The Winemakers Page 11

  Caterina devoured a plate of pasta and vegetables, which she shared with Marisa, followed by cappuccino and biscotto. Marisa gnawed on the hard almond cookie. Caterina improvised and dipped the biscotto into a cup of tea for her. It seemed to soothe Marisa’s sore gums. Caterina kissed Marisa, glad her little girl was feeling better.

  Afterward, the driver drove past the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps and proudly pointed out a few of the best sights of Rome.

  “I have precious cargo today,” the driver said, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. “We Italians sometimes drive like maniacs, but for you and la bambina, I’ll be very careful.”

  Caterina kissed Marisa and whispered to her, “We’ve really done it, kiddo. Welcome to our new life.” She held Marisa in her arms, and the little girl dozed. It had been a taxing journey for both of them. Only time would tell if she had made the right decision to come here.

  She glanced at the countryside, which looked so peaceful. Yet her mother’s warnings about Italy clanged in her memory. So far it seemed like a good life with friendly people, excellent food, and incredible sights. What could possibly hurt them here?

  12

  MARCH 1929 — MONTALCINO, ITALY

  Standing in a tiny shop tucked under a dwelling in the village, Ava ran her hand over the delicate ivory lace she’d selected. It would be just enough for a baby’s christening dress.

  She prayed that she and Luca would be blessed with a healthy child this time, although she hadn’t confirmed her pregnancy or told him yet. Violetta had told her that children always changed men, making them more settled.

  As she loosened her embroidered drawstring purse and fished out coins to pay, a commotion erupted behind her.

  “Ignore them, they’re imbeciles,” the old shopkeeper said, counting Ava’s coins on the wooden table.

  Ava’s face burned with embarrassment. Through the looking glass on the wall of the village shop, she could see three girls behind her, mocking her. They seemed to delight in following her wherever she went and whispering behind her back.

  Her life in Tuscany had quickly become intolerable. Luca drank more than ever and ranted at the slightest perceived injustice visited upon him. She had learned to stay out of his way. She spent most of her days with Violetta, learning how to manage the bookkeeping for the wine business.

  “Grazie,” Ava said, hastily taking her purchase. She walked briskly from the shop, her calfskin ankle-strap button shoes clicking on the cobblestones. The girls followed her.

  She looked for her cousin, who was to meet her in the square. Giovanna and her sister, Alma, were the only girls her age who had befriended her, though she had to admit that Natalie had been nice to her before the rumors began. They were all newly married, too, but they seemed much happier than she was.

  Ava sat on a stone bench and angled her face from the girls, wishing her stylish cloche hat had a broader brim to hide beneath. The aromas of oregano, garlic, and basil wafted in the air, making her slightly nauseous.

  All around her, birds were welcoming spring with cheerful song. The sprawling tree above the square was ablaze with tender green leaves. She should be thrilled at the possibility of another baby—one that might reach full term this time—but her heart was black with despair.

  The closer Natalie came to giving birth, the more the gossipmongers whispered their cruel stories, tittering every time they saw Ava. She couldn’t go to the village market or a party or even church without stares and snickers from those she passed. She had been tried and condemned. And for what? Having a wayward husband? She had absolutely no control over Luca. Why were they blaming and torturing her?

  Giovanna spied her and waved a gloved hand. She hurried to join Ava. Thankfully, when the girls saw Giovanna, they dispersed.

  “What horrible creatures they are!” Giovanna exclaimed. She plopped onto the bench beside Ava, her full skirts billowing around her tiny waist.

  “I don’t pay any attention to them.” Ava tried to act nonchalant. Italy was so different from her home in France. She was teased about her French accent, her fashionable dresses, the way she wore her hair, her customs, and her mispronunciations of Italian words. She didn’t know if she was more ostracized for being French or for marrying Luca, one of their own.

  “What are you going to do with that lace?” Giovanna asked, changing the subject. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s for a baby dress.” Ava had been hand-stitching gowns for the babies she would have someday. She desperately wanted a child to occupy her time and fill her heart after the deaths of her parents. Perhaps it would make Luca happy, too, especially if she had a boy for him.

  “They’ll come soon enough.” Giovanna fanned herself. “I just heard that Franco sent for a midwife last night. Natalie is in labor.”

  Ava jerked her head around. She wondered if the baby would look like Luca. If it did, there would be no end to the hateful rumors. “How is Natalie doing?”

  Giovanna shook her head. “It’s a hard labor.”

  After Giovanna and Ava returned to the villa, Violetta asked them to arrange flowers for a dinner party she was having. Giovanna continued chattering about childbirth, making Ava feel queasy.

  Afterward, Ava changed into an emerald-green silk dress designed by a French couturier, Jean Patou. Her mother had bought it for her on a trip to Paris. It had a chic dropped waist, and the hemline hovered high on her shins, just beneath her knees. It bordered on scandalous in Montalcino, but tonight’s guests were from France. They would appreciate her style.

  Violetta’s maid came in to dress her hair. The woman begrudgingly followed Ava’s instructions and coaxed her hair into a new style that was all the rage in France. Ava hadn’t bobbed her hair like so many of the young girls in Paris, but she had the latest finger waves. At least Violetta approved of her taste.

  As the maid finished her coiffure, Luca rushed into their suite with a wild look in his eyes.

  “That’s lovely, thank you,” Ava told the maid, quickly excusing her. She turned to Luca. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Natalie,” he said, winded. He threw off his jacket and paced the floor.

  “Has she had the baby?”

  “No,” he snapped. “It’s gone on too long, and the midwife is completely incompetent. Franco should have called a doctor hours ago. My mother just sent our doctor to the cottage.”

  Without a second thought, Ava brushed past him and raced down the stone steps. Violetta was standing by the wall-mounted telephone in the hall; she was speaking into the mouthpiece. Ava pressed a knuckle to her mouth. She hoped Natalie was all right. She didn’t wish her any harm and thought the gossip had probably hurt her as well.

  Violetta listened for a long moment and then shook her head. She said good-bye and hung up.

  “How is Natalie?” Ava asked.

  “She lost too much blood,” Violetta began and then stopped to dab her eyes with a handkerchief. “Her baby is fine, but there was nothing the doctor could do for her.”

  Ava stared at her, terrified. She pressed a hand against her abdomen.

  “Natalie gave her life for her child.” Violetta held her arms out, and Ava fell into her embrace, trembling. “She was always an angel among us on earth.”

  Having a child was often a serious risk, especially if the child was overdue and had grown large, but Ava had never imagined Natalie might die.

  “Natalie is dead?” Luca’s angry voice boomed from the stairwell. His shirt hung open in disarray.

  Violetta looked up at her son. “They did everything they could.”

  Luca scowled and disappeared down the hallway, returning a minute later. “Franco knew she was in trouble. He did this to her, to ruin our plan. Franco killed her.” He spun on his heel, flung open the door, and stormed from the villa.

  Rain was beginning to fall, but Luca was a man bent on a mission. Ava raced to the door. In the dusky twilight, she saw Luca run to the barn and then emerge on his horse. The driver
had taken Violetta’s car to the train station to pick up their dinner guests.

  Luca kicked the horse and galloped up the lane, rain soaking his shirt to his skin. Ava called after him, but he didn’t even look back.

  “He’s going to confront Franco!” Ava cried, suddenly fearful for Natalie’s poor husband. What did Luca mean about a plan?

  “Dio mio, I’ll warn Franco.” Violetta hurried to the telephone, cranked it, and waited for an operator. It seemed to take forever. Once the operator came on the line, Violetta waited again. “No answer,” she said, her voice wavering. “Please keep trying.” When there was still no answer, Violetta placed a call to one of Franco’s uncles and asked him to look for Luca.

  Ava sent up a prayer for Franco and Natalie and their poor little baby. What a tragedy it was. Franco was probably engulfed in grief.

  They didn’t have much time to grieve, as Violetta’s distinguished guests were arriving soon. The driver returned, the guests joined them, and soon they were sitting down for dinner. Giovanna and her husband, Luca’s cousin, had joined them, too.

  Ava was worried about Luca, and she knew Violetta was, too. There had been no sign of him, and his chair at the table was conspicuously empty.

  As the second course was being served, a loud knock sounded at the door. A short time later, one of the waitstaff whispered to Violetta. She excused herself and motioned for Ava to come with her. Giovanna and her husband could carry on the conversation at the table.

  “Signora Rosetta.” A uniformed police officer respectfully removed his hat as Violetta swept into the foyer.

  “What is this about my son being arrested?”

  Ava caught her breath. “Why? What has he done?” Whatever it was, Luca had gone too far this time.

  13

  AUGUST 1956 — MONTALCINO, ITALY

  As they wound through the rolling hills of the Tuscan countryside under a bright cerulean sky, Caterina was curiously drawn to the mountain vineyards they passed. This was the land of her ancestry. Marisa pressed her palms on the window as they drove, her head bobbing in excitement.

  The driver pointed to a high mountaintop. “There’s the village of Montalcino. Your destination is on the northeast slope. At the top is a medieval fortress. The first walls were built in 1361.”

  Caterina craned her neck to see it. The imposing stone structure was punctuated with Roman turrets overlooking the verdant valley below.

  The driver wheeled into a long gravel driveway, at the end of which stood a large villa built in the Tuscan tradition. The stucco walls were washed in a soft rose color, and violet shutters framed tall windows. Flaming pink bougainvillea flowers cascaded against the wall, and potted cypress trees framed the arched front door. Olive trees swayed in the warm evening breeze. Two stucco cottages flanked the main home, and all the structures were crowned with terra-cotta tile roofs.

  “Buonasera,” a woman called out. She stood by the door and waved. She was casually dressed in an orange blouse and ruffled print skirt.

  When the driver stopped, the woman hurried to the car. Caterina got out of the car, and the woman embraced her and Marisa.

  “Benvenuto,” she said with a broad smile. Dark-blond hair fell around her shoulders. Caterina noticed splotches of flour on her soft cotton blouse. She spoke in Italian with animation, exclaiming over her and Marisa. Caterina caught a few words.

  It had been several years since Caterina had spoken Italian with Santo, but she was fairly certain the woman thought they were related. “We’re cousins?”

  “Oh, sorry.” The woman laughed and switched to English. “I am Giovanna. Your mother and I are cousins by marriage.” She cooed to Marisa. “Ah, la bambina dolce.”

  Caterina opened her mouth in surprise. Her mother had never said anything about a cousin. Caterina thought she was staying at an inn, not a relative’s home.

  Two young boys dashed from the side of the large house to retrieve their luggage.

  “This is where Signora Violetta lived. Her instructions to the attorneys were for you to stay here as long as you wish. Of course, you’re family. I’ll have the boys put a baby crib in the room for you. Come with me.” She motioned to her. “Many years ago, your mother lived here, too. It was right after she and Luca married, in the late 1920s. Did she tell you about it?”

  “Not really.” Caterina contained her astonishment. Balancing Marisa on her hip, she trailed after Giovanna, more intrigued than ever. This was her beloved father’s home. How she wished she had known him.

  Birds sang in the canopy of trees towering above them, gravel crunched beneath their feet, and lacy white jasmine flowers scented the air. They climbed worn stone steps to the entry. Caterina imagined little had changed since her mother had lived here.

  When they stepped inside, Caterina took in the cool, welcoming interior. Dark wooden beams supported the high ceiling, smooth stone tiles gleamed underfoot, and a circular stone staircase wound to the second floor. Somewhere an operatic recording of Enrico Caruso in Carmen played, filling the air with rich, lyrical music.

  Giovanna led them to their rooms on the second floor. “I’ll have supper ready soon. Come down whenever you like. I know you must be tired after such a long journey. It’s just us this evening. You’ll meet the other heirs tomorrow, so you’ll need a good night of rest.”

  Caterina saw a shadow cross Giovanna’s face when she mentioned the heirs. Were these her relatives? Before she could ask about them, Giovanna opened a door to a guest room and waved her inside.

  “Signora Violetta insisted on renovating the bedrooms in this old villa with en suite bathrooms. After her husband died in the war, she was lonely, so she rented rooms to honeymoon couples and retired people. Most of them became friends and visit often. It turned into a private inn, though no one else is here now. She became very selective. And I ran the house for la signora.” She sighed. “I miss her so much.”

  “I wish I had known her, too,” Caterina said. “Did she have other children?”

  “No, she was not so fortunate. I was married to her brother-in-law’s eldest son. I moved here to keep her company during the war. Living alone was not good then. Those were difficult years here in Toscana.”

  Caterina could hardly imagine what it must have been like during the war. She stepped inside the bedroom. Botanical artwork lined the walls, a stone fireplace anchored one corner, and fresh wildflowers filled a painted earthenware pitcher. The iron bed was covered in colorful cotton pillows. She couldn’t have asked for a more enchanting room. “This is so lovely.”

  “This was once my room. It’s one of my favorites.” Giovanna smiled and left them to change into more casual clothes.

  Marisa clambered onto the bed. Intrigued by the wildflowers in the pitcher, she yanked a cloth covering the nightstand in an effort to reach them, sending a lamp teetering to the edge.

  “Marisa, no!” Caterina cried, diving for the lamp and catching it in midair. As she did, the pitcher overturned, flowers tumbled to the floor, and water seeped onto the cloth.

  “Wa,” Marisa said, slapping her tiny hands in the water.

  She’d have to watch her more carefully, Caterina realized. What a godsend Faith had been. “That’s right, water. But you mustn’t touch it. Or the flowers.”

  Caterina picked up Marisa, grabbed a towel, and mopped up the water with her free hand. She moved the flowers to the top of the high bureau. Caterina was exhausted from the journey, but Marisa seemed recharged.

  “Time for a change, little one.” She changed Marisa’s diaper and buttoned a fresh cotton dress on her. While Marisa was toddling around the room in new sandals, Caterina shed her gray traveling suit and pumps.

  She kept an eye on Marisa while she splashed water onto her face and brushed her hair, and then she spied a small bottle of perfume in the bathroom. Violetta di Parma. It was the same perfume that sat untouched in her mother’s bedroom. She had once asked her mother if she could try it, but Ava had told her it was a keep
sake of remembrance. She dabbed the soft floral scent on her wrists and neck. Taking a cue from Giovanna, she dressed in a white cotton blouse, a print skirt, and woven espadrilles.

  Gazing around the room, Caterina felt as if she had stepped back in time to a simpler way of life. She trailed her fingers along the snowy white, hand-sewn bed linens, the embroidered pillows, and crocheted throw. Everything in the room was handmade with expert craftsmanship.

  Birdsong trilled from the open window. Caterina sat on the edge of the bed and swept Marisa into her arms. Unlike in San Francisco, there were no cars zipping past, no garbage trucks rumbling about. No trolley car bells clanging, no advertising crackling from radios. This was going to be a quiet, pastoral life for her and Marisa.

  She couldn’t wait to see the house she’d inherited and meet their relatives.

  * * *

  “I brought something I thought you might like,” Caterina said, placing the bag she’d carefully traveled with on the kitchen table. This was the wine that had survived the earthquake. She withdrew a bottle with a Mille Étoiles label and presented it to Giovanna and then slid onto a wooden stool with Marisa in her lap.

  Caterina looked around the large kitchen, which was filled with well-used copper pots rubbed to a shine, carved wooden spoons, and handcrafted pottery painted with a riot of pretty images of olives, grapes, lemons, and animals. Colorful tiles covered the countertops. It was an Italian version of their kitchen at Mille Étoiles. She smiled at the comfort of it all, imagining her father as a little boy here.

  “Mille grazie. What a beautiful label.” Giovanna studied the artist’s sketch of the imposing stone house on the front. “This looks like an old French château. Is this really in Napa?”

  She nodded. “My mother built it according to the memory of her parents’ home in Bordeaux.”

  “I remember how Ava used to speak of it. She loved it there. And she always had the best taste, even when she was young. We used to trade clothes when she lived here. I was lucky to have known her then. It’s too bad we lost touch over the years. Somehow life intervened, and our letters became less frequent. How is she?”