The Winemakers

by Jan Moran

  “You stupid bitch, look at where you’ve ended up. Dying in your own wine, now that’s justice.” He spun around and waved his bloodied knife at Caterina. “You, too, pretty one. Down on your knees, now.” His eyes lit with a wicked expression.

  Repulsed, Caterina knelt on one knee but remained ready to spring. She looked past Luca and saw raw determination in her mother’s eyes. Ava would not go down without a fight.

  Caterina calculated the distance between them, formulating a plan. She glanced down. They had to stay on the platform.

  “Other knee down, come on,” he said gruffly, waving the knife. “Ava and I have a date, and you get to watch.” His eyes glinted; he was clearly enjoying torturing them.

  Caterina put her other knee down.

  “There’s a good girl. Maybe I’ll save you for later. Or maybe I won’t.”

  As soon as Luca turned toward Ava, Caterina reached around and whipped the wine bottle from her waistband. Lunging after Luca, she swung with all her strength and made solid contact with his head.

  Luca wailed, cursing in Italian and flailing about. His knife clattered onto the catwalk, and he dove unsteadily after it, overshooting and crashing through the railing with his weight.

  Caterina jumped back, watching him teetering on the edge. Ava rushed toward him, hatred blazing in her eyes. “Maman, no!”

  Ava reached out to push Luca from the edge, but he caught her wrist as he fell back. Together they crashed from the catwalk and plunged into the vat, red wine splashing as they fought and gasped for breath. The knife wobbled on the planks and then fell in after them.

  Thinking fast, Caterina began to kick a long piece of the wooden railing. “I’ll get you, Maman.”

  In an instant, Ava disappeared under the surface.

  “No, you won’t,” Luca said, sloshing around. “We’re both dead now.” He leaned his head back and bellowed with morbid laughter. “What a way to go.”

  No! Had the carbon dioxide already claimed her mother? Panicking, Caterina was poised to dive from the platform when Ava resurfaced.

  Quick as a flash, Ava whirled around, flinging her arm across Luca’s neck.

  Luca’s eyes bulged, and he gripped his neck, an expression of horrified surprise on his face. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t. Ava threw the knife against the wall of the vat and began sinking again.

  “Hold on!” Caterina kicked the rest of the wood railing loose. She stretched flat onto the platform and angled it toward her mother. “Grab it, and try not to breathe.”

  “Can’t,” Ava gasped.

  Luca struggled a moment more and then slipped under the surface.

  Caterina grimaced. “He’s gone.” She knew her mother didn’t have long. “Come on, you can do it,” she commanded. She’d go in after her, but they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Ava caught the end of the railing and held her breath. Slowly, she dragged herself up.

  Caterina stretched her hand toward her. Come on, come on. Her mother was struggling to maintain consciousness. “You’re almost there; take my hand.”

  Ava blinked and shook her head. She was beginning to fade.

  They only had a matter of seconds. Caterina hooked her knees against a post on the catwalk and flung herself down backward, stretching her arms out to grip her mother’s hands. “I’ve got you,” she said. “Climb up on me to the platform.”

  “Let me go,” Ava said. “Save yourself.”

  “No!” Caterina cried. “We’re both going to make it. Think of Raphael and Marisa.”

  A moment later, her mother reached up and seized Caterina’s torso. Caterina supported Ava while she hauled herself onto the catwalk, grimacing in pain.

  Ava rolled over and gave Caterina a hand, yanking her onto the wooden planks beside her. They lay with their arms around one another, sputtering and crying and catching their breath.

  Luca had nearly claimed their lives again. “He would’ve killed us,” Caterina said.

  “At last, we’re free of him forever, chérie.”

  “Caterina? Ava? Where are you?” Santo’s voice rang out, and footsteps echoed through the building.

  “Above the vat,” Caterina called out.

  Santo raced into the room with Raphael right behind him.

  “Up here.” Caterina closed her eyes with relief.

  Santo bounded up the ladder. Caterina guided her mother toward the safety of his arms. Ava was dripping with red wine, and blood gushed from her shoulder. Santo helped her down, and Raphael embraced her, while Santo returned to aid Caterina.

  “What happened?” Santo asked. “We heard your screams.”

  “Luca came back to life.” Caterina’s feet touched the floor, and Santo hugged her close to him, rocking her in his arms in relief.

  Ava turned her face up to Raphael’s. “And Caterina saved me.”

  “Where’s Luca?” Raphael demanded.

  “My mother took care of him.” Caterina jerked her head toward the vat. “This time, he won’t bother us again.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Caterina rose at dawn to continue the harvest. As she inspected the grapes, she thought about Luca’s demise and their narrow escape. Raphael had rushed Ava to the hospital for stitches to her slashed shoulder, while Santo called the sheriff. The two men drained the wine vat to help the coroner remove Luca’s purple body.

  Caterina couldn’t watch. “That must have been a gruesome job,” she’d said to Santo after the coroner left.

  “It was.” Santo passed weary hands over his face. “But that man was not my father,” he insisted. “I would’ve known; I would’ve felt it. I will never believe that he was.”

  Luca was finally out of their lives forever, but he’d left a wake of destruction.

  At midmorning, everyone took a break from harvest duties, and Caterina walked to the house. Vino trotted beside her. Raphael’s radio was tuned to classical music, and the operatic strains of La Traviata rolled across the hillside, reminding her of Montalcino and Violetta.

  She was in the kitchen preparing a fresh pot of coffee and chatting with Nina when a knock sounded on the front door. “I’ll get it,” Caterina said, and made her way to the foyer, tucking her hair under her red bandanna. Vino followed at her heel. Since Luca had been on the property, the white sheepdog had stayed close to her and Ava.

  “I have a trunk for Miss Caterina Rosetta.” The brawny delivery man pushed a tattered cap back from his ruddy face.

  Caterina peered at the label on the steamer trunk. Montalcino, Italy. It was from Santo’s aunt Rosa. Her heart picked up a beat, and she held the door open for the man. Reinforced with knotted twine, the trunk carried with it the scents of age and Italy. Vino sniffed around it with caution.

  Pointing to a spot in the living room, she said, “Put it there by the sofa.” She thanked him and closed the door behind him. Standing before the large trunk, her mind whirred with anticipation.

  In Italy, Caterina had asked Rosa to search for any letters Natalie might have written. Perhaps she’d confided an affair with Luca or an attack to a friend or relative. But would such writings disprove—or prove—Santo’s blood relationship to her?

  Nevertheless, a wisp of hope wound through her. Had Rosa discovered something that would help them?

  Sunlight streamed through the French doors and rested on the trunk, illuminating the nicks and scratches it had sustained over years of use. Caterina fished a pocketknife from her denim dungarees. She rolled up the sleeves on her blue checked shirt and sank to her knees beside the trunk.

  She sliced through the strands of twine and brushed them aside. Vino lay beside her, watching. Running her hands over the lid, she imagined what lay within. Santo should be here, she thought, but she had to see what Rosa might have uncovered. She couldn’t wait, not a moment more.

  Praying she would find letters, Caterina rested her hands on the lid before she opened it, willing it to reveal its secrets.

  She drew a deep breath,
flipped open the latches, and lifted the lid.

  Rusted hinges creaked in protest while the aroma of dried lavender wafted from the trunk. The top tray fit snugly inside. Rosa had carefully wrapped packages in brown paper, tied them with twine, and labeled them. Natalie’s hair combs. Santo’s baby clothes sewn by Natalie.

  She picked up one marked family photos and unwrapped it to reveal several tintypes developed on thin sheets of iron and mounted in cardboard folders. Santo’s grandparents, one read. Other sepia photos of Natalie and Franco on their wedding day stared up at her. She smiled. Santo would cherish these. How thoughtful of Rosa.

  She riffled through the packages but found nothing to help her in her quest.

  Caterina tugged on the tray and lifted it from the trunk. On the top lay a letter from Rosa pinned to a tissue-wrapped package. She opened it and began to read. Rosa wished her and Santo a long life together, much happiness, and many babies. Caterina brushed errant tears from her eyes.

  She parted the thin tissue. Nestled among many layers was a puddle of ivory silk and lace. She cried out at the sight.

  Rosa had sent Natalie’s wedding dress to her.

  A dress she would probably never wear. Her heart sank at the thought.

  Caterina lifted the dress to her cheek, stroking the smooth silk against her skin. Wistfully, she held it to her shoulders.

  Maybe Marisa will wear this one day.

  “You’d look beautiful in that.” Santo’s baritone voice rang out from across the living room.

  Caterina flushed and dropped the gown in her lap. Vino barked and raced toward him, wagging his tail.

  Santo ruffled the fur around Vino’s neck. “Want out, boy?”

  He opened the door for the dog and then crossed the room and knelt beside Caterina. The scent of fresh grapes and warm sunshine clung to his skin. He rubbed her shoulders, and she swiveled her neck, enjoying the touch of his hands.

  Santo peered over her shoulder. “What’s all this?”

  “Your aunt Rosa sent some keepsakes from your mother.” She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye, remembering how she’d tried on the dress in Italy.

  “And this dress? It looks like a wedding gown.”

  Caterina nodded. “It was your mother’s.”

  Santo slid his hand over Caterina’s. “I’d love to see you in that,” he murmured.

  “Santo, please. We don’t know—”

  “I know that I love you,” Santo interjected. “Isn’t that all that really matters?”

  “And you have my love, but…”

  Santo kissed her cheek. “I know,” he murmured. He picked up a package. “Wonder what’s in here?” He tore off the wrapping paper. In his hands lay an intricately inlaid wooden box. “What a beautiful piece.” He shifted it in his hands. “It’s heavy.”

  Caterina opened the lid. Nestled inside a plush lining of burgundy velvet was a yellow-gold, oval-shaped locket.

  Santo drew it out. Mounted in the center was a cabochon amethyst, its vibrant purple hue mesmerizing. “For you, cara. My mother would have wanted you to have this.” He placed it in her hands.

  Caterina turned it over and touched the engraved letter N. She slid a fingernail in a small groove on the side, and the locket opened.

  Staring up at her were two perfectly preserved photos. Natalie and Franco. On one side, Natalie in her wedding gown; on the other, Franco in a smart suit. Until death do us part, Caterina thought sadly. They were united even in death, for they died on the same day—Natalie in childbirth and Franco by Luca’s angry hand.

  Caterina exhaled a ragged breath. How close she and Marisa and her mother had come to being Luca’s victims, too. She closed the locket, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.

  “I’d like you to wear it for me,” Santo said. He raised the long chain over her head and looped the locket around her neck, letting it tumble along the open upper buttons of her shirt to nestle between her breasts.

  “Thank you. And someday, our Marisa will wear it.” She pressed it to her chest.

  They sorted through the rest of the items—Santo’s infant christening gown, a family tree, and more photographs—but there were no letters, no answers for them, no final reprieve in Natalie’s hand. When they reached the bottom of the trunk, Caterina sank her head into her hands, silent tears flowing for what might have been.

  Santo massaged her shoulders again. “What’s wrong, Caterina?”

  “I’d hoped Rosa might’ve found some old letters from your mother about Luca. About your true parentage. But there was nothing.”

  “I wish it didn’t matter.” Santo drew her to his chest. “I suppose one of us must have a conscience.”

  Caterina leaned against him. She rested her hand on the locket, now warmed from her pulse, and drew a measure of strength from the fact that it had once touched Natalie’s skin. Santo’s mother. She would save it for Marisa. For Natalie’s granddaughter.

  Santo stroked her hair with a tender touch. “I’m glad we had Marisa, even if society and the church reject us. How can a love as strong as ours possibly be wrong?”

  Caterina could hardly breathe. He was close, too close. The heat from his body was like a magnet, draining her willpower. One of his arms was around her shoulder; the other spanned her waist. His virile, musky, masculine scent overwhelmed her sense of propriety. His heart pounded against her rib cage, matching the intensity of her own. Just a moment more, she told herself, wishing this could last forever.

  After a while, Caterina tore herself from him. She wiped her eyes and rose on unsteady feet. “Shall we store the trunk here?”

  “Why not store it in our own home?” His challenge hung in the air. “I bought the old house and vineyard for us.”

  “For Marisa, you mean. Santo, how can we be anything more than parents to our child?”

  He rose next to her, clasped her hand to his chest, and then bowed his head to graze her skin with his lips. “Ti amo, Caterina. Senza di te non posso più vivere,” he murmured. Without you, I am nothing.

  “Je t’aime, mon chéri,” she replied, knowing she would always love him. Caterina wrested her hand from him, trembling. “We can’t continue this,” she whispered, stepping away from him.

  Santo looked painfully adrift without her. Arching his neck, he swept his hands across his face and pushed his fingers through his thick hair. “Then you’ll have to be the strong one, Caterina, because I can’t be. I’m too much in love with you. I always have been, and I always will be. I don’t care what people say. I know what’s in my heart. And yours.”

  Caterina tugged her arms around her. “We can’t escape the truth.”

  “I know the truth.” Santo stepped toward her and brought his hands up to cradle her face.

  As she gazed into his eyes, words failed her. How could they justify their desires? To risk medical complications and the condemnation of their faith … was that tempting God and fate beyond reason?

  “Caterina, life is full of uncertainty. But there’s also a damned good chance that we’re not related. Have you thought of that?” He gripped her hands in his, imploring her. “Take that risk with me.”

  His strength flowed through his hands. If she never knew the truth, could she live with the ambiguity? To never know if they were living a sin? Caterina pressed her lips together. What would they tell Marisa when she was older? She couldn’t live with a new generation of lies.

  Did they have to risk so much to gain happiness?

  She raised her eyes to Santo’s. “I love you, but I cannot knowingly burden more children we might have with our history. As it is, Marisa will have a lot to grasp. We will have to tell her.”

  “Then we’ll be careful.” Hope bloomed on Santo’s face with this seed of possibility. “We could adopt children.”

  She glanced at the old baby clothes Rosa had sent. White linen shirts were embroidered with green ivy and yellow sunflowers, robes for tiny babies who needed love and a home. Faith and Patrick and the
maternity home sprang to mind.

  Santo grazed her lips with a soft kiss. “I can think of nothing better, cara. I know what it’s like to be alone in this world without a mother or father.”

  Sincerity was evident in his voice. “And I know how a mother feels when faced with the fact that she will never see her baby again.” How close she’d come to giving up Marisa. It still hurt just to imagine it.

  “Does it have to be that way?”

  Caterina searched his earnest expression. “No, we could change things. Why not involve the mother in her child’s life if she wants and it’s not to the detriment of the child?”

  A smile grew on Santo’s face. “We’ll have plenty of room once we renovate the old house on the vineyard.” Santo drew a thumb along her chin. “Say yes, cara.” Santo’s gaze held hers, the endless sapphire of his eyes—Marisa’s eyes—boring into her soul.

  Could she do this? In her heart, she longed for Santo and the future he painted. But could she really live with the uncertainty of their blood relationship? She would always harbor suspicions. “I need to think about it, Santo.”

  “I know you must be certain, and I respect that. I can wait, cara.”

  In her soul she knew the truth. They loved each other and always would. But would love be enough to overcome their immutable past?

  “You should keep this for Marisa.” On impulse, Caterina slipped the locket from her neck and picked up the jewelry box. Her hands were shaking so that she fumbled with the wooden box, and it slipped from her grasp. She shrieked, and Santo dove for it, but he was too late.

  The lovely antique box crashed to the floor and splintered on the hard wooden planks.

  “Oh no.” Caterina fell to the floor, seizing the remains. The lid had burst on its old hinges, and the deep-weighted base had separated slightly from the main box. Hot tears sprang to her eyes.

  Santo knelt beside her. “It’s okay, cara. It’s just a wooden box.” With a firm hand, he pressed her to his chest and stroked her back in comfort. “At least I can put that back together, if not us.” When she looked surprised, he added, “One of the things I most admire about you is your sense of right and wrong. You’re a fine woman, Caterina Rosetta. You remind me of Violetta.” He picked up the jewelry box and pressed the base to secure it to the main portion of the box.