Page 49 of Que Será, Syrah

Rosa shrugs. “The cousins. We had them over for dinner several weeks ago. Just after Bianca got back. They brought several bottles with them.”

“That was so fun,” Bianca enthuses. “We should definitely do that again. Especially now that Legs is back. You haven’t seen them yet, have you?”

“That’s a good idea.” Rosa nods in agreement. “Let’s schedule something.”

“I want to hear more about the wine,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “Was it corked or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” Bianca says. “I’m not saying it’s bad, mind you; it was just not great. And yes, it could have been a bad vintage, or just an issue with these particular bottles, but it certainly didn’t live up to the hype.”

“But, please, whatever you do,” Rosa cautions. “Don’t tell Vitto we said anything. He’s their head winemaker now and…well, you know. I’m sure he tries his best, but…”

“But he’s clearly not as talented as your sister,” Jake finishes, nodding towards Bianca.

“Hear, hear!” Jansen says, raising his bottle in a toast. Bianca blushes as the others join in. I lift my bottle, remember belatedly that it’s still not open, rush to untwist the cap, and end up spilling half the contents on the floor, and over the dog, who beats a quick retreat to the couch.

But hey, at least I manage not to get any beer on Bianca’s jacket, so I count that as a win.

While I’m cleaning up the mess, my thoughts circle back to the previous topic. And I find myself saying, “You know I’d never repeat anything you said about him to Vitto. Especially now that you asked me not to, but if you have complaints, I bet he’d be glad to hear them. Judging by what he told me, about how Geno keeps hamstringing him, not letting him make wine the way he wants to, etc. I don’t know if that counts for much. If he could convince his father that the Belmonte brand is in trouble, he could maybe force Geno into at least letting him try to do his own thing.”

“Have you actually met our uncle?” Bianca asks skeptically. “He does not react well to criticism. Plus, if it gets back to him that people are trash talking his wine, it’ll likely incentivize him. He’ll be more determined than ever to get his hands on our grapes.”

“I thought he’d given up on that idea?” I ask, feeling low-key dismayed. “Didn’t you tell me you talked to him?” Could it be Clay was right, and I was wrong about how long we’ll have to keep sneaking around?

Bianca shrugs. “I talked. And maybe he heard me. But whether he’ll actually take it to heart is anyone’s guess.”

“But…”

“Okay, wait. I’m confused,” Rosa says, looking puzzled. “When did you talk to Vitto?”

I can’t help myself; I freeze for an instant. I stare at my sister like a glazed zombie, while my brain takes its sweet time coming back online. This is why I hate lying. Making up stories on the fly is hard work! The details always trip me up. But this is something even more ironic. I’m actually telling the truth, but I’m still screwing things up!

“Last night,” I finally admit. “I went to the Golden Cougar and ran into the Lambros. Apparently, they’d ordered all the Napatizers. I figured it was my duty to stay and help them out.”

“What did you say?” Rosa squeaks in surprise, as Jake chokes on his drink and Bianca slaps a hand to her mouth—to keep from spewing beer all over the place, I imagine. Only Jansen seems composed, lips quirking into a smile as he waits for me to explain.

“I said I didn’t want them ending up in a food coma—why?”

“No. Not that. What did you call them?”

“Napatizers? I’m talking about your standard-issue Napa Valley appetizers. What d’you want me to call them? They were bussin’ by the way. Have you been?”

Bianca nods. “Yes. I love the food there.”

“Not that either,” Rosa says. “Was I hearing things, or did you just refer to our cousins as The Lambros?”

“Yeah? I mean, technically it’s short for Lamberti brothers, but tell me they wouldn’t totally be driving expensive, Italian sports cars—all day, every day—if Geno wasn’t so tightfisted.” I shrug and add, “At least, that was my impression five years ago. Have they changed?”

“I don’t know,” Rosa admits. “But I do know that they stepped up to help us several times over the summer.”

“That’s true.” Bianca nods in agreement. “They did. I don’t know what we’d have done without them.”

“Well, cool,” I say as I shrug and look away, busying myself with the spilled beer again, even though there really isn’t anything left to clean. I’m not sure if the unspoken subtext I’m hearing—"they were here to help us, but you weren’t”—is real, or just the product of my own guilty conscience. “Glad to hear it. And I actually had a good time chatting with them last night. You know, a nickname is not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Can confirm,” Jansen agrees, unexpectedly. “That’s just what I told Razor.”

“Who?” I turn to ask him—just in time to see Bianca roll her eyes in fond amusement.

“He means Miles,” she explains. “Jansen gives everyone nicknames. Apparently, it’s a hockey thing.”

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