The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  A wooden crib stood in the center of the room, and a few toys were neatly arranged as if waiting for the baby. Santo stepped inside, raising the lamp to get a better view. A pastoral meadow scene had been painted on one wall. Little brown rabbits were nestled among blades of grass, and bluebirds and robins perched in a lemon tree. Pink hydrangeas and vining roses covered a stone wall, over which a white-maned pony hung its head.

  “Someone was quite an artist. They must have loved this baby very much.” Caterina crossed the room and pushed a closed drapery aside to let more light into the room. Marisa would love it. With the draperies closed for many years, the painting had retained its bright colors. Santo lowered the flame.

  He picked up a wooden toy giraffe, its paint peeling with age, and inspected it. A string with a tag was looped around the neck. “These toys were never used. They still have handwritten price tags.” He glanced around. “This room feels odd—I’m getting a sense of déjà vu.” He spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Maybe you had toys like that when you were young. They’re probably common here.”

  “Guess so.”

  Caterina touched the detail work on the crib’s railing, which was covered with fine dust grit. She lifted a neatly folded blanket in the crib to brush her hands off. A tin sat beside it. She shook it, and sweet powder sprinkled into the air. “Look, powder for the baby.” She turned to Santo. “I wonder who lived here.”

  Santo scooped up a carved toy truck that just fit in the palm of his hand. The wheels spun on a wire axle. He pocketed the truck and shook his head, sadness filling his eyes. “That poor child lost his parents here. Or maybe he died, too.” Their eyes met in mutual understanding. “I can’t stay in here. Let’s move on.” He increased the flame as he went back into the darkened hallway.

  Caterina clung to his arm. Her heart beat faster as they approached the last door.

  He pushed it open and waved the lantern to and fro. “What’s that?”

  A dressmaker’s form stood near a window, and a dingy white flowing dress covered the padded form. “She must have been making a dress.” Caterina walked over to it. Steel pins still protruded from the fabric.

  “You’re about the same size.” Santo stepped into the bedroom.

  A sliver of daylight beamed through a partly open drapery, throwing shadows across the room. “Spooky. This is what people have been seeing through the window. Not a ghost.” Caterina glanced around. A rose-colored marble fireplace anchored the room, undoubtedly vital in the cold winter months at this elevation. Pillows rested on the rumpled bed, and a door to an armoire stood ajar. Next to the fireplace was a writing desk with candles and a lantern. Italian newspapers and clipped articles were stacked to one side, and a thick folder rested next to them. Boxes were stacked to one side.

  Caterina glanced at the papers. “Giovanna said she’d helped Violetta bring some boxes and papers here. That must be them.”

  The light from the open window was growing dim as the sun edged closer to the horizon. “Santo, bring the lamp closer.” Caterina brushed years of dust from the paper on the top. There was a photograph of a house—this house—on the front page. It was well kept, but unmistakable. As she read the text beneath it, she pressed her hand against her mouth. Oh, dear God. A chill settled on her. No wonder the locksmith had acted as he did. “Santo, you need to see this.”

  “What is it?” Santo put his hand on her shoulder and peered over. “Omicidio.” He looked up.

  “Homicide, isn’t it?” Caterina met his eyes. Her nerves tingled.

  “That’s right.” He repositioned the lamp to continue reading. “A man was murdered in his home. And his wife preceded him in death. She died in childbirth. Their names were—” He sucked in a shocked breath, and his grip on her shoulder tightened.

  “Franco and Natalie.” Caterina nodded as she spoke, shifting under his sudden clutch. Why the reaction? she wondered. His hand began shaking.

  “My father was … murdered?” Santo drew his hands over his face and blinked in disbelief. He turned her to him, his face ashen. “You knew about this?”

  Caterina blinked. His father? Santo was clearly confused. Wasn’t he? “I met some women on the train who live in Montalcino. They told me the story of Franco and Natalie Sorabella.”

  “No, you mean Casini. My mother’s maiden name was Sorabella.”

  Caterina’s lips parted in astonishment. Natalie had died in childbirth. She’d assumed the child had died, too. “They were your parents?” She felt weak, and the room seemed to waver around her.

  Santo put the lantern down on the desk and sank onto the edge of the bed, its springs squeaking under his weight. Obviously distressed, he shook his head sharply. “I was told they died in an accident. This is like a kick in the gut.” He took the newspaper from her.

  “Then that was meant to be your nursery,” Caterina said, stunned. Questions swirled through her mind. Santo’s face was turning a deep shade of crimson as he fought to control his raging emotions.

  He read on. “They were renting a house from the Rosetta family.” He drew his dark eyebrows together in consternation. “Luca Rosetta was charged with the murder of my father. It happened here, in this house.”

  Caterina slumped next to him on the bed. She swallowed hard, trying to sort it out. What had Susana said on the train? “The ugliness began when Natalie became pregnant,” Susana had told her. “Luca became even more obsessed with her. He doted on her so much that many suspected he was the true father.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and her face crumpled as an unspeakable realization set in. Could Luca be Santo’s real father?

  Ava was right. This was horrific, and a thousand times worse than she’d ever imagined. A wave of misery crashed over Caterina, and she felt sick to her stomach.

  Santo scrubbed his hands over his face. “This is crazy.”

  “I had no idea.” She took his hand in hers. His hand was ice cold, and he wore an expression of shock. And he didn’t know the half of it. “My mother never said anything.”

  Santo shook his head. “Her husband—your father—murdered my father.” At a loss for words, he stared at Caterina.

  She tightened her grip on his hand for strength. Her father had killed Santo’s father? She shook her head in bewilderment, trying to piece the parts together. No, that isn’t exactly right, is it? She had trouble drawing in a breath. “Raphael never said anything to you?”

  Struggling through his feelings, Santo blinked hard. “He always told me that my father died in an accident.”

  “I guess they didn’t want to hurt us.” Caterina’s head pounded. The gruesome puzzle was coming together, and the picture was unfathomable.

  She felt dazed as the ghastly events took shape in her mind. If Luca was his father, too … oh God, no. Alarm seized her as the revelation settled into her bones, numbing her limbs. Now she understood why Ava had so vehemently denied Santo when he’d asked for permission to marry her daughter. Her mother’s words flooded back to her. Ava didn’t loathe Santo; she desperately feared the outcome if they fell in love and wanted to marry. Caterina squeezed her eyes shut. And that’s exactly what happened.

  When she opened her eyes, the room seemed to swim before her.

  Santo’s gaze fixed on a spot as he tried to process this information. “Growing up with one parent is enormously different from not having parents at all.” His voice was edged with pain long suppressed. “I never had a home; I never belonged anywhere. I was passed from one relative to another whenever they tired of me. You have no idea how I suffered as a child.”

  “But you’re no longer a child, Santo.” Caterina tamped down the hysteria coiled within her, ready to burst. “You’re a successful, grown man who will soon start his own family.”

  “And now we know the truth Ava and Raphael were concealing.” He rubbed his brow in confusion. “Not that it changes anything between us, cara. But this is a shock.”

  “A shock,” she echoed, stupefied. Re
morse crushed the breath from her, and she dragged a hand over her face. Once, a long time ago, they had confided everything to each other. Now she was keeping secrets of such magnitude from him that he might never forgive her once he knew.

  “Look at all this.” Santo reached for another news article with a later date and continued reading. “Luca Rosetta was released from prison after it was determined to be an accident caused by mental duress.” He thumbed through a stack of correspondence. “These are letters between your grandmother and the attorneys and judges. Pleading for his life. What about my father’s life?” A vein throbbed in his temple.

  Caterina caught her breath. Had it been an accident? Giovanna had warned her about Luca. The fact remained; the father she’d grown up idolizing had killed a man. He was a murderer. And yet, as atrocious and abominable as that thought was, it diminished in comparison to the dilemma that loomed before them.

  “That explains why Violetta paid for my passage to America. And why she left me a vineyard in her will.”

  Reeling from the discovery of facts she’d never imagined, Caterina clutched her throat, mortified. Feeling trapped, she sprang from the bed, pacing, her heels making sharp clicking sounds on the hardwood floor. From the moment she and her mother, terrified of societal and familial ostracism, decided to conceal the truth, their lives had been destined for ruination.

  The weight of their deception crushed her soul, and Caterina swayed on her feet. Recasting the past had met with grievous consequences. She swung around. The walls seemed to close in on her, threatening to extinguish their lives. “I’ve got to get out of here!” she cried, racing to the door, panic engulfing her.

  What will Santo say when I tell him about Marisa? About us?

  27

  NAPA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

  As soon as Ava hung up the phone, she raced from the house to find Raphael. She spied him at the top of a rise and ran toward him, kicking up dirt behind her. Vino trailed her, barking in her wake at the excitement. When she reached Raphael, she flung her arms around him with glee. “We’ve won, we’ve won! Caterina and Santo did it!”

  Raphael gave a victory yelp and flung his straw hat in the air. He caught Ava in his arms and whirled her around, her pink skirt flaring in ripples around her bare legs. They fell against one another, laughing with relief. Vino joined in, jumping and barking at the celebration.

  “Now we have a chance,” Ava said, pushing her loose hair from her forehead and clasping a hand to her chest. “They spoke with a reporter from The New York Times. Our clients are bound to read about it.”

  “This is the break we needed.” Raphael set her on her feet and stood with his arms on her shoulders. “Did the kids call you?”

  “No, Juliana called. She said they’d telephoned from Paris.” Still winded, Ava looked into Raphael’s eyes. “I wish Caterina had called me.”

  “You and Caterina need to talk.” Raphael rested his arm across her shoulder and pulled her close to him. They strolled along the ridge of the mountain, with Vino trotting behind them.

  Ava had told Raphael and Nina about Caterina and her baby. She threw a glance at Raphael. “I don’t know how to reach her.”

  “Call Giovanna. She’s probably still staying at Violetta’s villa. Even if she isn’t, Montalcino is a small village. Caterina wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

  Ava was ashamed of how she’d treated Caterina. She’d had time to think about her reaction to Caterina’s announcement. When her daughter needed her the most, Ava had shunned her.

  She had made her own mistakes when she was young.

  Ava remembered when she’d met Luca. He was dashing and spontaneous and so much fun. And I had been so vain, so sure of my loveliness, an innocent girl who knew nothing of the cruelties of men or of life or of the payment that would be extracted from me for having such feelings.

  That was the truth. La vérité. If I had only known it then. She’d deeply regretted her mistakes and had tried to make sure Caterina wouldn’t make the same errors.

  Ava bent to scratch Vino behind the ears. “I wish she’d confided in me when she was pregnant. I’d always thought we were so close.”

  “She feared your reaction,” Raphael said gently. “You lied to her, too.”

  “You weren’t entirely truthful with Santo.”

  “No, and I regret that. We were shielding them. Perhaps too much,” Raphael added.

  “Caterina wants to know about her family.” As she thought of all the love and memories she’d deprived her daughter of, her shame grew. Ava had also felt the loss of her friendship with Giovanna and the love that Violetta had had for her. There would have been letters and photographs and telephone calls exchanged. Christmas and birthday gifts for Caterina and maybe even a visit from Giovanna. She shook her head. “How could I have told Caterina her father was a murderer?”

  “Did you have to paint him in such a glowing light?”

  “I only wanted her to be happy. It started out innocently enough. She was a little girl and began asking questions when she went to school.”

  “You have a grandchild now. What are you going to do about that?”

  Ava grew quiet, thinking about Marisa. She’d missed the first year of her life. How scared Caterina must have been going through pregnancy and labor without her mother. She remembered how she’d felt.

  “It’s time I found forgiveness in my heart. We’ve just won a wonderful accolade. We should be celebrating now as a family.” Ava made a resolution to forgive Caterina, but would her daughter forgive her, too?

  MONTALCINO, ITALY

  Caterina stepped out of the car, feeling light-headed as she walked to the front door of the villa. Giovanna hurried ahead of them to speak to her sister Alma, who was still at the villa looking after Marisa.

  Caterina was relieved to return to the villa. She’d missed Marisa so much the past few days in Paris. And she’d thought of little else since the discovery of her family history in the cottage. She was particularly worried about how Santo would react to meeting her. But a larger dilemma now gnawed at her. Was he really her half sibling?

  And could they risk the chance? The church would never condone their marriage, and their children would be ostracized. She didn’t know of any priest who would baptize children of incest. More than that, close marriages within families heightened the risk of deformities. She could not, in good conscience, willfully inflict physical or mental impairments upon children she might have. Though if she had such a child, she would love it all the same.

  A thought struck her. Has Marisa been affected? Caterina quickened her step.

  “Slow down,” Santo said, encircling her waist with his arm. “I’ve been thinking—the vineyard Violetta left me is next to yours. Despite what happened at the cottage, we could renovate it together, and bottle our own Brunello for export.”

  Caterina caught her lower lip between her teeth. That was a beautiful dream, but most likely that’s all it would ever be. As each day passed, that vision crumbled a little more. A life together had been within their grasp, but fate had intervened.

  As they approached the front door, Santo went on, “Cara, I refuse to hide our relationship anymore. When we return to Mille Étoiles, let’s tell your mother and Raphael about our love. And there’s no reason we can’t be married soon.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, caressing her skin.

  At his tender movement, she sank against him, drawing strength. “Santo, whatever happens, I want you to know how much I love you.”

  A smile lit his face. “Caterina, don’t be so bleak. There’s nothing we can’t overcome together.”

  What a quaint thought. Yesterday she would have agreed.

  Giovanna reappeared at the front door and held it open for them. “I love having the two of you here. Santo, I hope we see more of you.”

  As Caterina walked inside, Giovanna surreptitiously pressed a hand against Caterina’s forearm.

  “That’s entirely probable.” Santo be
amed. “You see, I’ve asked Caterina to marry me.” He took Caterina’s hand in his.

  “Why, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!” Giovanna exclaimed, eyes darting between them as if in question. “We’ll celebrate this evening. As for now, why don’t you both change out of your traveling clothes. Santo, I have a room ready for you. Have a good hot bath and relax.”

  “I could think of nothing better right now,” Santo said, rubbing his neck. It had been a long overnight journey from Paris.

  Caterina kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s meet in the salon later. I have something I must tell you.”

  She hurried upstairs and lifted Marisa from her crib, kissing her face and hugging her to her breast. “My little darling, I missed you so much.”

  “Mama,” Marisa said, her eyes brightening. She laughed and flung her little arms around her mother’s neck.

  Knowing what she did now—that Marisa might be a child of an incestuous relationship—Caterina rushed her dear child to the window, where sunlight illuminated her face.

  Cradling Marisa in her arms, she hurriedly examined the sweet face she knew so well and the strong limbs that propelled her child forward with such glee. Lively intelligence shone in her eyes.

  She let out a tiny breath of relief, though she would have to scrutinize her daughter from now on for any sign of physical or mental impairment or symptoms of illness. The history books were full of references to serious illnesses of those who were the product of close family relations. But Marisa looked happy and healthy in every way that Caterina could see.

  Giovanna and Alma tapped on the door.

  “Come in.”

  “We want you to know that Marisa has been such an angel.” Giovanna’s face was lit with joy. “We’ve enjoyed looking after her. We gave her a bath and washed her hair last night. She had such fun in our big cast-iron tub.”

  Caterina stared at the sisters. What did they know about Luca and Natalie? Although she dreaded doing so, she had to ask them before she spoke to Santo again.