Page 23 of Que Será, Syrah

It’s Saturday night. My sisters and their plus-ones had all gone off to attend a wedding earlier in the day, leaving me with nothing to do but rattle around the empty house feeling very Kevin McAllister-esque.

Unlike Kevin, however, I’m an adult with access to both money and a car so there was no reason for me to stay home alone if I didn’t want to, which I very much did not. So, I’d dressed up as much as I could—putting on a light, summer dress that’s probably too thin for October, and some rando jacket I’d found hanging in the hall closet—and headed downtown in search of food, companionship, maybe a little adult entertainment, and also to take a break from all the family tension I’d been feeling.

So of course I end up running straight into my cousins. Great. Just perfect.

“Hey, fam,” I say, feeling a little wary as I approach their table. “What’s up? It’s been a minute.” I’m honestly not sure what to expect. I haven’t seen them in years and, as I recall it, we hadn’t exactly parted as friends. Not that I ever thought of them as friends, exactly, anyway. They’re all older than me—enough so that it made a difference. Gianni’s the youngest and he’s the same age as Rosa…or I dunno, maybe a little younger? Still. He’s definitely older than Bianca, so…

Not that any of it matters anymore. Apparently. It’s all water under a bridge or something like it, at least if the hugs and smiles I’m greeted with are anything to go by.

I join them at their table where they’ve apparently ordered “one of everything” off the happy hour bar menu. I mean, seriously? Why not just order a meal?

They’ve got crab cakes and hot wings, short rib tacos, mac and cheese arancini, grilled artichokes, roasted Mexican street corn riblets, barbecued oysters, caprese salad, shishito peppers, and an entire charcuterie platter including cold cuts, baked brie and an assortment of olives… I’m honestly not sure where they’re planning on putting it all. And in a way, I’m doing them a favor by joining their party and taking some of that food off their hands.

I accept a glass of wine from one of the several bottles they’re working their way through (it’s a decent enough Meritage from a winery whose name I don’t immediately recognize) and we catch up. By which I mean that I give them a heavily redacted version of what I’ve been up to in Europe (Vitto is particularly interested in hearing about my work aboard the cruise ship) and they fill me in on what’s been happening since I’ve been gone, and all the local gossip.

I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying myself. They’re charming and funny and seem genuinely happy to see me. The Cougar is loud and crowded—but not in a rowdy sort of way. Servers bustle about the space, taking orders and delivering delicious looking food. Everything smells amazing; and it tastes even better.

If I’d stayed at home instead of spending the last few years in Europe, this would probably have been my hang-out. Or maybe not. Granted, I can’t see all of the room, but from where I’m sitting, I only see a few familiar faces—and most of those are gathered around the table with me.

“So, level with me,” I say at last—finally addressing the elephant in the room. “What exactly went on here this summer? I mean, the real story. Because some of the stuff I’ve heard…” I trail off, leaving the sentence unfinished because I don’t know how to finish it.

If you must know, I don’t really want to believe half of what I’ve heard. I’m hoping to learn that my sisters have been exaggerating how bad it’s been. Except…I don’t really want to think that either. I mean, would you want to learn that your sisters—and business partners—are paranoid and delusional? No, I think not.

Leo shrugs. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but…yeah, it’s been rough. Pops… Well. In a nutshell, he hasn’t been handling things well.”

“No,” Vitto agrees. “Not at all.

“I think he felt betrayed,” Leo continues. “And, honestly? I think he still does. So, I guess you could say he’s been acting out.”

“We’re okay, though,” Gianni says, circling his hand in a gesture to encompass the entire table. “I just want to be clear about that. We’re not mad at you or your sisters at all.”

“Ohhkay?” I reply, feeling the wariness creep back in. Because why would he bother to deny something I hadn’t even hinted at?

“I’m just saying,” Gianni continues. “Because I think Bianca was worried that was the case. But it’s not.”

“Good to know.”

“But,” Vitto adds, “It was a wake-up call; that’s for certain. We weren’t expecting it.”

“For real,” Gianni sighs.

“It was a shock. And it’s definitely forced us to think more about our own situations, and… I don’t know….maybe what we want our futures to look like? And how we can get there?”

“Right,” Leo agrees. “Because this ain’t it. And if things don’t change?—”

“Which we know they won’t,” Gianni insists, as he tops off my glass. “Because Dad is incapable of letting go of the reins or even loosening his grip on them to even the slightest degree.”

“Which…yes, I agree, is very unlikely to happen,” Leo continues undeterred. “Which means we all have to make other plans. Because I don’t think any of us—” He pauses to look at his brothers for confirmation. “Feel like waiting another ten, twenty, maybe thirty years to start living our own lives, making our own decisions.”

“Or for the chance to finally inherit a failing winery that could have been saved if we’d have been allowed get involved now,” Vitto finishes. “Before he runs it entirely into the ground.”

“Okay, wait a minute,” I say frowning at them. “Is Belmonte in trouble? Because this is the first I’m hearing about it. And I thought you guys were involved. Vitto, aren’t you making wine for Belmonte?” I’m pretty sure that’s what Bianca had said.

“Well, there’s involved, and then there’s involved,” Gianni says in answer. “We’re all working there, sure. But, as Rosa can tell you, that doesn’t mean we’re making any of the big decisions. At least, not like you and your sisters are doing at Caparelli.”

I shove an arancini in my mouth to keep from blurting out the truth—that no one’s letting me make any important decisions either—and immediately get distracted by the creamy, cheesy, crispy goodness. Yum.

“I mean, sure. If you wanna be technical about it,” Vitto says. “I do make most of our wine. But what kind of wine am I making? It’s not the kind of wine I want to make; that’s for sure. I’m making the wines Dad wants me to make, using only the grapes Dad wants me to use, and I’m only allowed to utilize the methods, equipment, and timelines that he approves of. God only knows what he thinks would happen if he were to give any of us a say in any of it. It’s like he thinks he’s the only one capable of making good decisions.”

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