Page 48 of Que Será, Syrah

“So, let’s do this,” Rosa finishes, just moments before she catches sight of me. “Oh, Allegra. You’re here.” Her gaze runs over me, in much the same way as Bianca’s did. But if she recognizes the jacket, she doesn’t mention it. She does heave a relieved sigh, however. “I was starting to worry. Where’ve you been?”

I bite back the snarky reply— ‘sorry, Mom. Didn’t realize I needed to check in with you’—as it tries to slip out. Because, even at my brattiest, that’s not the kind of thing I can say to either of my sisters. I mean, yes, it’s ridiculous for Rosa to worry about me, a grown woman, now that I’m home. Especially since, during most of the last five years, she rarely even knew what country I was in. But all the same, it’s too low a blow. That kind of line really hits different when your mother flat-out abandoned you. “There was nothing for you to worry about. I went out to dinner, ran into an old friend,” I say instead. “We ended up back at his place. Then it got late and…” Oh, shit. What the fuck am I doing?

Damn my sleep deficient brain, that is not a door I want to open right now. “So, what movie are you watching?” I ask—deflecting yet again.

“I believe it’s called Bottle Jock,” Jansen says, drawing a muffled laugh from Bianca.

“You mean…Bottle Shock?” I correct—and okay, yes. I admit it. This time I let a little too much of my frustrated snarkiness bleed into my tone. But he’s not my sister, not a client, practically a stranger, so that makes him fair game.

Judging by Bianca’s frown, she disagrees. “He knows that,” she tells me, giving Jansen’s thigh a quick, reassuring pat. “He was just being funny. It was a joke.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” I answer. Grasping for a witty response, I find only, “I thought maybe you guys were watching porn. That sounds like it could be a porn film, doesn’t it?”

Jansen barks with laughter. He nudges Bianca and says, “You know, I’m starting to think you were right. Maybe I shoulda gone with that for the winery.”

Bianca’s cheeks are fiery red. “No, no. I think you made the right choice,” she says in stifled tones.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Rosa suggests, shooting me a look that I can’t interpret as she slips past me to deposit the bowls on the coffee table, where stacks of napkins, plates, and smaller bowls have already been assembled.

“Beer?” Jake asks, extending one of the six-packs in my direction.

“Thanks,” I say as I take one, more or less automatically. I study the label for a moment, then glance around at the others. “Hey, how come nobody’s drinking wine?”

Jake pauses in the act of handing out beers and arches a brow. “With popcorn?” He snags two bottles—for himself and Rosa, I assume—then stretches out on one of the oversized lounge chairs that bracket the couch. “What would you even pair with that?”

All eyes turn to Bianca. She twists open her beer and takes a swig. “It depends. What flavor of popcorn are we talking about?”

“Well, today we’ve got spicy ranch and lavender honey,” Rosa tells her, as she hands individual bowls to her and Jansen.

“Ooh, that sounds yummy.” Bianca scoots forward to fill her bowl. “Riesling? Or maybe Prosecco?”

“Do we make either of those?” Jansen asks. He glances around the room and adds, “I mean any of us here—in the valley?”

Bianca shakes her head. “Not so much anymore. It used to be pretty popular, but now I think there’s less than one-hundred acres planted in Riesling grapes. And that’s in all of Napa.”

From what I remember from my wine-making lessons of a decade ago, there are reasons for that. The first one being that Riesling grapes are difficult to grow here due to the weather. Something about them needing a longer, cooler growing season than most of the valley can provide? Then there’s the issue of the Botrytis cinerea fungus—useful when making sweeter wines like Riesling and Sauterne, deadly if it were to spread to other crops that the state’s economy depends upon, such as strawberries. But I’m not sure enough about my facts to show off. Not in front of my sisters. Or even Jake. All of whom have degrees in this sort of stuff. So, I keep silent and let the subject drop.

“Legs, c’mon,” Rosa urges, startling me out of my musing. “Pick a seat already. Let’s get started.”

As I suspected she’d do, Rosa has snuggled up with Jake on the lounge chair, leaving the other chair—isolated on the far side of the room—or the empty space on the couch for me to choose between. Not liking either of those options, I opt to sit on the floor in front of the couch where I can be insulated from all the happy coupledom and still have easy access to the popcorn. I’m shocked when the dog curls up beside me.

“That’s Moose,” Bee answers.

I hide my surprise, because Moose, a mostly Jack Russell with a missing ear, appears to be the least moose-like dog imaginable. Ohh-kay then.

“You know, we do have wine,” Jake says, gesturing at my still unopened bottle. “If you really don’t want that beer.” Then he turns to Rosa and says, “In fact, why don’t you let her try the Carleo. Maybe she can figure out what’s wrong with it.”

I feel myself frowning. The Carleo was hugely popular, back in the day. It was even rumored that rival vintners—throughout the California wine growing regions—had celebrated for days after Geno announced his decision to stop entering Belmonte’s flagship wine in any more contests. He’d been winning with tiresome regularity, and I had it on good authority that it was the organizers of said contests who’d begged him to do so, in an effort to keep submissions from other wineries from dropping away to nothing.

“What’s wrong with the Carleo?” I ask now.

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Bianca says, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in her mouth. “It’s not what I was expecting, that’s for sure.”

“Same,” Rosa agrees.

“What they mean is that it’s not very good,” Jake clarifies.

Well, I don’t know how that’s possible. “How’d you even get some—I thought it was a Wine Club exclusive, at this point?”

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