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    The Napa Valley Secret
    The Napa Valley Secret
    The Napa Valley Secret
    Ebook257 pages4 hours

    The Napa Valley Secret

    By Robert Smith?

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    About this ebook

    A light-hearted novel about a secret that had been forgotten in the evolving history of the Napa Valley Wine business. The descendants of the Moretti Wine Dynasty are faced with a difficult situation when the terrible secret comes to light. The problem becomes worse---and comical---when others outside the family learn about it. Disputes within the family and among the others make for a good time.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Smith?
    Release dateApr 24, 2012
    ISBN9781476058931
    The Napa Valley Secret
    Author

    Robert Smith?

    Robert Courtney Smith is Associate Professor of Sociology, Immigration Studies and Public Affairs, School of Public Affairs, Baruch College, and Graduate Center, City University of New York. He is the coeditor of Migration, Transnationalization, and Race in a Changing New York (2001). He is cofounder of the Mexican Educational Foundation of New York, a 501c(3) organization.

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      Book preview

      The Napa Valley Secret - Robert Smith?

      The Napa Valley Secret

      By Robert Smith

      Published by Robert A. Smith at Smashwords

      Copyright 2012 by Robert A. Smith

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

      Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      CHAPTER ONE

      No Tony, put that down! Someone will get hurt! Please listen to me. Angela's body jerked as if she had been shot. The old woman woke up, the leathery dry skin around her neck and arms damp with sweat. She sighed in relief. It was only another dream, a horrible nightmare of a dream. They were coming more often lately. But what did they mean? Every thing was so foggy. She heard her door open and knew Lucy must have heard her. Damn, that poor girl will think I've gone batty.

      Before her granddaughter could speak, Angela tried to put on a brave face. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm fine. Did I wake you, dear?

      Lucy walked over to the bed. No granny, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. She smiled and waved her toothbrush as if Angela needed proof. She put the toothbrush in the breast pocket of her flannel nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed. Granny, I'm worried about you. She took the old woman's hand. That's the third bad dream you've had this week.

      Oh, I'm fine. Just getting old. Angela chuckled. Which sure in hell ain't good, but it's better than the alternative.

      Lucy smiled politely. Of late that had become one of granny's favorite sayings. Lucy noticed the tangled blankets and sheet, victims of Angela's nightmare. She straightened them out and pulled the covers over the chest of the old woman. Do you remember what the dreams are about? If you can tell me, it might help you get rid of them.

      All Angela could remember was a dark, foreboding place, a man or perhaps two, and some sort of gun. Always the same horrible scene but never clear. Oh, darling, I really can't remember and I don't want to trouble you. It's nothing to worry about, just an old lady remembering the past.

      I thought I heard you call out to Antonio.

      Angela frowned. Maybe she did, She just couldn't remember. Oh did I? Well, it could be. I can't recall. I do miss him so much He was an ornery ol' cuss but he was my ol' cuss. I can't believe he's been dead for 34 years. Maybe I am getting a touch of Alzheimer's. They say you can remember the past better than this morning.

      Don't fret on that score, granny. You're still sharp as a tack.

      Well, that's kind of you to say. The old lady furrowed her brow, looking puzzled. Now, tell me, exactly who are you again? She broke out in a big grin.

      Ha. Very funny. Lucy patted her grandmother's wrinkled hand and got up. I'm going to fetch you a nice hot cup of tea.

      Don't you dare. Tea is for proper English ladies and sick people. And I ain't neither of those. She cocked her head and smiled brightly. But I could stand another glass of port. That always does the trick.

      Granny, you're incorrigible. If you weren't pushing 90, I would say you'd be ruining your health with all that port.

      Hush girl. I'm not a day over 89 and don't you forget it. Hell, there's nothing wrong with a little port now and then. Besides it reminds me of Tony. That's the one wine he kept on making even when things started to fall apart.

      As Lucy left to get the wine, Angela fluffed her pillow and struggled to sit upright. Her mind still in turmoil. The inner struggle had been going on for weeks. Should she tell Lucy what she remembered? It actually might help. The dreams have been getting more intense lately. A good night's sleep would be wonderful and now, she thought, for Heaven's sake I'm actually talking out loud. For some strange reason she felt the desire to get out of bed, but it was easier said than done. She glanced at the four-footed metal cane next to the bed and shook her head. Canes are for invalids she thought. She slowly pushed herself up, trying to ignore the pain in her knees. As she had done the previous night, she tottered over to the bedroom window and looked up the valley towards the mountains. Once again a strange, horrid fascination had drawn her to that sight and the hypnotic pull was getting stronger every day. What is up there? Could it be that her husband was the one with the gun?

      Lucy came into the room and looked shocked. She put the glass of port on the old nightstand. Granny what are you doing up? You don't even have your cane.

      Fiddlesticks. Cane be damned. I don't need that silly contraption. I'm not an invalid--not yet at least. She stared at Lucy, her eyes cold. Shit, gal, now don't you go treating me like Marco, telling me what to do all the time.

      Lucy stepped back a bit, still shocked at her grandmother's increasing use of profanity. Don't worry, granny. I love you too much. I just don't want you to fall and get hurt. You may not be an invalid but, hey, you're no spring chicken either. Now let me help you get back into bed.

      Hands off girl, I can damn well do it myself. Angela hobbled back and plopped into the bed none too gracefully. Lucy again pulled up the covers. The old woman looked up sheepishly at Lucy. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you.

      Heck, Granny wouldn't be Granny without a few harmless swear words.

      Angela took the glass of port from Lucy. Hell, you call those swear words? Shoot gal, you should have heard me go after Tony when he had been drinking too much. Christ, I'm just a plainspoken country girl. Always was and always will be. She took a big sip. You know I love you so much and couldn't do without you. She put on a pretend scowl. But hell's bells, gal, you spoil me rotten.

      Oh I enjoy doing it---and I bet you do, too.

      Sure I do. Who wouldn't? She reached out for Lucy's hand. But I'm worried about you. I sure hope you aren't waiting for me to drop dead before you get your life going again. I plan on sticking around for a while and would like to see some great grandkids.

      What about Marco Jr. and Margaret?

      Hell, I don't think they really count. They certainly don't count for much. Her watery eyes twinkled. "Remember, I said great grandchildren, if you get my drift. I should have said great great grandchildren."

      Don't be cruel, granny. You know you love Marco and his kids.

      Oh I suppose so. It's just that you're so much like your mother, bless her soul. She squeezed Lucy's hand. And what children you could have! Now Marco on the other hand... Oh well, never mind. Anyway, it's probably as much his ex-wife's fault. At least he finally divorced her."

      She took another big sip and handed the glass back to Lucy. Okay, young lady, enough of this silly jaw-flapping. She smiled up at Lucy. Say anyhow, what do you mean by keeping me up. Me, a slightly elderly lady like myself--one that's not an invalid, mind you--who needs her beauty sleep. You should be ashamed of yourself. Now scoot. I don't know about you, but I have things to do tomorrow.

      Lucy closed the door and absent-mindedly poured herself a glass of port. She began to sit down remembering at the last minute to miss the broken spring that had started poking through the sofa. She took a sip and gagged. Christ, I hate port, she thought, and it certainly doesn't improve with Mint toothpaste. She looked down at the glass and sighed. Lucy prided herself on being tough and independent, but granny's remarks had hit a soft spot.

      She leaned back against the sofa and reflected on her fate. She'd been back at the old homestead for over two years, taking care her grandmother after her mother had been killed. Marco was too cheap to hire an assistant if only for a few hours a day and Lucy wasn't going to send her to an old folks home, even if Marco would pay for one. For a rich, successful lawyer Marco was one hard-nosed skinflint. She knew that he just couldn't wait for Angela to die so he could sell off the rest of the vineyard and the old house. She shook her head and sighed again as she glanced around at the dingy walls and cheap furniture. Angela used to like to talk about the fine old furniture, rustic but handcrafted, that had graced the homestead when Jacobo Moretti built it back in the 1890's. Now the only survivor was Angela's rocking chair. The rest had been sold off piece by piece before Lucy was born. Their replacements, Lucy knew, must have come from the Goodwill or the Salvation Army. The once simple, but sturdy farmhouse build by her great great grandfather had over the decades slowly but surely surrendered to the rages of time and neglect. The foundation sagged, the roof leaked and with no central heating it was cold in the winter and with no insulation it was hot in the summer. Why spend money on the old shack, Marco always said, when she asked for money to fix up the place. It'll just be torn down.

      Lucy started to take another sip and shuttered before putting the glass down on the rickety end table. Her part time job at Jensen's Winery barely paid for their food yet she couldn't spend any more time away from her grandmother. If granny got much worse she'd even have to quit that job.

      Deep down Lucy knew it wasn't the house that bothered her. She loved granny and would never abandon her, but damn how she hated Napa Valley. She smiled ruefully at the irony. People come from all over the world to visit the Valley and its wineries and famous restaurants but for her it was just a long, narrow prison. If only her father hadn't run away, If only her mother hadn't died in the car wreck, if only she had enough money to hire a part time helper for granny and, yes, if only her marriage hadn't turned out to be such a disaster.

      Well, she thought, life is made out of 'if only's'. The biggest one of all was her fault and she had only herself to blame. Yes, if only she had been smarter, she wouldn't have married that Ralph in the first place. He seemed so sophisticated and ambitious but she should have known anyone who was a friend of Marco would turn out to be a cheating, conceited two-timer. Sure, they had money and a nice house in the Marina and everything was fine for about a year. Then everything fell apart when he began to stray. When she found out about his forays into infidelity her world came crashing down around her. Against her better judgment she reluctantly forgave him the first time. But, by God, not the second.

      Lucy got up and headed for the bathroom to finish brushing her teeth. Oh well, she thought, luckily there were no children and that made the divorce easier. Not so fortunate was the pre-nuptial agreement she had foolishly signed. Live and learn.

      She decided to change her nightgown since the pocket was damp from the toothbrush. Lucy stripped it off and looked in the bathroom mirror staring herself straight in the eye. She always thought her natural auburn hair was her best feature but she knew men were often more interested in other things. On a crazy impulse, and feeling a little foolish, she ran naked to the full-length mirror on her bedroom door. Again she stared at herself critically. Okay, Ms. Lucinda Moretti, what do you see? She turned this way and that. Had her breasts sagged a bit? Hard to tell, but damn, her waist was still great, thanks in part to the Spartan diet her paycheck demanded. She tried to look over her shoulder, always worried that her butt out matched her tits. No, every thing seemed to be getting along just fine.

      Feeling better, she put on a new nightgown and tried to think happy thoughts as she climbed into bed. We Moretti women are tough. I will survive, she thought. Who knows? Maybe some day I will return to the City and live the life of a carefree bachelorette.

      But she knew that would only happen when granny passed away. Not a happy thought.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Steve bent over for what surely had to be the millionth time. His knees ached, his fingers felt like sausages and despite the gloves he had managed to cut himself on the last vine. He was not an MD but he was sure his spinal column would never lose its new curve. When he agreed to do this grape picking, he knew this whole thing would not be fun, but he had no idea how hard it would be. Manual labor and he were not good friends and his thirty-five year old body had not been prepared for such an ordeal. Why had he let Marty talk him into it?

      Wearily, he once again pushed aside the drying leaves on the new vine to get at the small bunch of grapes playing hide and seek. Very carefully this time, he used his hooked knife to cut off the grapes and drop them into his basket. He straightened up, trying painfully to unpretzel himself. Steve made sure Marty wasn't watching and quickly glanced at his watch. It seemed like he had been picking grapes for days, not hours. His watch disagreed. The hands mockingly displayed 11:30. How could that be? Given their late start that meant they had been gleaning for only two hours. God, aren't the wines at Bev Mo great bargains?

      Marty, now more than two rows ahead, peered between his vines. He smiled and chuckled. Are we having fun yet, Steve?

      Although Steve got along pretty well with his brother-in-law he did not appreciate the sadism in that remark. Sure, Marty, I haven't had as much fun since my last root canal.

      Don't worry, you'll get used to it. It does get easier.

      Right, and I'm sure sword swallowing does, too.

      Tell you what. Let's break for an early lunch. Sit down on that old stump and I'll get the vittles from the truck. I brought a nice little Pinot Gris that'll perk you up. Just the thing for sore muscles.

      I'll take mine with a dose of Novocain if you don't mind.

      Marty trotted down the hill and Steve dubiously surveyed the old stump. Not much of an outdoorsman and not a great fan of the little critters that called it home, he skeptically studied the rotten piece of wood. No doubt the prime residence of ants, spiders or even termites. Anyway, if he sat down he wasn't sure he'd get up. Instead he tried to walk off the tightness in his muscles. Off to his left, about three rows over and up the slope he noticed a dramatic change in the vines. He went over to investigate. Instead of the neatly trestled branches, these had thick and gnarly trunks. Only a few had any leaves at all and fewer still had any grapes. Instead they sprouted twisted spindly shoots, shooting crazily every which way from the tops of the trunks. A coven of witches with bad hair days.

      He walked uphill trying to restore his circulation when he spotted a strange anomaly at the base of the cliff. Not only was there less vegetation at the spot, but the background was a grayish red instead of umber earth tones. He walked up to the spot and carefully brushed away some bushes and ivy. To his surprise he uncovered a door build into the side of the hill. It was almost totally obscured by the overgrowth but it was clearly a door. By its look, a very old door, no doubt well-aged redwood. He pushed aside more growth and found that the hinges seemed secure, the door fastened by a very rusty padlock. By nature and profession, Steve was a curious person. He investigated the lock more closely and saw that the lock itself was attached to a different kind of wood that had not fared the test of time nearly so well. He couldn't resist and with the gentlest of pushes the lock and its surrounding wood fell to the ground.

      Oops. Steve jumped back, but seeing that Marty had not returned, he swung open the door and peered inside. A cave of unknown dimensions stretched out darkly into the hill. Wishing he had the nerve of that supposed anthropologist, Indiana Jones, rather than the limited courage of a real, but sedentary, history professor, Steve took a deep breath and entered the cave. He timidly took a few steps waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark when he heard Marty calling out for him. Steve quickly retreated and tried to close the door before Marty spotted him. To no avail.

      His brother-in-law yelled up at him. Steve, what the hell are you doing over there? Did you just relieve yourself behind those bushes? Jesus, that's gross.

      No, you see, I just...

      Marty interrupted him. And I thought I told you not go onto that piece of property.

      You did?

      Well, I thought I did. Marty seemed puzzled. Well at least, I'm pretty sure I did. Whatever, come on back. Jensen told me in no uncertain terms not to glean these old head-pruned vines. They're not on his property. He shook his head, staring at the vines. Christ, look, they haven't been pruned in years, decades probably. Too bad, this is primo cab terroir. I wonder why anyone let them go to hell. Oh well, c'mon, I brought the lunch."

      Steve stood by the cave door. Now, Marty, wait a second. he said, trying to control his excitement. I was trying to tell you I found a cave in the hillside. It had a door and ah... it sort of got opened.

      Oh sure, all by itself no doubt.

      Well sorta. The wood around the lock was all rotted.

      Okay, big deal, a cave. So what? High tail it back down here. If Jensen were to catch us I'd lose my right to glean on his property. I've been trying to get permission for years and I don't want to mess things up.

      Aren't you the least bit curious about it? Why would someone put a door on a cave?

      Marty walked up the hill toward Steve, looking back to make sure they were alone. Actually it's not that unusual. They were good places to hide equipment and keep them out of the weather. Some wineries even stored some of their barrels in caves.

      There you go. There might be a fortune of old wine in there.

      Old vinegar, more likely. Besides, it's not ours, remember?

      Oh, don't be such an old fuddy-duddy. You're supposed to be the adventuresome one. Didn't you go bungee jumping while Cheryl and I looked on in horror?

      Look, Steve, I'm not afraid. I just don't want to get caught.

      Good, come on then, no one can see us once we're inside. Without waiting for a reply Steve went back into the cave. Marty reluctantly trailed behind.

      Okay, Mr. Spelunker, Marty said sarcastically as he stepped inside. Now what? We can't see more than five feet in front of us.

      Steve ignored him and took a few steps to the edge of lighted area. To his left he did see some barrels. Look Marty, you're right! There's a row of barrels that must go back quite a ways. Steve walked over and knocked on one. It seems to have wine in it.

      Once again, may I repeat, the wine won't be any good. He joined up with Steve. Look at the writing on this tag: October 1939. I know you only drink wine and know nothing about how it's made, but let me assure you, no one keeps Cab in the barrel for 75 years. Marty laughed. "Talk about having an oak finish. You'd probably be spitting splinters

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