree, composing herself. Surrounded by potted calla lilies and topiaries, she breathed in the calming scents of nature. She settled in for a long wait.
A couple of hours later, Caterina noticed a familiar masculine profile—thick hair, strong cheekbones, broad shoulders—belonging to a man in a trim dark suit wedging his way through a crowd near the doorway. She blinked. Surely her nerves were playing havoc with her imagination.
It can’t be.
But it was. Santo angled through the swarm of tourists. He was walking straight toward her, his gait charged with determination, gravel crunching beneath his polished shoes. Her senses went on high alert. One didn’t just fly halfway around the world on a whim. Her hand flew to her chest, and her pulse raced. Has something happened at home?
“Santo, you’re here. What’s wrong?” she demanded, rising. “Is it my mother?” Her thoughts raced to Luca. Had he hurt her? No, no …
Santo placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheeks. “Relax, cara, I came to help.”
“All that way?” She plopped down and expelled a breath. How dare he worry her like that.
Santo executed a brief, facetious bow. “And a good afternoon to you, too, mademoiselle.”
“I don’t need your help.” She tilted her chin but slid a long glance at him. She’d never seen him in a suit before. Why does he have to look so handsome? So … she searched for a word. Aristocratic, even.
“I’m well aware of that.” A dark brow shot up. “This is a significant competition.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Juliana called me.”
She loved her dear friend, but Juliana was pushing the boundaries of their friendship again. “I can’t believe she did that,” she muttered, crossing her arms. What was she going to do with Santo here?
“Don’t be angry at her. Juliana told everyone. She’s a publicist; that’s her job.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m handling this just fine. I don’t need you barging in, acting like a hero.”
“I see your point, but I promised Raphael I’d look after the entry. It’s vitally important—financially important—to everyone at Mille Étoiles.” He joined her on the bench. “At any rate, I thought you might like to have some company. That wine is our baby—yours and mine. I want it to win as much as you do.”
Caterina cringed when he used the word baby. She tapped a heel on the ground. “They’re judging now.”
“So they told me. Seems you made quite an entrance. Madame Morel had some choice words about you.”
Caterina made a face. “She and her husband came to Mille Étoiles. They were so insulting my mother asked them to leave.”
“Figures.” He laughed. “Any idea what the competition is like?”
“The best from Bordeaux, of course. There are five premier cru red wines—the first growth—they’re all here.”
“From Médoc?”
She nodded, worrying the ends of her hair in an old nervous habit. “And Château Haut-Brion, I saw them, too. I recognized the winemakers from photos. All the important houses from France are here. A few from other countries, too. I’ve seen others waiting and heard them talking.”
Santo rested his hand on hers; she didn’t resist. “We have a
n excellent wine, Caterina. It deserves to be among this company. It can only improve, you know.”
As she looked at him, his intense, lapis lazuli blue eyes sparkled in the slanting afternoon sun, weakening her resolve.
He traced a circle on the back of her hand. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about how we might handle this situation if we don’t win.”
“No!” she cried, removing her hand from his. “Don’t jinx it.”
Santo chuckled, and she remembered how she used to say that when they were children. And that was the trouble with this situation, she realized. Nearly every happy childhood memory she had was tied to Santo Casini.
He cleared his throat to speak—his voice sounded a little hoarse, but it was sensual, too. Why did he have to come here?
Before he could respond, a young woman approached them. “Mademoiselle, Monsieur Devereaux requests your presence in the salon,” she said. “The judging is complete.”
23
When Caterina and Santo walked into the ivory-and-gold-mirrored salon where the judges and winemakers were gathered, Caterina felt stares of ridicule and heard whispers. How dare an American winemaker enter such a prestigious contest? Who does she think she is?
Santo heard the comments, too, but he didn’t understand French as well as she did. “There are the Morels. What are they saying?” He bent his head close to hers. “Whatever it is doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.” She translated the remarks. “As you heard, my entrance wasn’t particularly well received.” Though her words were edged with bitterness, she was warming to the fact that he was here. At least she wasn’t alone. But it didn’t mean she had to fall for him again. “Our wine gained entry into the competition, and that’s all that matters.”
Santo touched her elbow. “Let’s sit in the back. If we have to make a fast exit, we’ll be in position.”
Caterina stepped away from him to compose herself. “What can they do to us?” She shrugged. She’d already suffered unkind remarks. Only Victor Devereaux had accepted her as a worthy competitor. An unsettling thought struck her. Perhaps he wanted to make an example of her, show the world how loathsome American wines really were. Was there another side to Victor Devereaux?
