The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  When they arrived at the brasserie, Santo suggested they sit outside in a tiny courtyard to one side of the red-canopied restaurant. They sat next to each other at a small table by a stone wall covered in pink climbing roses.

  Caterina removed her jacket, revealing her slim-fitting dress.

  “I didn’t realize you had that on underneath.” Santo trailed a finger along her bare arm. “You’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman, Caterina Rosetta.” He tapped her temple. “And a damned smart one, too. What you pulled off at that competition was incredible. Who would have thought to do that but you?”

  Caterina gazed at him from under the brim of her hat and laughed. “I believe those are the nicest compliments you’ve given me. And the books and perfume, why, I feel utterly spoiled.”

  “You deserve to be,” he said, his deep voice dropping a notch. “Besides, we’re celebrating. How often do we do that?”

  White lights twinkled above them. From their vantage point, they could observe other couples strolling by. Caterina rested her chin on her hand, watching the stylish women of Paris parade past in their creative ensembles and fashionable hats.

  “I thought you said you were starving,” Santo said, snapping her out of her trance.

  “I am.” The pastries hadn’t alleviated her hunger. She looked at the menu. Everything sounded delicious. “How can I decide?”

  “Let’s try a few things.” Santo squeezed her hand.

  “How about l’assiette de charcuterie,” she said. “With country pâté, duck prosciutto, caramelized onions, and cornichons.”

  “I thought you’d order the escargot.” He winked at her.

  “Absolutely, with herbed butter. Oh, and the huîtres chaudes, too.”

  “Oysters?”

  “Oui, avec des épinards et une sauce à la crème de Champagne.” She laughed. “With spinach and champagne cream sauce.”

  For the main course, Santo ordered filet au poivre, a steak with peppercorn and cognac sauce. Caterina decided on a small Niçoise salad and cuisses de grenouille à la Provençale.

  “Is that what I think it is?” He made a face.

  “It’s one of my mother’s favorite dishes. Very hard to find in America.” She leaned forward. “And the soufflé au chocolat for dessert.”

  “Just in case we’re still hungry,” he said, laughing.

  Caterina ordered for them, and they settled back to enjoy a bottle of Bordeaux wine that neither of them had ever tried. Strains of jazz floated through the air from a window above. Caterina fixed the scene in her mind to recall later. The only missing part was Marisa. In a perfect world, they should be laughing and talking about their little girl, too.

  Before they parted for good, she would tell him about his daughter.

  “You look like you’re a thousand miles away,” Santo said, interrupting her thoughts. He raised his glass to her. “Here’s to the continuance of Mille Étoiles Wines. And to us.”

  She sipped her wine, wondering if he’d meant anything else by that. When they’d made the telephone calls from the Hôtel Ritz, he hadn’t called his fiancée.

  He smiled at her with Marisa’s eyes, and she felt their old kindred spirits emerge. This was the first time they’d been alone—on their own—for as long as she could remember. No Mille Étoiles, no family, no friends. She reached under the table and twined her fingers with his. A connection sparked between them. He might hate her in a few days, but tonight—and the next couple of days—she planned to cherish.

  It was a welcome respite from tough decisions, financial pressures, and family ghosts.

  They enjoyed everything they ordered, but they were sure to leave room for the luscious soufflé au chocolat, which was served with crème anglaise. They sipped café pressé and watched people walk by, laughing as they recalled childhood escapades.

  “And do you remember the time the three of us dressed up for Halloween as Dracula,” Caterina said, “and scared Nina and Raphael to death?”

  “It was a long time before I lived that one down.” Santo chuckled. “Raphael thought the ketchup we drizzled on the ground was blood from one of his dogs.”

  “Oh, no, I’d forgotten that part. We screamed, and Nina thought one of us was hurt. I think Juliana was grounded for that.” The smile slipped from Caterina’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Santo took her hand. His eyes were twin pools of vibrating, electric blue. Caterina had to look away. It was as if he could see all her secrets. “So many memories,” she murmured.

  “And most of them good. Come on, you must admit that.”

  “Thanks to you. It would have been awfully lonely at Mille Étoiles without you.”

  “You had Juliana. She’s like a sister to you.”

  “But you were the one who always found trouble.”

  “Me? Ha! You were the instigator,” Santo said. “I’ll never forget when you led the expedition to search out secret tunnels in the mountains. Those old, neglected wine caves from Prohibition were pretty spooky.”

  Caterina lifted a corner of her mouth. “Do you remember the ghost wineries?”

  “I was convinced those abandoned wineries were haunted.”

  “I think some of them were. Remember how we scared Juliana one night, dressing in sheets and brandishing flashlights?” She laughed again.

  “Yeah, I think I was grounded for that one.”

  “Well, if Juliana hadn’t broken her arm when she jumped…”

  “Poor little thing.” Santo pushed out his lower lip. “She put on such a brave face that day.”

  “The way you splinted it, I thought you’d be a doctor someday.” Caterina looked at him with admiration. He’d always acted quickly under pressure. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, to the full lips that curved so easily into hers.

  As if reading her mind, Santo slid his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her toward him; a moment later, his mouth was on hers.

  Caterina sank into the moist warmth of his kiss.

  He dragged his lips to her throat, and she tilted her head back. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do here in Paris—the city of lovers—on a warm summer evening. She met his lips again, and all her worries evaporated. His mouth tasted of dark chocolate, rich coffee, and dry Bordeaux wine.

  “Ready to go?” His voice sounded husky.

  Caterina nodded. They strolled through the streets, their arms wound around one another. With her high heels on, she was nearly as tall as he was, and he stood a few inches over six feet. Even though they’d never had the chance to walk together like this—sharing one another’s company in the open—it felt natural to her.

  They’d spent most of their young lives together, but never like this. If it weren’t for his fiancée, would their relationship have developed in their real world?

  They wandered into a couple of art galleries that were open late, and before long, they found themselves at the Place de Vosges, a pretty square in Le Marais surrounded by elegant redbrick townhomes and anchored with a rippling, tiered stone fountain in the center. Lovers lingered around sepia edges of golden light that spilled into the grassy, tree-lined area and footpaths. Murmured endearments floated in the sultry night air.

  Santo stopped by the fountain, reached into his trouser pocket, and flipped a shiny franc into the water.

  “What’s your wish?” Caterina asked. She pressed her hands against his chest, enjoying the feel of his muscular body. The moon bathed them in a soft glow, and Caterina felt as if they were alone in a world of their own.

  Santo cradled her face in his hands. “Caterina, don’t act like you don’t know.”

  25

  When Caterina and Santo returned to the inn, Madame Robert was still at her desk. After they greeted her, she murmured, “L’amour, l’amour … l’amour n’est pas mort,” and kissed the photo of a man on her worn, gold-leafed Louis XV registry desk. Love is not dead.

  Caterina paused before climbing the stairs. “Your husband?”


  Madame Robert, wrinkled as a raisin, pursed her lips and winked again. “Non, non, Jacques was my lover. If I’d ever married him, it would have ruined our relationship.” She brushed her hands together. “My husband had his affairs; I had mine.” She delivered this intimate information without remorse, as cheerful and casual as if Caterina were inquiring about the weather.

  “Sure are different attitudes in France and America,” Santo said, chuckling.

  Caterina elbowed him.

  “What? Sex is healthy between two people in love.”

  “Good night, Madame Robert.” Caterina clasped Santo’s hand behind her back and slinked up the stairs ahead of him. His passionate kisses at the Place de Vosges had aroused her long-dormant ardor.

  “Nice stockings,” he said, drawing a finger down the rear seam of her silk hosiery.

  Caterina paused at a landing near the top and gave him a small half smile before she continued up the last flight, putting a little extra sway in her hips.

  She hesitated at the top of the stairs. Santo encircled her with his arms. Sliding her hands down his chest, she could feel the sensuality that flowed through his veins like velvety wine into a decanter, breathing oxygen into her soul.

  She’d never met another man like Santo Casini. Did she dare steal him away from the life he’d planned?

  His heartbeat matched the rapid rhythm of hers. An antique wall sconce illuminated his strong forehead and cheekbones.

  His eyes held a question for her.

  A slight lift of her brow and a dip of her chin was all the confirmation he seemed to need. He opened the door to his suite and then locked it behind them.

  His room was as beautiful as hers. Santo nuzzled her neck as he helped her remove her jacket. Slowly she peeled off her gloves and then removed her hat, shaking out her hair. Turning into him, she touched his lips, tracing them as if to memorize the curves and fullness.

  With a lingering glance, she crossed to the balcony and flung open the tall doors, flooding the room with moonlight. The sounds of Paris drifted in. From a nightclub across the street came a pianist’s tune of longing, while bells tolled the hour and the laughter of lovers bubbled from the sidewalk. Here and there, taxis beeped their warnings.

  A pair of crystal balloon snifters sparkled on a low table, and Santo poured a measure of cognac from a decanter for them. “Nightcap?”

  “Merci, monsieur.” She brought the glass to her nose and breathed in the bouquet of the golden elixir. She raised her eyes to him. “Cognac is the perfume of wine, a salve to the senses.”

  He brought his face to hers and kissed her with such passion that she was stirred to her core. Any trace of reticence she might have had instantly evaporated.

  Caterina reclined on a chaise longue by the open doors. A balmy breeze ruffled the soft fabric of her dress, and the moon highlighted her skin. She stretched her long legs to the end of the chaise longue.

  Santo trailed his hand along the length of her legs, admiring the sheen of her silk hosiery. “Hypnotic,” he murmured.

  His breath quickening, Santo loosened his tie and then removed it, along with his jacket. Resting a hand on the chaise longue, he paused to savor every curve of her magnificence. “This is quite different from our first time in the cave.”

  A throaty laugh rumbled in her chest. “We were children then, weren’t we?”

  “We still knew what we wanted.”

  Lowering her eyes, she murmured, “Much has changed since then.”

  “Has it really?” Santo skimmed the length of her bare arm.

  As Caterina responded to his touch, he inched closer. She pulled him to her. His lips were warm and moist and sweet with the taste of cognac.

  After a few minutes, she turned her back to him and lifted her hair, piling it onto her head. Beginning at the neckline, Santo lowered her zipper, revealing her new lacy black bustier and a matching garter belt.

  He let out a low whistle. “Were you expecting me?”

  She stood and let her dress fall to the floor. “I went shopping this morning. I wanted to feel the romance of Paris from the inside out.” She gave him a mischievous smile—the smile of a woman, not the girl she had been before she’d taken control of her life.

  Santo took her hands in his and stepped back to admire her. “I’d like to enjoy this for a while. But not too long.”

  He left her to shed his clothes and retrieve robes from the armoire. When he returned to her, Caterina laughed. He was wearing a pale silk robe.

  “They’re both pink.” He draped the other one around her shoulders. “Another drop of cognac?”

  “Oui, merci.” She strolled outside onto the balcony, her heels tapping the floor.

  Caterina leaned against the stone balustrade and gazed out over the city spread before her, its lights shimmering like diamonds. She’d dreamed of Paris for years. When she’d planned this trip, she’d thought she’d be alone. She glanced over her shoulder, hardly believing that Santo was here with her.

  This man—he was a new version of the Santo she’d known; he seemed wiser and more experienced. He even carried himself differently—a new air of confidence cloaked him, and it fit him well. She remembered how they had played together as children, exploring and laughing and teasing one another.

  It is so different now?

  She didn’t know what future awaited them, but tonight was a night she would treasure forever.

  The sky rumbled, and a flash of lightning lit the sky. Sensing the energy in the air, she turned her back to the rail and slid her hands wide against it, angling a leg and arching her back. “What do you think?” she asked playfully.

  “I think you’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen.” Santo paused in the doorway as a clap of thunder split the night. “Even the gods are applauding.” He pushed the cognac aside, stepped outside, and whisked her into his arms. His mouth crushed against her lips as a light rain dampened their faces.

  Caterina matched the intensity of his kiss. Minutes later, momentarily sated, she turned her face to the sky, catching raindrops in her mouth. “Look, the angels are crying with joy for us,” she said, laughing, as they clung together, relishing the sensation of one another, rain soaking through their thin robes.

  They raced inside and tumbled to the floor, their bodies entwined with passion. Santo threw a blanket to the floor, and her fervor for him heightened. As before, once aroused, there was no turning back, and Caterina and Santo were swept into a private world of ecstasy.

  Afraid of becoming pregnant again, she’d asked him to be careful, and he complied with her wishes, though it was excruciating for both of them. She hoped they’d been careful enough.

  After they’d made love, Caterina swept her hands over the length of his nude body, remembering the first time they’d been together and marveling at how he’d changed. His chest and legs were muscular, firmly developed from exercise. She touched his throat and chest with her lips until he groaned again with pleasure.

  Curled into the crook of his arm, she felt his hands exploring her skin, which was damp with perspiration. When he touched a mark on her hip, she stiffened and rolled over, shifting her body away from him. A slight stretch mark from her pregnancy flanked both hips. She’d quickly lost weight, returning to the size she had been before Marisa was born, but a woman’s body often bore the telltale signs of childbirth. Does he recognize what they are?

  “Hey, where’re you going?” Santo threw a weary arm across her. “Stay with me. I love you, cara.”

  “I love you, too,” she murmured. A few moments later, he drifted off, and Caterina molded her body to his. She thought about finding a sheet to cover herself, but with the fresh, rain-cooled air placating their warm, spent bodies, she quickly fell into a deep slumber.

  * * *

  “The lilies smell so sweet,” Caterina said. She stooped to smell a brilliant bouquet of white blossoms at a street vendor’s stand. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face and tucked
it into a bright, printed silk twill scarf she’d bought the first day she arrived in Paris. She had tied the scarf at the nape of her neck. She added the flowers to an armful of creamy ivory and soft pink roses she’d already selected. A brief sunrise shower had misted the flowers, enhancing their aroma with a veil of fresh moisture.

  “Be careful that the orange lily stamens don’t stain your white sundress,” the vendor said as she wrapped the flowers for Caterina.

  After she left the flower stand, Caterina strolled through the narrow stone streets of the Marais district on her way back to the hotel. It was such a beautiful morning. I haven’t felt this happy in years. She hated to see it end so soon.

  “Bonjour,” she said to the hotel manager. Madame Robert hadn’t minded when she gave up her room and moved into Santo’s suite the next morning. They hadn’t left the room at all the next day, and they were famished when they’d finally dressed and gone out for dinner.

  The woman was singing to herself in a low, sultry tone as she wrote in her record-keeping log.

  “What’s that song?” Caterina thought the tune sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  A slow smile curved on the woman’s lips. “It’s called ‘La Vie en Rose,’” she replied. “Édith Piaf wrote it. You might like Marlene Dietrich’s version, too.”

  “It’s a haunting melody.”

  “And one of my favorites. It’s a love song about a woman who sees the world in rosy hues when she’s with her lover.”

  Caterina plucked a pink rose from her bouquet and gave it to her, kissing the woman’s lined face. “I know exactly how she feels. I’ll have to find that record before I leave.”

  “Merci.” Madame Robert lifted the flower to her nose. “Go upstairs, your man is waiting for you. Enjoy him.” With a knowing look, she placed the rose beside her lover’s framed photo.

  Caterina started up the stairs. Never had she imagined that her visit to Paris would be as wonderful as this. Today she simply wanted to enjoy Santo and Paris, a small slice of the sweet life that might never come again.