. . . a fictional setting where there's so much more than meets the eye.
Cana is a town nestled somewhere in California wine country. It’s 1945 and to visit there, you must travel over winding roads bordered on both sides by green, rolling foothills and tall, sun filtering conifers surrounded by native plants. Along the way, the ancient trees part to reveal estates of all sizes. Here, a vineyard showcasing rows of grapes ripe for the picking. There, a ranch complete with cattle grazing the hillside.
Through your vehicle’s open windows, you inhale the sweet air. The aromas of almond trees, apples, and ripening grapes enliven your senses. Peace lingers here—and perhaps something more you cannot exactly put your finger on. This thought shimmers in your mind like a long forgotten memory.
At last—or much too soon since you are loath to leave the beauty you just witnessed behind—the road leads right into a quaint little town. The town proper encompasses one long street named Main Street. It doesn’t take you long to spot the Lowell Inn where you’ll rest your head during your stay. You pull up in front of the three-story Victorian inn that looks more like a home with its crisp white wooden exterior and front bay window.
Next, you notice a solid, two-story, red brick building across the street from the inn. On the other side of the plate glass window etched with the words Cana General Store, you spy crowded shelves stocked with anything you may need during your visit.
You climb out onto the paved walkway to the scent of late-blooming begonias flourishing in the Town Square. Further down the street looms a grand Spanish-styled building with its white stucco exterior and red clay tiled roof. You realize it’s the largest structure in town. Later the inn’s clerk will tell you, it’s the courthouse where the mayor’s office and jail are both located.
You may be tempted to take a seat on the stone bench outside of the inn. Just to enjoy the crisp valley air in the quiet town. However, then you may sit there all day watching the trucks or sedans pull up in front of the General Store or just a few doors down from there in front of the one story building displaying the sign The Vines. Not yet knowing that later that night you’ll enjoy a hearty meal there with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from one of Cana’s own premier wineries, The Clemente Vineyard.
After you check in and leave your bags behind in a room that looks more like a setting for a turn of the century novel than the 1940s, you venture out for a self-guided tour of the surrounding community.
It’s here that the paved roads cease and your vehicle's tires pop and crunch over gravel. More conifers line each side along with wild ferns and various shrubs. The estates appear larger now and suddenly you know that you are, indeed, in wine country.
The sun is setting and it’s getting late, so you turn onto a drive, preparing to reverse directions and head back to town.
A sign tells you it’s the Clemente Vineyard, Established in 1911.
You pause for a moment to take in the four-story stone and brick house. You smile and imagine lazy sunny days shaded beneath its wrap around porch while the ivy climbs the exterior walls above. Behind the house, you spy vines—rows and rows of grapevines. With a wistful sigh, you imagine it’s something to behold in the sunlight and decide this is a place worth returning to.
As you back out to return to the road, you catch motion out of the corner of your eye. Your heart skips a beat but when you swivel to look, there’s nothing there.
Now it's time to get a glimpse of Cana from the pages of The Passenger through Elizabeth Reilly's eyes.
Elizabeth’s stomach churned in nervous knots. She squirmed on the cloth seat, and her foot twitched. If he heard her erratic heartbeat, he’d realize how frantic she was—and hot. Perspiration built up on her forehead. Grabbing the metal handle, she rolled down the squeaking window, and inhaled the pure air. The fragrances of the forest filled her senses—the resinous scent of pine, the earthiness of soil, and damp detritus of fallen branches and decaying leaves. The surrounding land was alive, vibrant, and something more she couldn’t quite identify. Somehow, the vehicle they drove in and the path it traveled seemed out of place.
Gravel on the uneven road crunched and ground under the truck’s tires. Elizabeth sat straight in her seat and stole stiff, awkward glimpses at Giovanni. A frown marked his lips. His lean, well-defined face held soulful eyes bringing to her mind images of the sad little boy he must have been.
A thin red scar stretched down his right cheek and she itched to run a finger along the faded edges. She’d caress his stubble-shadowed chin and tell him how terribly his father missed him. Instead, she stared out the truck window.
What's Coming Next?
On May 17, join me in welcoming Sandy L. Young to the blog. We'll discuss her May 1 release, Ghostly Diva.
On May 28, the next issue of my newsletter will be delivered to subscribers. To receive it—and read the back issues—please sign up below.
Until next time, I hope you enjoyed the trip!
P.S. — Be the first to know. Follow this link to subscribe to my newsletter.
About the Author
Minnesota-based author, Joie Lesin is a life-long fiction writer and the author of The Passenger. She has long been fascinated by anything otherworldly including ghosts. She loves to write a good ghost story—especially when it includes a touch of romance.