Page 17 of Que Será, Syrah

It would also explain why Geno’s been having a menty b. I think I might join him.

“So then, what am I here for?” I demand because holy cluster crush, this is worse than I thought.

“What do you mean?” Rosa asks, looking innocently perplexed.

“What do I—?” Cazzo! I rein in my temper and try again. “Look, all summer long, every time we chatted, you and Bee have been all ‘where ya at?’ always comin’ at me, wanting me to hurry back, and for what? I’m here now, and I have no idea what I’m even supposed to be doing. And it doesn’t sound like you do, either.”

Rosa sighs. “I don’t know, Allegra. But I don’t have time for this aggro. Jake and I have to get to work now, too. So, why don’t you just focus on getting your own stuff squared away, and I guess, like Bianca said, we can get together later and discuss our plans. All right?”

“Yeah, sure,” I lie again. “No worries.” And maybe in the meantime, I’ll visit my uncle and get his side of the story.

In the end, I don’t go to see Geno. I decide to poke around Caparelli instead, to see what’s been done, and what still needs doing. Which—talk about depressing—holy shit!

First of all, there’s no tasting room to speak of. Which, considering I’d been counting on claiming that as my domain, the place where my talents would really be able to shine, puts a huge crimp in my plans.

The room that used to be Caparelli’s tasting room (way, way, way back in the day) has good bones—including a terracotta tiled floor, a turn-of-the-last-century oak bar and built-in wine racks, high, raftered ceilings, and three sets of double glass doors that open onto an unkempt (but possibly redeemable) brick terrace at the side of the house.

It’s obviously been decades since it’s been used for anything other than storage, however, and the place needs to be dusted, swept for cobwebs, and scrubbed from floor to ceiling. Including the windows, which are so caked with grime you can’t even see through them.

After that, it will need to be painted. And furnished. And lit—preferably with something other than the bare bulbs that are currently hanging out of the ceiling.

And, yeah, I get why this wasn’t Rosa’s first priority, or Bianca’s either, obviously. Until you actually have wine to sell, you don’t really need an attractive room for people to taste it in. And I know money’s been tight, and other expenditures might have appeared more urgent, but I’m worried they’re going to tell me there’s no budget (or plans) for it at all.

And I can’t even say with any certainty that they’re wrong. Financially, it might make sense for us to start out selling direct to restaurants, to wine stores and distributors, or even online, but that doesn’t exactly play to my strengths. And if you eliminate all the things I’m good at right off the bat, how am I ever going to start pulling my weight?

One bright spot on my tour of the winery is the wine cave, which is looking better than I expected. And I’m briefly optimistic that I can make that work in my favor. Someone’s obviously put money into it recently, updating the lighting and purchasing pricey French oak barrels. If I can talk Bianca into letting me use the space for tastings and occasional events—by promising not to get in her way and to not to let the public get too close to her equipment—it could be a win-win.

At least, that’s where my thoughts are headed until I talk to a couple of the cellar rats and learn where the money that went into fixing it up came from. Jansen Freaking Beck, that’s who.

Sheesh. I haven’t even met the man and already I’m feeling hostile towards him—and twice as panicked as before. I’m going to lose everything if I’m not careful, and if I don’t start proving my worth immediately. And there are only so many ways for me to do that.

So, I pivot again. I suborn one of the interns into driving me over to Napa (the city, that is) so I can get my license sorted and pick up my car. Then I run a few errands.

It’s while I’m browsing through all the antique stores on Second Street that I catch sight of Deputy Romero seated at a window table in a small, sidewalk café, having an early lunch with another deputy—who also looks somewhat familiar. Before I can stop to reconsider, I’m crossing the road and pulling open the door to the restaurant.

The lunch rush hasn’t started yet, so I’m seated immediately, albeit at a small, dark table toward the back. After ordering—fish tacos (something I haven’t had in ages!) and a locally produced hard kombucha—I make my way to the front of the restaurant.

He looks up as I approach. Our eyes meet and…I can’t interpret the look that crosses his face, but his eyes definitely go dark and my pulse speeds up in response.

“Ms. Martinelli,” he says in a voice that’s all gravel and smoke and…mmm. Yum. I hadn’t noticed that the other day. “Something I can do for you?”

“Hmm?” I’m momentarily distracted by the question because, yes, please. I’m sure there are many things I’d like him to do for me. “Oh! No. Sorry. I just…it is Deputy Romero, isn’t it?”

He frowns at that. “I believe we already established that, didn’t we?”

I sigh. “No, unfortunately, we did not. My sisters told me that was your name. And of course, I was hoping they were wrong. Which, if you know anything about my family, how likely was that to be the case, right?”

“I’m not following,” he replies cautiously, which makes me want to kick myself.

Of course, he’s not following me. I’m babbling like an idiot. Pull yourself together, I order myself. “Sorry,” I say again, which irritates me even more. I’m generally not the kind of person who goes around apologizing for every little thing. But something about this guy has me rattled. Which—annoying as fuck, to be sure—also has the potential to be really, really good. In the right circumstances. “I have dyslexic tendencies,” I tell him, hurrying into speech before I make even more of a mess of things. “Which is not a big deal normally, but it does means that occasionally, especially when I’m tired, my eyes sorta cross and I don’t always read things correctly.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s fine. What I’m trying to say is that, when I looked at your name tag the other day, I really did think it said Romeo. So, that was why I?—”

I break off, startled by the muffled snort of laughter coming from Romero’s companion. “Romeo?”

Shit. Did I just make things worse?

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