Page 31 of Que Será, Syrah

And all at once, I’m blinking back tears, crying for the grief-stricken teenager I no longer am.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Romero asks, his voice concerned as he reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t. I just… I guess I wish now that I’d chosen otherwise. Because that was the last time I ever saw my grandmother. And…and she’s gone now and I… hate that our last words to one another in person were spoken in anger.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. The words are trite and standard, but he sounds sincere, as though he too has known grief, and can recognize it in others.

But I don’t deserve his sympathy. Not for this. “It was my own fault,” I say, slipping my hand away, attempting to shrug it off. “I could have done things differently, come back sooner, not gone at all, but…I didn’t, so...”

“So, were you with your mom all this time?” he asks, clearly hoping to shift our conversation into a more positive direction. “That must have been nice?”

“Oh. No.” I shake my head. “Nonna was right about that. That didn’t work out. At. All. I clashed with my new stepfamily almost immediately. And Mama…well, she’ll never change. But I guess there are some lessons you need to learn for yourself.” It’s not that my mother is intentionally cruel or uncaring. But she’s incapable of being the mother that I wanted her to be. “I was only there for about a month before I decided I’d be better off on my own.”

I nod to myself as I take another sip of wine. I’m pleased with the way that sounds—not traumatic at all. If only the reality had been the same...

* * *

In the beginning, Mama had seemed thrilled to have me there. As had Sergio. And yes, it went to my head. How could it not?

Suddenly, after years of being ignored, I was being showered with gifts, lavished with attention, heaped with praise. And I was all too willing to forgive and forget. Who cared that my mother had made the decision to move halfway around the world, to leave me and my sisters behind? Or that she’d been emotionally absent for most of our lives? She was doting on me now and I was there for it.

And maybe it was inevitable that Sergio’s children by his previous marriage—Bettina, Massimo, and Elettra—would resent the shit out of me. But I also know my behavior didn’t help.

On the other hand, it wasn’t all my fault, either. See, no one ever troubled to guard their tongues when I was present, because it was well-established that I couldn’t speak Italian worth un cavolo, as the Italians would say. But I’d grown up eavesdropping. And just because I struggled to find the words necessary to speak Italian, with any kind of fluidity, that didn’t mean I couldn’t understand a lot of what was being said. And what I quickly learned was that while my stepfamily didn’t like me very much, they absolutely loathed my mother.

La opportunista was one of their nicknames for her: the opportunist. Which, sad to say, they weren’t completely wrong about. The three of them (six if you counted the spouses, seven if you added in my new step-grandmama) spoke openly about what they could do to prevent Mama from gaining control of their family’s businesses and finances. How they might use me to somehow drive a wedge between Mama and Sergio. What none of us knew, at that point (well, Mama knew, and Sergio of course) was that that ship had already sailed.

But I was young, ignorant, reckless, hot tempered, and firmly on my mother’s side. And I, too, could concoct elaborate plots, and avenge supposed wrongs, and embark on wrong-headed missions.

Having made up my mind that I would prove that my mother was not the only gold-digging, cheat within the Di Stefano family circle, I set my sights on the tomato.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

What you need to know is that we were all living together, at the time—albeit in a mansion so large that it made the Belmonte estate look like a condo. And, when I say all, I mean Mama and Sergio; Sergio’s widowed mother, Dona Lucia; Massimo and his wife (who were expecting their first child); Bettina, her husband (and their three daughters). and Elletra and her boyfriend, Timoteo. Or Tomato, as I liked to call him—as much for the sound of his name as for his very round face. Which, yes, had a pronounced, and unfortunate tendency to grow red whenever he got excited or annoyed. Or, for example, when someone purposely, and repeatedly mispronounced his name.

And while I’m not particularly proud about what happened next, I don’t think it should have surprised anyone, either.

As I’ve said, the family did not like me. Timoteo was the only member of my generation, who did not look on me with disdain. And, yes, I quickly realized that he was a total cascamorto (Italian for flirt). Of course, I did! He complimented my appearance and said outrageously romantic things. He tried to help me with my Italian—even after I’d intentionally butchered his name. And he attempted to proposition me whenever Elettra was out of earshot.

And, yes, I should have heeded the warning. But I was lonely—Mama and Sergio having quickly grown tired of the novelty of having a gauche American relative constantly underfoot—and Timoteo was kind.

And so one thing led to another, as those things usually do, and it didn’t take long before he and I were discovered passionately limonare, which…doesn’t translate into anything sensible, so don’t even worry about it.

My mother was very understanding when I tried to apologize. “No, no. Don’t be silly,” she said, brushing my explanations aside. “Really, when you think about it, you did us all a favor.”

“I think so, too,” I answered meekly. “Maybe it’s better for Elettra to find out now what he’s like, before she marries him.”

“Oh, we all know what he’s like. And Sergio was never going to allow his daughter to marry that man, anyway.” Mama waved a hand dismissively. “But now he has an excuse, and someone else to be the bad guy.”

“Me,” I guessed, feeling sour. Because I really should have seen the writing on the wall. I should have known what was coming next. “So, I guess I should leave?”

“Well, of course,” my mother said. “That’s inevitable. But it’s been lovely having you here and getting to know you again. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I replied. “We all have.” Then I add, impulsively, “Come back to Napa with me! You don’t have to stay here. They all hate you. You have to know that!”

“Oh, I do.” Her eyes danced with amusement as she shot me that grin—the one that’s so terrifyingly like my own. “Of course, I know that. It’s hilarious, isn’t it?”

“What? No! How is that funny? They think you’re here to steal their inheritance, that all you care about is getting your hands on Sergio’s money.”

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