Page 37 of Que Será, Syrah

“I’m sure there’s gotta be a way around it,” she says, and I can only shrug in response.

What answer could I give her, after all? Because of course, she’s going to think there are loopholes to every law, or that some laws don’t apply to her. That’s what I’ve come to expect of the very rich. And of course, she’s right—I probably could have thought of some other way of handling it. But I reacted rashly. Something my mom would likely attribute to my Aries rising sign…

“You’re Earth and Fire, Clay,” she used to say with tiresome regularity after the fires that un-homed us in 2017 and 2018. “That’s your nature. Which means this is nothing you can’t handle. There’s a reason we put clay the kiln. It hardens it, makes it stronger, less likely to bend or melt.”

Which generally caused the twins to exchange glances and say things like, “I think you mean, more likely to crack under pressure, don’t you, Mom?”

And while I knew that they all meant well, that my mother was attempting to offer comfort, that my siblings were trying, in their bumbling, adolescent way, to defend me, I can’t say that any of it landed well. And I wasn’t overly upset when Mom decided to move them all down to Cabo following the lockdown.

“Anyway, you’re not the only victim of poor parental decisions,” Legs says now, breaking what had become an awkward silence. “My sisters and I were named for wine. How cliché is that?”

“I don’t follow?” I reply, as grateful for the change of subject as I am perplexed. “Named for wine…how?”

“Well, it’s obvious. Rossa, or Rosso, is red in Italian. Vino rosso is how you say red wine. Vino Bianco is white wine.”

That explained her sisters’ names. “What’s Allegra mean?”

“It means my parents weren’t as clever as they thought they were. Also, they sucked at thinking ahead.”

“What?”

“They never anticipated having a third daughter, so…”

“I’m not following.”

“Well, what were the choices, once red and white wine were covered?”

“Rosé?” I suggest, and then stopped, stymied. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” she says, propping her head on her hand and looking glum. “Far too close to Rosa.”

“So then…?”

“Lively,” she answers. “Allegro means lively. A nod to sparkling wine, because of the carbonation.” She rolls her eyes and continues, “Not that we ever made a sparkling wine. The closest we ever came to anything like that were the small batches of Pét-Nat that my Nonna used to make every year, just to keep her hand in. I guess I should be grateful that my parents weren’t more literal because the Italian word for sparkling wine is Spumante. Can you imagine?”

I can’t help but grimace. “That’s even worse than Rocky.”

“Uh-huh. So much worse.”

“All the same,” I say—stupidly, because I feel like I’m channeling my mom, and that rarely works out. “You were named for Champagne, which is kinda cool, no?” It also fits her to a T. She is lively. Also bubbly, sparkling, irresistible and generally priced beyond my reach. “Isn’t that the best wine?”

“Not exactly.” She shakes her head. “Plus, I’d’ve had to be born in France for that to apply. At best, I’m just a sparkling disappointment.”

“What? No.”

“Yes. Absolutely. They were hoping for a boy.”

“Well then, that’s their loss.”

“Thank you. But, you know, even Champagne shouldn’t be called Champagne—that’s just more male entitlement.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

“Well, sure. There’s this cute little town in France, Limoux; I worked there for awhile. They claim that’s where the first sparkling wines were made. The stories vary—as they do—with one school of thought saying monks first made it in the monastery there. And that they taught the procedure to Dom Perignon. But the story the locals tell involve a married couple who they say invented the technique together. But then, when they split up, the husband took the recipe to the Champagne district, and claimed to have come up with it himself. And then insisted that, since his was the original, everyone else had to just call their versions sparkling wine. And that totally figures because women were the original brewers and vintners—and cooks, for that matter—but once anything becomes high profile, men insist on taking the credit and awarding themselves Michelin Stars and Grand Cru awards.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I tell her, then steer us back to safer topics by asking how she’s enjoying her dessert.

We have a bit of a tussle when the bill comes. I hand my credit card to our server without thinking anything of it until Legs frowns at me.

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