Come Pour the Wine

by Cynthia Freeman

  He answered smiling (beautiful teeth, she thought), “I can assure you this is a pleasure I’ve looked forward to for a very long time.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Catherine answered in her most extravagant southern accent, narrowing her eyes and thrusting back her chin.

  For a moment, he inclined his head to one side as though he hadn’t heard her, then looked her squarely in the eyes, smiled and laughed as she joined him in the laughter. The two fathers walked away, leaving them alone. “Would you like to dance?” Dominic asked.

  And Catherine answered, “Would you rather dance or make love to me?”

  This time he stood speechless and for Dominic Rossi, that was a rare situation. He took her by the hand and led her to the furthest part of the garden where he sat her down on a stone bench, half laughing, and said, “You know, beyond a doubt, you’re the most curious girl I have ever met. I’m not sure if you’re happy or unhappy to have met me.”

  “Well, I kinda think that’s sort of an accomplishment if I can keep a big lawyer guessin’ what my motives are.”

  “Oh … well, in that case, I want to make love to you.” He took her arm and gently stood her up.

  “Now, you just hold on for one minute. What makes you think I want to make love to you?”

  “Because you asked me.”

  “That’s right … I asked you a question, but all questions require answers and my answer is I wouldn’t let you make love to me,” she responded with that Mona Lisa smile.

  “Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said, holding her close to him, but she pushed herself back.

  “Now, you listen to me. You know, as well as I do, that this is nothin’ more or less than an arrangement, an arrangement made between our parents, expectin’ me to say ‘Yes’ and ‘how sudden all this is,’ when the time came for you to pop the question and I should be coy and all nervous-like and excited. Well … for your information, Mr. Barrister, I want you to know I don’t enjoy playin’ these kinda games and I want you to know from the very beginnin’ I’m gonna say yes because I do want to marry you. I didn’t think I would, but I do. So anytime you want to ask me, don’t hesitate.”

  Dominic started to laugh. Not at her and she knew it, but at her complete candor and lack of inhibition, then quite seriously, looking at her, he said, “You know, when I came down here, I had the same doubts and reservations, but of course I wasn’t aware you knew why I was coming. Suppose I tell you something?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “Beyond a doubt, you’re the most staggeringly honest person I’ve ever met. In fact, you’re overwhelming and in these few minutes, I probably know more about you than most people do who go together for a long time. And can I tell you something even funnier?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “I know it’s crazy, but I think I’m in love with you. Is that possible, just like that?”

  “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. If you don’t now, you will before you leave.”

  They both laughed, then quietly and gently he took her in his arms and said, “Catherine, will you marry me?”

  She said, with unmistakable languor in her voice, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The next few months found Mama Posata as close to heaven as she’d ever come in this world, with all the excitement and frenzy of the impending nuptials. There was trousseau shopping which was not only expensive, extensive and endless, but there was china, silver, crystal and linens to be purchased. After God and church, there was nothing Mama loved quite so much as spending money, clothes, luxury, finery and parties. The whole thing was just about the most exciting thing that had happened to her since Rosa Ann’s wedding. But for Catherine, her firstborn, after all, she wanted this to be one of those weddings the likes of which New Orleans had never witnessed. The largest chapel in the Cathedral was filled with an assortment of Rossis who had descended upon the city for days now. Like locusts, they had come all the way from San Francisco. And the Posatas hadn’t been Catholics for that many generations not to make their enormous presence felt, with all the uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews, distant relatives and near, and with a select number of friends, handpicked, there were five-hundred people at the Posata-Rossi wedding and reception. If Garibaldi had the amount of food and champagne that was served at that dinner, he could have united Italy a lot quicker.

  Dominic was so dashing and handsome that every girl breathed a little harder when they saw him dance, holding his new bride, all shimmering and soft and satin and lace. When he smiled down at her, tightening his hold around Catherine’s thin waist, bringing her closer to him, it was certainly obvious to anyone observing, the promise of what would be theirs later tonight.

  2

  CATHERINE SIGHED DEEPLY AND nostalgically in that darkened, lonely room. Yes, sir, what a night it was. The promises of love, devotion, fidelity. Oh, my God, the things people tell each other in moments of passion. How the hell could she ever have predicted at that moment her life could possibly have turned out the way it did? As for love, in or out of bed, well … there’d been little of that in the last ten-and-a-half years. She sighed again, ran her tongue over her dry lips … she felt lousy this morning. How else could she feel, after last night when she had stolen quietly away, unnoticed, from that overpeopled, overheated, overfed multitude, listening to the great Dominic Rossi expounding all the virtues, panaceas, solutions and promises for saving that most grand sovereign state of California and all its inhabitants from the iniquities of the Republican Party. He stood like the messiah delivering the Sermon on the Mount. Catherine wanted to throw up.

  She was in bed with a terrible headache when he returned finally, well after midnight, all charged up, exhilarated, excited and confident that California was his oyster. Switching on the bedside lamp, he sat on his side of the bed, taking off his shoes and socks, then undressed. Going into the bathroom, he showered, then brushed his teeth. By God, he felt good … his batteries were so charged up by the time he got into bed, he found it impossible to sleep. Turning off the light, he lay in the dark with his hands behind his head and reviewed the evening. Yes, sir, he’d made the right impression, said the right things, scored the points … in fact, he had them all eating out of his hand. Catherine moved closer to the edge of the bed away from the candidate for the senator from California, as far away as she could without falling out.

  God, where the hell did he get his stamina? He had enough of that to fortify twenty men and here his family, his wonderful, marvelous, devoted family, who all adored him so, worried about his health, saying that Dominic was taxing himself to the point where they thought if Dom kept up this pace, he’d have a heart attack. Heart attack … Hell, what a laugh! He was strong as a horse. His family … there sure was no love lost there. Even from the very beginning when she’d come to live in San Francisco as a bride (already two weeks pregnant) with her young struggling husband. And the feeling was perfectly mutual, they couldn’t tolerate her any more than she could them, putting on such airs, never letting them forget she was an heiress. She made sure, from the very beginning, that the custom of the Rossi clan getting together constantly was going to stop, if she had anything to say about it and she did. Eventually the invitations dwindled. In no uncertain terms, Catherine made it perfectly clear she had married him and not his family and if he wanted to pursue his long familial attachments, it would have to be without her. Naturally, Dominic didn’t take that without a few rebuttals, which didn’t make her yield one inch, and after all the fights and arguments had run their course, Catherine achieved her point. Dominic saw less and less of the family, which they regretted, but knew why, which only intensified the animosity they already felt for her. However, Catherine’s southern Sicilian background had taught her not to dwell upon things of unimportance, so she simply shrugged her shoulders and ignored the fact that Dominic was more than terribly chagrined, embarrassed and unhappy when he attended family affairs, of
which there were many … especially engagements, weddings, communions, graduations, birthdays, etc., etc., usually alone, always having to give the same excuse that Catherine was not well or had taken a little holiday back to New Orleans to visit her family. His voice startled her, suddenly interrupting her thoughts in the silent dark room. Oh, if he’d only stop talking. My God, she had a headache …

  “Well, how do you think it went tonight?” he asked. He wasn’t really asking she thought, only loving the sound of his own voice.

  She could have killed him, but she narrowed her eyes, tightened her lips, caught her breath, swallowed hard and mumbled, “Just the way you planned it … right?” He laughed robustly, while to herself she said, you’d better laugh tonight because this will be the last laugh you’ll have for a little while in view of the fact I have a little plan of my own all mapped out for tomorrow, your majesty, your royal highness … your royal ass.

  She was seething inside. Dominic had breakfast early in their room, eating heartily while she, still in bed, observed her husband over the rim of the coffee cup. When he finished, she turned her cheek as he pecked it lightly and quite matter of factly, said his arrivedercis, saying he would meet her later in San Diego, then left. Well … that was it. Finished, finito, and all because he had forgotten last night or didn’t even remember she was alive and well and sitting in the back like some morganatic wife not quite good enough to be seated with the king … that’s right. Okay … two can play the game … How? … Well, I’ll tell you, Your Majesty, although I do feel a little ashamed ’cause it’s not original on my part … I’m just not smart enough to ever have thought of runnin’ away from home … wish I had, but it sure as hell was the most ingenious idea any political wife had invented up to date so far as I’m concerned, to make a husband realize she was alive and that he owed her a little courtesy … so … I’m gonna follow the leader … gonna do what that brilliant Angelina Alioto did … of course she went to the missions … so I can’t do that, it just wouldn’t be cricket to steal her stuff and besides I gotta have a little imagination of my own, so I’m goin’ to the Farm … well … that’s not really so unique or original ’cause I’ve been doin’ that for years whenever I needed a rest, but what makes it so excitin’ and intriguin’ is the runnin’ away without lettin’ anyone know… That’s why I think what Mrs. A did was so smart… without lettin’ anyone know… Talk about fact bein’ stranger than fiction. Well, ain’t that the truth. All I can say is … God bless you, Mrs. Alioto … you sure did emancipate a lotta ladies by showin’ us the way… Two can play the game. Ciao.

  Catherine hopped out of bed into her size four satin slippers, went to the bathroom, bathed in an aura of excited anticipation of what was about to happen. When the ablutions were over, she splashed herself with lots and lots of expensive Parisian cologne, made up her face (which did not diminish the deep circles under her eyes), dressed in her new Givenchy creation, put on her jewels in profusion, packed her Gucci luggage and called down to the desk clerk to have her bill forwarded, then left through the rear entrance, got into her rented Mercedes Benz and headed straight for Scottsdale, Arizona, and the Farm.

  Although guests were only admitted on Sundays, for Mrs. Rossi, however, there was always a room waiting at any time on any day, since she had mentioned (facetiously, of course) on numerous occasions that her contributions had been so enormous with the frequent visitations through the years, that undoubtedly she had more than paid for the sauna. Sometimes she felt like a missionary, giving to that great and glorious cause … that mecca … that holy spa dedicated to the proposition that any woman who could afford fifteen-hundred dollars a week (plus gratuities) and wanted to get away from the kiddies and their husbands (who were driving them MAD, MAD, MAD) or the drudgery of telling the cook how many were coming to dinner this evening … or to avoid another dreadful, boring, horrible cocktail party all for the benefit of helping the old man get a few more votes at the next election, could find a haven here. Who said you never got another chance? Well, not in politics. If it wasn’t assemblyman there was supervisor. If not that, then there was mayor, or senator, or governor, or even president. Sure. Why not vie for the highest position in the land, why not, Catherine thought. Well, at least she had a place to retreat to, to contemplate, to … to … to meditate, to restore her spirits. Yes, thank God, for her there was always room at the inn.

  Arriving at seven in the evening, and knowing every nook and cranny, she made her entrance through the side door, went up the backstairs one flight, then walked quickly along the narrow corridor to Mrs. Van Muir’s office, opened and closed the door immediately, slumped down in the pastel blue velvet chair, let her legs go askew and kicked off her shoes as her feet felt the cool, soft, lush deep piled blue carpet, then lay back wearily as her eyes wandered about the blue silk walls … to the blue damask draperies. Finally, her eyes came to rest on the enormous life-sized portrait of the patron saint (who founded this sanctuary) standing regally dressed in blue flowing chiffon. Even the fragrant scent of the room smelled blue. How divine, how quiet and relaxing in the atmosphere of the dim light that shone through the blue satin shaded lamp, that sat on the blue Venetian desk. Ah … oh, so tranquil, like a shrine … truly like a shrine. How long she had been dozing was indicated by the blue French clock ticking away on the blue desk. It was seven-thirty when Mrs. Van Muir gently took Catherine’s hand in hers and said quietly, “Mrs. Rossi?”

  Catherine opened her eyes slowly, blinked, sat up and looked into the concerned face of Mrs. Van Muir. “Oh, my dear, how are you?”

  Catherine answered tearfully, clutching Mrs. Van Muir’s hand, “You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

  “And I, you, my dear Mrs. Rossi, but you don’t look well… not at all.”

  “Oh, I’m not, really I’m not. In the last few months, this campaign of my husband’s has simply been too much for my nerves to endure … it’s been plain hell, I tell you … just hell,” she cried, almost hysterically.

  “There, there, my dear, we’re going to do everything in our power to help you through this most trying time,” Mrs. Van Muir said, patting Catherine’s hand, “now you just re … lax.” Quickly, she thought, should I offer our sainted disciple a little drinky-poo or not? Should I risk it? … since booze is strictly a no-no, verboten. Oh, what the hell, it would certainly do no harm to be in the good graces of the more than probable wife of the next senator from California. Who knew when one needed a favor … a new job. Throwing caution to the wind, Mrs. Van Muir said, “Mrs. Rossi, I know this is most irregular, but I received a bottle of cognac at Christmas which I’ve been meaning to throw out but have forgotten to do so. However, since I was so negligent, would you care for a little pick-me-up?” She smiled reassuringly.

  “Yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

  Mrs. Van Muir went to the closet where she kept a large stock of cognac for her own use, that she drank at the end of each weary day, which she needed badly after catering to all those neurotic bitches. Taking out a bottle she uncorked it, poured some of the lovely amber liquid into a brandy snifter and handed it to Catherine, who sipped slowly. It felt warm, soothing and relaxing after being on the road for nine-and-a-half lousy hours. God damn, it had been hot. Mrs. Van Muir sat down behind her desk and watched, wishing she could get bombed, but business before pleasure. When Catherine had finished, she was offered another which she gratefully accepted … then another, as poor Mrs. Van Muir’s mouth watered. By this time, Catherine was not only relaxed, but her words became slurred as she began to confide in Mrs. Van Muir, giving out with a tirade of complaints about the abuses and tyranny she had been subjected to by her husband, the public, the press and the Republican Party. That’s why she was seeking refuge here. But it had to be in the strictest of confidence. She had run away from home. No one knew where she had gone, and if anyone inquired as to her whereabouts (as she knew the family would, since this was the first place they’d suspect her to be when they g
ot around to realizing she was missing), Mrs. Van Muir was advised in no uncertain terms that she was to say no one had seen hide nor hair of Catherine Rossi. Mrs. Van Muir unequivocally answered that Catherine’s secret was as sacred and secure with her as it would have been if told in the confessional at the Vatican, whispered in the ear of Pope Paul. However … there was only one place in the complex where Mrs. Van Muir knew Catherine would have maximum security, and that was in the old towers. Although it was still being cared for and Catherine would be provided with the same luxurious surroundings, there was one problem; an air-cooling system was going to be installed but not until a little later in the year. Apologetically Mrs. Van Muir asked if Catherine would mind the inconvenience of the overly heated quarters. At this point Catherine would have settled for the boiler room. Catherine sighed with great relief, knowing she could depend on Mrs. Van Muir’s discretion … her dear and trusted friend of long standing. Now dry eyed, Catherine continued (but not without first asking for another cognac): the plan was to be this … she would not go down for her meals, instead everything would be sent to her room and no one, but no one, was to know she was here. Not the help, not the guests. She was to be notified by Mrs. Van Muir before her suite was to be cleaned each day so that she could go down the service elevator to wait in Mrs. Van Muir’s office incognito, dark glasses, bandanna … sans jewels, sans Givenchy, sans eyelashes, sans makeup. Sans all the window dressing, her chances of detection were less imminent that she would be recognized in the first place. There was one other thing Catherine almost forgot … when her meals were served (and to hell with the diet at the Farm), the cart was to be wheeled in by Mrs. Van Muir, so that the Lady of Mystery wouldn’t have to go scurrying off to the bathroom and wait until some waitress took her leave. Catherine narrowed her eyes in studied contemplation. Had she forgotten anything … no, that was about it. Now, she wanted to retreat to her quarters, plunge into a warm tub before her dinner of steak, baked potato with sour cream, chives and bacon bits, buttered string beans, small salad with French dressing and coffee was served … oh yes, and a napoleon for dessert if that could be managed? No? Maybe not. Well then, whatever, she wasn’t too difficult to please, a piece of lemon cream pie or whatever goodies could be had. Damn, damn, she should have thought of buying a bottle of her favorite wine before coming, but for heaven sakes, a body couldn’t think of everything, especially when one was under such stress and strain. Tomorrow she would steal away during the siesta period, being sure not to be seen, and drive to the liquor store and buy enough for a few weeks, and while she was about it she would also purchase some other things for little late night snacks. Let’s see, now, crackers, nuts, potato chips, sardines, cheese, those little triangles and cubes wrapped in foil in those darling little boxes, a large tin of Danish cookies and … and oh, yes, a large jar of those enormous green olives, stuffed with pimentos. Oh hell, why hadn’t she brought that gorgeous box of Barricini chocolates instead of giving them to the chambermaid. But then, that was one of her greatest faults, always giving things away, always letting her heart rule her head. Oh well, no one was perfect. She’d just have to buy whatever chocolates she could find. One should be prepared at all times for any eventuality. From now on, she would be alone for some time to come, God only knew how long it would take for all of them to realize she was really missing and the prospect was a little frightening. Suppose it took months? Was that possible? Oh, come on, now, Catherine, don’t let your imagination play tricks on you. You know better than that. Why, within a few days Dominic will have the Foreign Legion out scouting when you don’t show up. That evening, Catherine turned off the light by ten-thirty, feeling the effects of her “long day’s journey into night,” closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. The full impact of what she had done, running off without telling anyone, suddenly began to nudge her conscience. But why, she thought adamantly, should she feel that way when she had been literally ignored by her husband and children in these latter years. Oh, damn, if only she had something to soothe her nerves. Was it too late to steal down to Mrs. Van Muir’s and confiscate that bottle of cognac? Without another thought, she hopped out of bed and into a silk robe and slippers, let herself out without fear of being seen, since by now, everyone was in their room either asleep or sequestered for the night in view of the fact that the rules were rigidly enforced in this fabulous overpriced prison for the overweight, the indulged, the pampered. She walked to the service elevator which took her to Mrs. Van Muir’s office. For a moment, she hesitated before knocking, then she tapped twice and waited, but when there was no response, she gently turned the knob and let herself in. What she found was Mrs. Van Muir in a horizontal position, stretched out on the blue velvet sofa, snoring and the bottle of cognac, half empty, sitting on the coffee table while the brandy snifter dangled from her hand. Why not, thought Catherine. What was there to do in this fat farm for excitement? In fact, Catherine could identify and empathize with poor Mrs. Van Muir and why not? After all, neither one of them had husbands. The only difference was Mrs. Van Muir’s husband was dead, but mine, Catherine said to herself, was running off into the jungle of politics like Tarzan in search of Jane, but the results were the same; they were both alone, unhappy and terribly lonely. God, what a curse loneliness was. Catherine would certainly never inform the establishment that poor Mrs. Van Muir was undoubtedly a silent night drinker (which up to now she never suspected), but if anyone found out, she’d have her little size eight fanny in a sling. Well, enjoy … enjoy, Mrs. Van Muir. After all, there are so few pleasures and rewards in this life … enjoy.