Page 1 of Gone With the Wine

Prologue

Bianca

Ipick up my phone and check the time. Still too early.

I press a hand to my quaking stomach. My arms and legs are tingling as if I’m cold, but out here on the terrace at Castillo Lorenzo Winery it’s a comfortable late summer temperature with afternoon sun warming the stone and scenting the air with bougainvillaea. I don’t know why I’m nervous about this video call with my family.

Oh wait. It’s my family.That’swhy I’m nervous.

I gaze out at the rows and rows of malbec grapes stretching into the distance where the snow-capped Andes Mountains rise against the clear blue sky. Absolutely breathtaking.

It’s harvest time here in Argentina, and I’ve taken a break from the frenetic pace for this call. Obviously, I couldn’t go home for this right now.

I’ve been living and working here just outside Mendoza, Argentina, for years now but the beauty never fails to affect me. The elegant wine-tasting terrace is shaded with vines, shrubs, and Jacarandas that bloom velvety lilac in November, and brightly colored flowers spill out of big pots. Guests are enjoying their samples of malbec, syrah, and cabernet franc.

My phone buzzes with the notification. I start and drop my gaze to the screen, tapping it and moving to the far side of the patio away from guests. The face of my older sister Rosa appears. She’s sitting in the Napa, California office of James Davenport, the Lamberti family lawyer. Also in the room, although I can’t see them, is our Uncle Geno, Aunt Janet, and our cousins Gianni, Vittorio, and Leo, Jr. Leo’s the son of our Uncle Leo, Geno’s brother, but he passed years ago.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Bee!”

We make stilted small talk, acutely aware of the other people in the room with Rosa. Still no Allegra, our younger sister.

“Are you sure you sent Legs the link?” I ask.

“Yes, of course I did. I just have no idea what time it is over there. Could be middle of the night.”

“Nah, closer to eight or nine pm. Barely dinner time.”

At that moment the screen splits in two, Allegra joining our three-way call.

God, I miss them.

“Hey, Bee!” my younger sister says. “And Rosey Posey. Sorry I couldn’t make it back. How are you holding up, Rosey?”

“I’m fine,” Rosa says. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be here, too.”

Allegra shrugs a shoulder. “You know how it is. I’ll try to be there for the memorial.”

She’d better do more than try. I catch Rosa’s exasperated eye roll. We both love Allegra, but she’s never been what you’d call dependable.

“You’ve got time,” Rosa says. “We won’t hold the memorial until after harvest season at least. But you really should be here for it, Allegra. After everything Grandma did for us. Pay our respects.”

Allegra nods, her face shadowed by the late afternoon sun behind her head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Nonna raised us herself, after Daddy died and Mama ran off to Italy with Sergio. We owe her so much. My heart squeezes with grief.

“Where are you this week, Legs?” I peer at my phone, taking in the gorgeous old buildings behind Allegra. “Greece?”

Allegra shakes her head, curls dancing. “Gibraltar.” She waves a hand behind her. “I might actually get some time to look around before I move on.”

“That’s so cool.” Rosa smiles.

Allegra couldn’t be much farther away from me.

When I left Oak Creek Canyon in California eight years ago for college, I was happy to escape. I wanted to be on my own in the world, not part of the Martinelli-Lamberti family, not the girl whose mom ran away to Italy with a man, not the invisible middle sister. I was eager to make my own mark in the world, and I’ve been working hard ever since to achieve that.

My full scholarship to Cornell University was a dream come true and my ticket out of Napa. Waaaaay out of Napa. Then I decided to do my internship in Argentina—even farther from Napa. When I was offered a job at the winery where I interned, I took it. I’ve been the assistant winemaker here ever since, working with Milenko Torres, an elite winemaker who’s been producing internationally awarded wines including his amazing malbec.

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