Page 3 of Gone With the Wine

Yeah, yeah, get on with it.

Mr. Davenport reads Nonna’s words from papers he holds. “‘Geno, you have been a faithful steward of the family winery, and I trust you to keep that tradition strong for future generations. All holdings from your father, and his father before him, are passed down to you.’” He pauses and flicks his gaze up, presumably toward Uncle Geno. “‘I have every hope that your sons, my beloved grandsons, will carry on that tradition on the land bequeathed to your lineage. I love you all.’”

Just what I expected. I’ve been overlooked my whole life, as the middle child, but being overlooked by Nonna in this way stings. Ah well. I’ve followed a different path, and it’s fine.

I hear Uncle Geno speak. “Thank you, James. I know how hard?—”

“We’re not finished,”Mr. Davenport interjects.

“Excuse me? You’ve gone over everything—the accounts, the financials, the properties…”

“One property.” Mr. Davenport sets that paper aside and glances down at the one remaining in his hand. “Belmonte Winery.”

I frown, my fingers tightening on my phone.

“These are the final wishes of Maria Carmela Bianchi Lamberti, in her own words. ‘My dearest children and grandchildren. I love you all and wish I could have remained with you forever, in our little patch of heaven on earth. I have loved every moment together, and wish you all nothing but peace, prosperity, and happiness.

“‘As you know, when I married my sainted Leo, I brought my family birthright, Caparelli Vineyards, with me. It had been passed down to me by my mother, God rest her soul. And though I allowed my sainted Lorenzo to run both wineries as one, it has remained my birthright throughout our marriage and beyond. Geno, when you took over for your father, you continued to treat them as one entity, as agreed upon previously. But now, in my twilight years, I wish to rebuild the tradition started by my mother, and pass Caparelli Vineyards on to the next generation of wine-making women in our family. My dear daughter, Caprice, has chosen to live and work overseas with her second husband, and has shown no interest in Caparelli for many years. Therefore, I leave my vines, my property, and my birthright to my three granddaughters, Rosa, Bianca, and Allegra, to carry on the proud matriarchal tradition of Caparelli.’”

I smack my hand over my mouth as I gasp.

“‘I also leave a modest bank account –” Mr. Davenport holds up a folder “– to provide some cushion should they choose to bring Caparelli back from disuse. I hope with all my heart that they do. My darlings, my tre sorelle, I wish you all well in your new adventure.”

Holy shit. What? I press a hand to my forehead, suddenly hot and dizzy.

Mr. Davenport folds his hands on the desk and looks at each of us in turn. “Any questions?”

“What the hell is that?” Geno’s voice is loud enough to be clearly heard on my phone.

I’m wondering the same, Uncle Geno.

“Your mother’s last will and testament. It is quite legal, and she was of sound mind and body when she wrote it. There will be no point in challenging it.”

“But it makes no sense. Caparelli and Belmonte have been combined for decades! Caparelli can’t exist on its own. You agree with me, right?” Rosa turns her phone and he’s looking directly at her—and us—hands planted on his hips. “You’ve been working for the family for years. You see how the two are intertwined.”

Rosa doesn’t answer and there’s a long silence.

Yes, they’ve operated as one organization for as long as I can remember. But I also remember the stories Nonna used to tell us, of growing up on Caparelli’s grounds, how proud she was when it became hers, how she chose to share it with her husband while still retaining that birthright for her own. And she’s entrusted it to us? I can’t…I…

“Besides, there’s no way you’ll be able to get it up and running on your own in time to save the grapes,” Uncle Geno says.

“She’s not on her own,” I snap.

“Excuse me?” Uncle Geno frowns.

“She’s right,” Allegra says. “There are three of us. She’s not on her own.”

I shift my focus to the tiny image of Allegra on my phone as she weighs in from across the globe.

Uncle Geno waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Not like you’ll be doing much from your little European vacation. Just like your mother.”

I hear Rosa suck in a breath as I wince. Uncle Geno’s always been a little crotchety, but why is he being such a jackass?

“Belmonte needs the grapes. We have plans for them. And if you don’t allow us to harvest and use them, they’ll rot on the vine.”

What? He really thinks we can’t do it! He thinks we can’t harvest the grapes ourselves.

“Then we’ll just turn them into raisins and make a profit that way,” Allegra says.

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