Page 4 of Que Será, Syrah

“Ugh,” I groan. “I don’t want to think about this anymore.” I reach for the wine bottle, only to discover that it’s empty. Just as well, I suppose. But then Nico flags down a passing server and orders another. And I know I should stop him, but I’ve passed the point of rational thought and have no fucks left to give.

More wine? Sure. Bring it on.

“I know my sisters,” I say, returning to the subject because now that the lid’s been torn off the box, my worries and fears are all tumbling out. “They’d never do that.”

But wouldn’t they? When I spoke with them earlier, Rosa seemed daunted by the prospect of our going it alone, which is reasonable, considering she’s the only one currently at ground zero. While Bianca seemed reluctant to leave her cushy job in Argentina—helping to make wine for an already established (and currently award-winning) high-end winery—to head up what’s basically a struggling start-up. And I can’t blame them.

But that’s just another reason that I need to get home as soon as possible.

“Your grandmother left that winery to you, Allegra.” Nico’s voice is gentle as he fills my glass yet again with more of the sparkling Blanc de Blanc Cava blend that we’ve been enjoying for several hours too long if the tears of remorse and self-pity that have started to flood my eyes are anything to go by. He sounds sweet and caring and kind—and I’ve always been a sucker for anyone who takes my side in a fight. It’s not like there have been a lot of them.

“She left it to the three of us,” I correct, in an attempt to be fair. And, even more, in an attempt to sound like I don’t really care. My voice has started to sound wobbly, and I hate that. The only thing worse than feeling vulnerable is appearing vulnerable.

“It’s your legacy. You owe it to yourself—you owe it to her—to fight for it.”

“Why are we talking about this? You don’t know anything about my family. I’m not at war with my sisters. And it’s their legacy too. They have just as much of a right to decide what happens to it as I do.”

Which is the real fucking problem, isn’t it? That worries me far more than I thought it would. I’d assumed they’d be as excited as I was. I’d assumed they also remembered Nonna talking about it. Nico smirks as he tops off our glasses—like he knows what I’m thinking. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how you were the only one who wasn’t surprised by the bequest? Why do you suppose your grandmother never mentioned it to anyone else?”

I scowl at him. “Nico—what the hell? That was a private conversation. You had no fucking business listening in. Do I do that to you?”

In point of fact, I absolutely would, if the situation arose. Eavesdropping is a necessary life skill.

“A private conversation held at high volume in a very public place,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s hardly my fault that I overheard you. I’m sure half the city knows of it by now. Not that anyone cares, of course.”

“It sounds like you care,” I tell him.

“Così così,” he says with a flip of his hand. “I do and I don’t. You’re my friend, so obviously I care what happens to you. But beyond that, it’s nothing to do with me. I just thought we might be able to help each other out. But if you’re not interested in what I have to say…”

“I know how it would help you out,” I tell him—pulling no punches in true in vino veritas fashion. “But I don’t see how our getting married would do anything to improve my situation.”

“But of course it would! It would even the odds. Two of them, two of us; they’d have to at least listen to what you have to say. They’d have to take you seriously, to treat you like a grown-up, rather than a spoiled child.”

“Maybe,” I say, although I’m pretty sure he’s wrong. Our family roles were cemented in place years ago—right along with our nicknames. I’m not sure there’s anything that would set us free of them. Aside from power tools and explosives. “But my sisters were already teenagers when we were left in my grandmother’s care. So of course, I spent more time with her than they did. If she spoke more about her plans for the winery to me than to them, or if they don’t remember it as clearly as I do, that’s only natural.” Or maybe they’d written it off as one more empty promise. Mama taught us all about those.

Nico starts talking again and I’m sort of listening. But the wine is dulling my thought processes and, honestly? I’ve got more pressing concerns.

What will it be like to return home after all this time? And can I even call it that, now that Nonna’s gone? Without the one person who loved and supported me unconditionally, it’s just a house. ‘Home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ Someone said that; I have no idea who it was. But they’re wrong. I already tested out that theory. I’d just turned eighteen when I’d shown up on Mama’s doorstep and…well, it sucked. Which is what makes Nico’s plan so tempting.

In fact, the more I think about going home with a husband and a plan, the more I like it. It’s a little like that scene from Pride and Prejudice, you know? The one where Lydia insists on going ahead of Jane because she’s a married lady and Jane isn’t?

And yes; I know, all right? Lydia was an idiot—the liveliest, loneliest, youngest sister of them all. But that doesn’t mean that Jane and Elizabeth hadn’t spent years disrespecting her, or that her whole family hadn’t viewed her as nothing more than an empty-headed party girl her whole life long. Just sayin’

Still, I know better than to make any life-altering decisions while drunk. It never works out. I’ve tested that theory, too. So, I’mma take everything under advisement, for now. I’m sure Jimmy would approve of that strategy. And I’ll wait until morning before I attempt to reach a conclusion. Probably.

Chapter 1

Clay

SIX MONTHS LATER…

There are days when I love what I do. Days when I get a real sense of pride and satisfaction from my job. Days when the reasons why I joined the sheriff’s department here in Napa—because I wanted to give back to the community that raised me, wanted to make a difference in the lives of the ordinary people who live and work in the valley, wanted to be the kind of hero that I so badly needed back when I was a teenager—are brought forcefully to mind. Today, however, is not that kind of day.

It’s October, shortly after the local wineries have harvested this year’s grapes, and the late afternoon sunshine is gilding the vineyards along both sides of Highway Twenty-nine, making all the gold-to-russet leaves glow in a way that’s…almost magical.

No, not ‘like fire’—is that what you thought I was about to say? I wasn’t. Because, trust me, there is nothing magical about that.

But it’s not the weather, or the scenery, or the slight but never impossible chance of a wildfire breaking out that’s put me in a mood. None of those are what has me second-guessing my career choice. No, that is entirely down to my current posting.

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