by Jan Moran
The evening chorus of crickets rose in the undergrowth around them. Santo’s liquid blue eyes held the most sorrowful expression she’d ever seen. He grasped her hand, clenching it firmly to his breastbone. His hand was clammy, his breathing labored. “Tell me how you found out.”
It was natural for Santo to want details, so she summoned the strength to tell him. “I first heard the story on the train to Paris from two women who lived in Siena. They spoke of Franco and of Natalie Sorabella, of their grand love and tragedy. I didn’t know your parents’ first names. I didn’t piece it together until the day we found the articles in the cottage, and you told me Sorabella was your mother’s maiden name.”
“I remember how ill you looked. Why did you keep this from me in Italy?” he asked, his eyes moist. His face was a mask of misery and confusion.
“I had to be sure, Santo. How could I break our hearts unless I was certain?”
“I understand. The fault lies with Luca.” Santo stroked Caterina’s long, loose hair. She leaned deeper into him, and he pulled her closer. “But this will never change how I feel about you, Caterina.”
His heart beat wildly against her skin, and she couldn’t imagine living without his touch, his kisses. A fresh torrent of tears welled in her eyes. Yet the fact remained; Marisa was the child of an incestuous relationship, however unknowing they had been. She could not perpetuate the relationship. Waves of anguish swept through her; her heart was breaking from the tidal force. “I will always love you, Santo. You are Marisa’s father. But we cannot do this; you know that.”
Santo lifted her chin, cradling her face between strong, capable hands that had stroked her with tenderness and coaxed passion from her body. “I respect that, Caterina, but being apart doesn’t feel right to me either.” His brilliant eyes were rimmed with red, and his voice cracked as he spoke. “If you were truly my half sister, I honestly believe I would know in my heart. How can I ever accept this?”
“We must.” The pain within her was so excruciating, it was as if her heart were being ripped from her flesh. “Marisa can’t help what we’ve done.”
“In my heart, I don’t believe this, cara. I know you do, and so do others. But I swear to you, I will find the truth and dispel this absurdity.”
Hot tears pooled in her eyes, and she clutched his shirt, shaking her head in despair. “And if this is the only truth you find?”
Flexing his jaw, Santo raised anguished eyes to the dark, inky sky above. “Then, God, I implore you, please kill me now.”
34
The aroma of simmering peach preserves wafted through the kitchen. Caterina scooped Marisa from her high chair. Her daughter’s beautiful, vivid eyes taunted her now, an aching omnipresent reminder of the love forbidden to her. Santo had visited Marisa the next day while Ava was out. Though their lips curved into smiles for Marisa, their eyes were glazed from torture and lack of sleep.
Rest had eluded her again last night, but the demands of life would not spare her. She moved sluggishly through the days. The busy harvest time was well under way now, and early reports from across the valley were as optimistic as their own results.
If only her future were as hopeful.
Sitting across from her at the kitchen table was Ava. Caterina thought her mother looked better today than she had in several days, though worry was still etched in the faint creases around her eyes. The trial had taken its toll on her. And none of them could forget the threat Luca had issued before he’d stormed from the courtroom. Everyone at Mille Étoiles will pay for this.
Caterina pressed a hand to her heart. God had no mercy for their crimes. Not for her, not for Santo, not for Ava. Her sins weighed on her conscience; it was time to confess.
The rear screen door squeaked open, and Raphael stepped inside. “Have to oil those noisy springs again,” Nina said, stirring a pot of simmering peaches. Sterilized jars stood ready to receive the peach preserves.
“I’ll see to it, Nina.” Raphael pushed his straw hat back on his head and deposited a stack of envelopes on the kitchen table. “Here’s your mail, Ava.”
Caterina saw her mother’s eyes brighten when Raphael walked into the kitchen. They were good for each other, and she was glad Raphael so obviously cared for her mother. The way Raphael had watched over Ava at the trial endeared him to her even more. At least someone had found love in their midst.
“Thank you, Raphael.” Ava’s gaze lingered on Raphael as they exchanged weary smiles.
They had started work long before dawn. All through the valley, the harvest was in full swing. Despite damage from the earthquake, vineyard owners had pulled together, assisting those whose equipment had been damaged. The grapes were in rare, exquisite form this year. A festive mood filled the region, from Sonoma to Napa to St. Helena. At Mille Étoiles, they had already started harvesting some of their younger blocks of vines.
Caterina stifled a yawn. Marisa wasn’t accustomed to the new time schedule yet, so she wasn’t ready for her nap. Nina looked after Marisa while Caterina worked alongside Ava and Raphael, overseeing the harvest and testing the grapes.
Ava picked up the mail and thumbed through the letters. She hesitated when she came to a scrawled letter. “Strange … what’s this?” She picked up a knife and slit the envelope open.
Caterina squinted at it. “Looks like an angry hand.”
Ava withdrew a letter, opened it, and gasped.
“What’s wrong, Maman?” Caterina held Marisa and looked over Ava’s shoulder at the paper her mother had dropped like a hot ember.
“It’s another threat.” Ava’s eyes flashed with anger.
Raphael placed a hand on Ava’s shoulder. “From Luca?”
“He didn’t sign his name, but I know his handwriting.”
Caterina shot a glance at Raphael, whose mouth was pressed in a determined line.
Ava read quickly, her expression turning to horror as she did. “Mon Dieu, our vines have been poisoned.”
“What?” Outrage seized Caterina. Harvest was in progress; they couldn’t harvest poisoned fruit.
Ava and Raphael traded a worried look.
“Despite the verdict, Luca still wants Mille Étoiles,” Ava said. “I know him. If he doesn’t get it, he will destroy it. And us along with it.”
“Poisoning the vines?” Caterina clamped a hand to her forehead in disbelief. “What kind of a person would do such a thing?” She pressed Marisa to her chest as if to shield her from peril.
A dry, hot breeze blew through the open kitchen window, lifting the yellow curtains and carrying with it an ominous air of danger. Caterina huddled around the table with Ava, Nina, and Raphael.
“Luca can’t be serious.” Raphael splayed his fingers across the letter they’d just received. As he read it again, he mumbled a curse in Italian.
Ava dabbed her face with the corner of a napkin. “This is not to be taken lightly. He warned us. And I know exactly what he’s capable of.”
Will Luca ever leave us alone? Caterina met her mother’s gaze, and for the first time in her life, she caught a glimpse of fear in Ava’s eyes.
Nina stirred her peach preserves. She peered out the window at the vineyards. “He could be out there now. We need to call the sheriff right away.”
Ava unfolded another piece of paper. “Wait. Here’s a map.” She studied the rows for a moment. “It’s the vineyard—the old, original block of vines.” She tapped near the center of the map where three plants had been circled. “We need to test these vines right away.”
“Those are some of our best vines.” A chill spiraled up Caterina’s spine. “But why would he include a map? Why would he even tell us?”
“He’s gloating, egging us on.” Raphael shook his head. “A man like that enjoys torturing people. He wants to watch us suffer. And we will. We’ll have to test all the vines. And possibly destroy them.”
Caterina sucked in a breath. “How can we possibly test them all?”
“Santo has access to tes
ting equipment. Luca won’t get away with this.” Raphael started for the telephone. Santo could use the sophisticated technology at the University of California in Davis, his alma mater.
Caterina felt her world shift on its axis. “Hasn’t Luca done enough damage to us?”
Ava leaped to her feet and grasped Raphael’s arm, finding strength. “This is a threat against our livelihood. If the vines are poisoned, people could die.”
Caterina listened to the calls. There was nothing more they could do until the vines were tested. She left the kitchen with Marisa and climbed the stairs.
Cradling her daughter against her shoulder, Caterina rocked her to sleep in Ava’s old rocking chair—the same pine rocker her mother had once soothed her in. She gazed at Marisa. They needed Santo’s expertise now, but his daughter would need him in her life.
Her mother had struggled to keep the vineyard alive through droughts, Prohibition, and economic depression. And now, her father might be the ruin of it. A hateful lump formed in her throat. He’d ruined her life.
Caterina squeezed her eyes shut. Marisa’s tiny heart tapped against her chest. She heard the telephone ring and then heard Nina call to her while climbing the stairs. Marisa was asleep, so she put her in the crib for her nap and met Nina at the door.
“Raphael and Ava went to meet the sheriff. They won’t be long, but Santo’s secretary is on the line. Will you speak to her?”
Caterina followed her downstairs and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Santo’s secretary told her that Santo was away from the office.
Clutching the phone, she said, “It’s urgent that we reach him. Do you know where he is?” Caterina listened. “Thank you. I’ll find him.” She turned to Nina. “Santo is nearby. He’s at the old winery above us. I’ll go. Can you please check on Marisa while I’m out?”
Caterina grabbed her purse and keys and raced to her car. Pressing the accelerator in her Chevrolet, Caterina whipped up the mountain roads. Her heart thudded at the thought of seeing him again.
What was he doing at the neighboring vineyard? It had been for sale for years. Did he have a client for it?
As she turned into a curve, an oncoming truck crossed the center line and headed straight for her. Startled, Caterina jerked the steering wheel to the side, barely managing to keep the tires on the mountain road’s edge as her wheels kicked rocks down a sheer drop beneath her.
“Get over!” she yelled, her frustration spilling out. The other driver yanked back his truck, scraping the side of the mountain as he overcorrected. Caterina peered into the window as the two cars whooshed by. A brimmed hat obscured the man’s face. “Someone’s been hitting the wine early,” she muttered, and then a thought struck her. Could that have been Luca?
She stopped her car in front of an old winery up the hill from Mille Étoiles. She stepped from the car, the dry earth dusting her soft-soled shoes. Santo’s Roman-red Corvette roadster and a white Cadillac were parked in front.
Built in the late 1800s, the property had fallen into disrepair and had been vacated during Prohibition. The property was known as a ghost winery. Not that it was haunted—though it could be, she thought, judging from the look of it.
Ava had once tried to buy the vineyard, but the owner was a crafty, chauvinistic old man who refused to sell it to a woman. He’d priced it so high that Ava couldn’t afford it. Other serious vintners were so incensed they boycotted him. Stories of cursed, haunted grounds grew, and soon, no one would touch the property. The owner lowered the price repeatedly, but the damage was done. With the price so low, everyone suspected the ghost stories were true.
By then, Ava refused to give the old man a cent.
The stone structure soared three stories high into the clear blue sky, much like Mille Étoiles. At the top of the peak, she glanced over her shoulder. The Pacific Ocean sparkled with diamond brilliance in the distance, its constant waves reassuring. She turned back to the house. Gaping windows yawned before her as if in slumber. Though it was run-down, she had such fond memories of the property. She and Santo and Juliana had played here when they were young.
Squirrels chattered to one side, scampering around, gathering their nut supply for the winter months ahead. At this elevation, the property would be blanketed under a layer of snow in the winter, the old vines dormant. The stress of the cold winter months was essential for the best grapes.
The more stress nature heaped upon the vines, the more flavorful the wine. The grapes, or berries, grew small and dense at this elevation. Less water in the fruit meant a higher ratio of skin to fruit within, and more skin meant more tannin, which imparted intense flavor to the wine. This was prime property.
Caterina swung on her heel, squinting against the sun. Old vines stretched before her, and acres of land ripe for new farming flanked the original vineyard. Her heart leaped at the thought.
She hurried toward the looming house. The front door stood ajar. She started to push it open but stopped. She could hear voices inside. She peered through the narrow opening and saw Santo. Instantly her body betrayed her, aching for the touch of Santo’s hand and the feel of his arms around her.
Santo and a woman stood in the middle of the room. The woman’s blond hair was swinging around her shoulders and gleaming in sunlight beaming through open windows. They were talking and leaning close to each other. Santo said something, and the woman flashed a blindingly white smile.
Caterina could smell the woman’s perfume from here, beckoning to Santo like a siren’s song. She had seemingly endless legs and a curvy figure.
A chill crept over her. This was no ghostly apparition, but her heart still lurched in alarm.
“When this was built,” the woman was saying, “it must have been one of the most beautiful homes and wineries in the valley. You’ll have to spend quite a lot of money to bring it back to its original splendor, but it’ll be worth it.”
The woman was right. Between rats and the passage of time, the house was rough. Caterina recalled the antiquated kitchen, which was probably unusable. The bathrooms were equally despicable, and the wallpaper was faded and torn. But the only thing the narrow oak floor needed was a good sanding and refinishing to bring it back to life.
Was this the plan Santo had mentioned before she’d confided her dreadful secret? Caterina edged closer to the door, straining to hear. How could she endure the agony if he lived so close?
Santo brushed a thick layer of dust from the moldings in the living room. “These were clearly the work of a fine European craftsperson.”
At the sound of his deep baritone voice, Caterina’s heartbeat escalated. She listened intently, hardly daring to breathe.
The woman stood near Santo, a hand on her hip. “The Mille Étoiles winery abuts this property; it’s just below.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “There are other properties we can look at that don’t need nearly as much work.”
“No, I like this one.” He sat on his haunches to inspect the wood floors. “Looks like red oak. Once restored, this house will be a real beauty.”
“Do you plan to do the work yourself?”
“Some of it,” he said. “I can get a lot done while the vines are sleeping.”
The woman smiled again; her sunny disposition was dazzling. “I’d love to decorate this. Could be awfully cozy up here in the winter with this incredible fireplace,” she said, her voice dropping a notch in a clear invitation. She leaned against a carved stone fireplace so large that a child could stand in it.
Caterina’s heart sank. The woman was gorgeous. What man could resist her? But Caterina had no right to Santo now. She leaned against the stone wall, grief-stricken.
Santo looked up with interest. “I’ll think about it. Lots of work to do first.”
The woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “What do you see in this house? It’s so dilapidated.”
“I like its location,” Santo replied.
Caterina watched him run his broad hands over the oak fl
oors—the same hands that had caressed her in Paris. She still ached with desire for him, though she knew her feelings violated everything she held sacred.
Caterina had played with Santo and Juliana on these grounds when they were young. They had even fantasized about living here. Years ago Santo told her that his goal was to buy this old stone winery and bring it back to its former glory. The elevation was ideal for cabernet grapes. Once she had even imagined their children roaming the adjoining properties.
Santo stood up and brushed his hands off against his denim jeans. “We could begin work on it as soon as harvest is over.”
The woman slid her hand down her tight skirt. “Why don’t we talk more over dinner?”
Santo put his hands on his hips. “Sure, let’s have dinner in town. I have a favorite place for good Italian food.”
“I’d like that.”
Just then, the woman’s expression changed. She’d seen Caterina. Santo turned and saw her at the entrance.
Caterina sucked in her breath and opened the door. She stared at the blond woman and then slowly swung her gaze to Santo, struggling to maintain her composure. “I saw your car outside. Raphael has been trying to reach you. We received a letter, Mille Étoiles is under—” She stopped short and shot a look at the blond woman, who seemed to radiate sunshine and sex. “You need to see him right away. Now. It’s urgent.”
Visibly unsettled, Santo’s eyes bored into her. “Caterina, what’s going on?” His face was masked with desire and anguish.
Caterina’s eyes burned with despair; just seeing him was excruciating.
“You’re Caterina Rosetta?” A smile played on the woman’s lips. “Your mother owns Mille Étoiles, right?”
Caterina shot her a cursory look. “Yes.”
The woman placed her hand on Santo’s arm in a familiar manner. “I’m Marilyn Mueller,” the woman said, extending her hand to her. “I’m a real estate agent.”
Caterina spun around. It wasn’t like her to be rude, but seeing Santo again, especially with this woman, was more than she could handle. What could she do? Nothing. Their family’s history would never allow them to be together.
