Page 2 of Que Será, Syrah

“Thank you all for being here,” Jimmy says. “I know this is a sad and difficult time for the whole family.” He swallows hard and I’m reminded again how close he and Nonna were. After a brief pause, he clears his voice and tries again. “Your mother, mother-in-law and grandmother was a remarkable woman.”

As he pauses—obviously needing a moment—I feel tears sting my eyes. He’s hurting, too.

“She will be greatly missed,” Jimmy continues. “She also lived a full life, loved her family, and had very specific thoughts about her will and what would happen after she passed. Her greatest desire was that you remain a family, supporting each other, regardless of what’s in these papers.”

Fat chance of that, I think as I lean forward, biting my lip, heart pounding with a combination of anticipation and dread. Nonna and I had had so many conversations about what she wanted, what she’d planned to do, her dreams for the future. And I know Jimmy had warned her at the time that the family would likely experience strife no matter what she decided. But that was so long ago. Had she changed her mind since then? Had we—no. had I—let her down one time too many? I’m afraid to find out.

“In regard to Belmonte Winery,” Jimmy continues.

My left leg starts bouncing, as it does when I’m stressed. Let’s go, I think; get on with it.

Clearing his voice yet again, he begins to read. “‘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. 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.’”

“Thank you, James,” Geno says. I hear a rustle of sound; his chair being pushed back from the table as he starts to rise. “I know how hard?—”

“We’re not finished,” the lawyer interjects.

Now, my heart seriously shifts gears and begins pounding even faster. I cross my fingers and hold my breath. This is it. Shit…shit…shit…shit…

“Excuse me?” Geno sounds confused but still polite. I mentally place a bet with myself about how quickly that will change—and into what. Five minutes, tops; and eye-bulging fury. “You’ve gone over everything—the accounts, the financials, the properties…”

“One property,” Davenport tells him. “Belmonte Winery.” There’s another, longish pause before he continues. “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 Leo 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 also leave a modest bank account to provide some cushion should they choose to bring Caparelli back from disuse. I hope with all my heart that they do. My darlings, I wish you all well in your new adventure.’”

Yes! I think wildly, clapping a hand to my mouth to hold back the sob that wants to erupt. But I can’t control the tears that track down my face. She did it. She did it! She didn’t forget. She didn’t take back her promise. I didn’t disappoint her so badly that she changed her mind.

“What the hell is that?” Uncle Geno demands. And I mentally pat myself on the back because, yep. Called it.

“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!” Geno protests. “Caparelli and Belmonte have been combined for decades! Caparelli can’t exist on its own.” I hear his chair squeak and imagine him turning toward Rosa. “You agree with me, right? You’ve been working for the family for years. You see how the two are intertwined.

“Besides,” he continues—not waiting for an answer. “There’s no way you’ll be able to get it up and running on your own in time to save the grapes.”

“She’s not on her own,” Bianca snaps—sounding steely and defiant. And I find myself nodding frantically in agreement.

“Excuse me?” Uncle Geno frowns.

“She’s right,” I agree loudly—then quickly glance around at the tables around me, embarrassed by the fact that I’m practically shouting. “There are three of us. She’s not on her own.”

“Whatever,” he responds dismissively. “It’s not like you’ll be doing much from your little European vacation. Just like your mother.”

I hear a gasp—Rosa, I’m guessing. And, just like that, I see red—oh, not on my own behalf, or my mother’s. I know Mama’s shortcomings—and my own—and I’ve made my peace with them. I’m also no stranger to Geno’s manipulative bluster. But for Rosa, who’s always gone out of her way for the family, that must have hurt like hell.

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

“Then we’ll turn ’em into raisins,” I shoot back, employing maximum snark, and ignoring the fact that—yes, yes, I know. We all know—they’re the wrong kind of grapes, blah, blah, blah. But I can’t risk my sisters falling for this shit. “We can make a profit that way.”

“Allegra!” Rosa gasps again. And I can’t tell if she’s shocked or amused. I hope she’s amused. I hope she and Bianca are feeling as gleeful and giddy as I am. And maybe Bianca is, although, from the way she’s biting her lip and looking stunned, it’s more likely she’s still considering her options. But Rosa’s the one who’s stuck dealing with Geno—the one who’s been stuck dealing with him for most of the past decade, so…yeah, she’s probably not feeling all that gleeful at the moment.

“Our arrangement has worked just fine for decades.” Geno again. I bite back a sigh. It’s not nice to kick someone when they’re down—that’s what Nonna would have said. Geno was her son. She loved him, too. I’m trying hard to keep all of that in mind, and to hold my tongue—for her sake. But Jesus! He just will not let it go!

“We’ve even honored the history of Caparelli vineyards,” he’s insisting now, “through our Carleo Cabernet.”

I count to ten. And then to twenty. It doesn’t help. The Carleo is named after my grandparents—Carmela and Leo. It’s a blend—much like the word itself—that’s made with mostly Caparelli grapes. I loved my Papa too, but in what way does naming a wine after him honor the Caparelli legacy? Or my grandmother? Or her mother, or her mother’s mother, all those generations of gifted winemakers who never got the credit they deserved—mostly because they were women?

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