Page 102 of Que Será, Syrah

There’s a small crowd milling about in front of the winery—not the general public, but nearly everyone we know. The Lambros are here—although neither Uncle Geno nor Aunt Janet were able to make it. I see Jimmy Davenport; and my sisters’ friends, Sasha, Millie and Ana. Even Jake’s buddy, Wade, and a few of our old teachers, like Mrs. Gerstenmayer have come out to cheer us on. And nearly everyone has a glass of wine. Servers circulate through the crowd, filling and refilling as necessary.

Bee leads me to the small, elevated platform (it’s a stage, okay?) where a podium has been set up. I see that the new sign has also been erected and affixed in place, just in front of the house—and not too close to the road because, if you can believe it, Napa has restrictions about that, as well. My gaze goes there immediately, but it’s swathed in drapes, awaiting its unveiling—with a couple of interns standing guard to make sure that doesn’t happen prematurely.

“How about a hint?” I ask Bee, as we both accept glasses.

“No hints,” Rosa says sternly as she joins us. She has wine now, too, I see.

I scan the crowd again until my gaze finds Clay, standing with Jansen, Miles, Logan and Jake—they all have glasses, too. “Just how much wine are we handing out today, anyway?” I ask. “It seems like a lot.”

“Oh, we’re not,” Bee says. “This is all from Jansen’s cellar.”

I feel myself frown. “But that’s not made here. Isn’t that gonna be a problem?”

Bee shakes her head. “I talked to Clay. He said that only applies if we’re selling or marketing it. Besides, I’m the one who made it, right? I figure that has to count for something.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. The county doesn’t give a flying fruitcake about what any of us think.”

Rosa nudges me with her elbow. “I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who suggested rolling barrels from one winery to another as a way to circumvent the fermentation rule?”

“Ugh. No.” Bee’s expression turns pained. “Don’t do that. That’d be awful. Anyway, we needed wine for the toast. But you’re right, we don’t really have enough yet of our own. And Jansen wanted to contribute something, anyway, so…”

“I still don’t understand why we have to have a toast,” I grouse.

“Because we’re celebrating!” my sisters insist. “It’s a party.”

They look excited. Must be nice to be them, I think. “One hint,” I urge again.

“No!” They say (in unison this time) and then they laugh.

“But, why?” I whine in frustration and, let’s face it, fear. All the attention this event has drawn, all the anticipation that’s been building—it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. What happens if they’ve chosen a name that nobody likes? Or one that’s already in use elsewhere—have they even thought about that? Or what if they’ve picked the wrong font for the sign-slash-logo? What if, after spending a fortune on rebranding, we end up on one of those viral #FontFail lists? Like the ones where the ‘cl’ in click looks like a ‘d’ or the ‘li’ in flick looks like a ‘u’? It could happen.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t even let me put together a focus group,” I complain. I understand that it’s not my winery, not my decision. But at least I could have helped.

“Well, we did have a kind of focus group,” Bee says.

“You did?”

“No, not really,” Rosa says. “It was totally informal. We just did a little brainstorming with the cousins. And Jake, of course.”

“And Jansen,” Bee adds.

“Are you saying…” I pause to catch my breath. And maybe to keep from screaming. “That I’m the last to know—again?” I glare at Rosa. “Like when I came home and found out that you and Jake were married?”

“Oh! Please. Like you can talk,” she retorts, as her cheeks flush red.

Bee laughs. “Face it, ladies, you both suck. And when Jansen and I get married, I’m not telling either one of you.”

Rosa and I share a look. “Bee? Did you say…when?”

“She did,” I say, nodding excitedly. “She definitely did.”

“If!” Bee corrects quickly. “I meant if!” But, judging by the flush on her cheeks, I’d bet anything that what she really meant was when. And that by when, what she really means is soon.

We’re startled, just then, by a blast of feedback from the sound system. “Sorry!” Jake says, looking sheepish. “Sorry, everyone. But if I could just have your attention?”

I gasp for breath. Oh, shit. It’s time. And I’m about to start hyperventilating. There’s a burst of applause as Rosa approaches the podium. Bee and I clasp hands as our sister starts to address the crowd. But my head is too filled with noise and memories, and I find it hard to focus on anything that’s being said. I think back over the past year. The rumors, the scandals, the legal battles. Relationships made and lost. Laughter, tears, and really good wine. Nonna would have loved it. And hated it.

“So, thank you all, so much, for being here,” Rosa says—clearly coming to the end of her speech. “And for celebrating with my sisters and me…” She turns and waves for us to join her.

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