Page 13 of Que Será, Syrah

I was not surprised, however, when she shrugged and said, “Well, the party’s over now. And since we made it this far. I guess we should call it a night. No sense in pushing our luck.” Then her eyes grew wide. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think. Will you be all right? Can you get home from here?”

“Yeah, sure. ’Course,” I said, as though the prospect of having to walk for several miles with no jacket and the temperatures dropping was no big deal. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she said, taking me at my word—which both pleased and irritated me. She bit her lip. “Well, I…I hope I see you again?”

“Me, too,” I told her. “Even though I doubt your family will be too happy if they ever find out about…well, us.” Admittedly, I knew next to nothing about her family. But everything I did know—that they made wine, drove around on expensive toys, probably owned the land we’d been partying on, and seemed a lot more protective of their little princess than she seemed to realize—suggested they wouldn’t welcome her involvement with anyone who hadn’t been born with a trust fund under his pillow and a gold-plated spoon in his mouth.

She laughed. “They’re never happy about anything. But it’s okay. We just won’t let them find out, right? We’ll be like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yeah, that didn’t end too well,” I felt obliged to point out.

“Well, maybe not,” she agreed. “But it’ll be different for us. We’ll make our own ending.” Then she held out her hand. “Here. Give me your phone; let me give you my number.”

But when I pulled it out, my phone was dead. “Shit.” I stared at it in dismay. Now, I couldn’t even call for a ride if I wanted to. “What about yours?”

“I don’t have it with me,” she said, looking disappointed. “I think my uncle has figured out some way to track it, so I always leave it home whenever I don’t want the family to know where I am.”

Yep. Just like I thought. Super protective family. The absolute last thing I needed. “Okay, well…”

“Oh, I know!” she said brightening up. “This is genius, actually. My uncle is always after me and my sisters to take part in the Fourth of July parade—and I always say no, because it’s lame, and afterwards his friends always grill me about my plans for the future, and I never know what to tell them. But this year I’ll say yes, which will make him happy and earn me all the brownie points. And then you can find me at the end of the route, and we can get lost in the crowd. What do you think?”

I thought it was pretty goofy, as plans go. But I didn’t have an alternative. So, I took her by the shoulders and said, “I will find you! No matter how long it takes. You stay alive!”

She dissolved into giggles. “Omigod, I love that movie! I used to watch it with my Nonna. I cried so hard every time. But I thought we’d agreed we were going to be Romeo and Juliet?”

“I told you,” I said, pulling her close for a goodnight kiss. “I don’t like the way their story ends.”

“And I told you,” she replied, just before her lips met mine. “We’ll make our own.”

* * *

Of course, things rarely work out the way you want them to, and this was no exception. As it happened, my mom was going through one of her rare responsible phases. She threw a fit when I finally wandered in, shortly before dawn, then smashed my phone when I tried to show her that it was dead, that it wasn’t my fault that I hadn’t returned her panicked calls from hours earlier. Then she grounded me for the rest of the month, which was laughable on several counts. It was the first time she’d ever tried such a thing, the month was already almost over, and my social life was (at that point) all but non-existent. My friends were mostly angry with me for having bailed on them at the party. They had zero interest in helping me track down a girl whose real name I’d never learned, and who, in their minds, had set them up to get caught.

I did go to the parade on the Fourth of July. Or, rather, I went to a parade—the one that was held in downtown Napa. But it occurred to me (a little too late to make a difference) that nearly every little town up and down the valley hosted their own. We’d never specified which one she’d be at, but obviously she hadn’t meant that one, since she never showed.

I continued to look for her throughout the summer, and to ask everyone I met if they knew anything about a girl who called herself Legs, and eventually there were some rumors. I heard that she’d left town or fled the country. One person told me that he’d heard she’d eloped.

I didn’t know what to believe, but one thing was obvious; if she was still in Napa, she was keeping a very low profile.

Then, in October, a series of fires broke out in Napa and Sonoma. And after that, everything else seem massively unimportant.

Chapter 3

Allegra

Spend any amount of time with winemakers and you’ll hear the term terroir mentioned, usually with a certain amount of hushed reverence. Basically, terroir refers to the various environmental factors that might influence or affect the growing grapes. Ideally, it’s what allows the grapes to become the fullest expression of themselves.

When I wake up on the morning after my arrival, I know immediately where I am. It’s as though, from the depths of my soul, I can recognize my own terroir. From the cool, soft air slipping in through my open window—bringing with it the familiar sound of bird song and the equally familiar mélange of fragrances rising up from the earth—to the same familiar views I’d grown up with, everything looks, sounds, smells and feels like home. And I am quite sure that, before too many more hours have passed, I’ll be able to say that it tastes like home, as well.

This is the place that shaped me, that made me who I am. It’s impossible not to imagine that—if only I could run downstairs fast enough, before I’m entirely awake—I’ll surprise my Nonna in the kitchen, fixing breakfast.

To be sure, there have been some changes (and mostly not great ones) in my immediate vicinity. My room looks nothing like it did when I left it. In the years since I’ve been gone, someone has removed my belongings and most of the furniture, taken down all my posters, and painted everything—walls, ceiling, doors and trim—a dull, dreary white. Blech.

Fun Fact: Before Napa was known around the world for wine, it was best known (at least within the state itself) for its psychiatric hospital. Back in the day, if you’d said that someone had “gone to Napa” it carried very different implications than it does today. This room, with its sparse furnishings and uninspired color scheme, is deffo giving those vintage Napa vibes.

Earlier in the summer, Rosa’s (very much ex) boyfriend Jake Wright had been staying here, helping out with the grapes. It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen Jake, and I was really hoping he’d still be here when I got back, but it looks like I’ve missed him, too. And given that this was the room Rosa chose to put him in, I can’t say I’m too surprised. Although, on the other hand, now that the harvest is in, there was probably not that much for him to do here, anyway.

But it’s depressing, you know? I always had a sort of thing for Jake. It was never an “I want to bone my sister’s boyfriend” kind of thing. More of an, “I wish we could be family” type of deal, mixed in with a healthy dose of envy.

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