Come Pour the Wine (49 page)

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.

C
ATHERINE 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.”