Page 57 of Que Será, Syrah

“Wow,” she says, shaking her head and staring wide-eyed at me. “Don’t hold back, Deputy. Tell me how you really feel about me.”

“Not you,” I quickly assure her. “Just your family.”

“Uh-huh. And did you ever actually go to a school like that?” she asks.

“No,” I admit. “But I’ve met plenty of people who did.”

“Well, I did go to one of those schools—for all the good it did me. And I don’t even speak to those people anymore. Those are not my family.”

“Okay. If you say so,” I say, just to end this discussion which, anyone can tell, isn’t going to lead to anything good. And, somehow, we’ve both agreed that spending her the night again this soon isn’t the best way to conduct a clandestine relationship. So as soon as her clothes are dry, and the rain has stopped, I’m walking her to her car, we’re kissing each other goodbye, I’m watching her drive away. And it’s still on of the best weeks I’ve had in a really long time.

* * *

But then it’s Thursday afternoon, and all it takes is one glance at the evil grin on my dispatcher’s face. Just one single glance and my spirits start to sink, and my hopes start to dim. Because, sure enough, a new complaint has just been lodged against Caparelli. And, from the moment I read it, I know in my heart of hearts that this one is probably valid.

Chapter 13

Allegra

There are bees foraging among my grandmother’s rose bushes. Which surprised me, when I first heard them. After last week’s heavy rains, I figured they’d be holed up in their hives by now, huddling together for warmth, waiting out the winter—even though, in reality, winter is probably still several months away.

I know you’ve heard people say that California has no seasons, and of course that’s a lie. Probably the second biggest one they tell, right after the one about how it never rains here. Or maybe the third. D’you really think we’re all hippies? Think again. Sure, most days are pleasant and sunny, and Mediterranean Maritime Mild is the flavor del día, todos los días, but there are seasons. And it seems I’ve forgotten a few key facts about them. Like the way that summer can be too cool, winter can be too wet, autumn can be too hot, and spring can seem like one, long, endless fog bank.

Anyway, the bees: I can hear the drone from where I am lying, stretched out in the hammock that has hung between these trees for as long as I’ve been alive. Longer, probably. Although now that I think about it, it’s probably not the same one, is it?

It’s a little embarrassing actually, the fact that I can’t recall with any real accuracy what the original one looked like—but there again, that probably wasn’t the original, original one, either.

It’s hard to be the latecomer in a dynastic sort of family. To paraphrase from one of Nonna’s favorite movies, if you're gonna to be born this late in the game, you're gonna miss out on a few decades of family drama.

Which is not to suggest that I think the past was better. In a lot of ways, it was not. For example, when I was a teenager, I wouldn’t have been relaxing in the shade like this. Not on a day like today. No, I’d’ve been toasting in the sun—or attempting to. Lying on a towel in my swimsuit, working on my tan, or trying to sun-bleach my hair with lemon juice.

Given my Italian heritage, the hair lightening was a clear and obvious L. Unfortunately, so was the tanning.

Working against me there was the fact that Nonna was not a big fan of teenage me lying around in a state of undress while there were workers in the nearby fields. So, it’s not like I ever managed to give it a fair try.

Ironically, Nonna may have had a point. I’m pretty sure I’d’ve freaked the fuck out if I’d attracted unwanted attention for real, but the idea of a sexy someone showing up unexpectedly and overcoming my initial reticence? That was a hot and persistent fantasy.

The idea makes me hot even now…make that especially now that I can put a specific face to the fantasy. The idea of Clay joining me here, out in the open, where anyone could see us. Of him demanding that I bring myself off again… I’m so fucking tempted. It’s all I can do to keep from touching myself. I reach a hand down, over the side of the hammock, and search blindly for the bottle of sparking rose lemonade that I’d brought out of the house with me.

I uncap the bottle and take a long, satisfying sip and then return it to the grass. The result of all these maneuvers is just what you’d expect. The hammock swings gently, and I’m getting turned on all over again. I wriggle around as I try to get comfortable. And then, just as I’m contemplating whether a cold shower might be in order, the sound of someone (fairly close by, from the sound of it) clearing their throat startles me into opening my eyes.

I lose my breath when I catch sight of Clay standing at the edge of the drive, hat in hand, staring right at me. For a moment, I think I must be dreaming. The heat in his gaze makes me wish I was wearing my swimsuit now—or even less. A sheer, filmy robe? Or, perhaps, nothing at all? I want to invite him to share my hammock…even though I’m not at all convinced it would support our combined weight.

“Hey,” I say, smiling at him. “I was just thinking about you. What are you doing here?”

But he doesn’t smile back. And that’s an answer in itself, isn’t it? The fact that he’s wearing his uniform, and a sheepish expression lets me know that this is an official visit. He’s here as Deputy Romero. Which can only mean one thing.

“Oh, no. Are you kidding me?” I ask as I swing my feet to the ground and sit up. “What now? What obscure and ridiculous law are we supposed to have run afoul of this time? Whatever it is, you know it’s bullshit, don’t you?”

Clay sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t think so babe,” he says, just as the screen door slams and Rosa appears, striding across the lawn like a mother bear on a rampage. “Ah, fuck,” Clay mutters beneath his breath, and I couldn’t agree more.

“Deputy Romero,” she greets him as soon as we’re in earshot. “To what do we owe the pleasure this time?” Which is just so Rosa that I want to laugh. I mean, I can’t even count the number of times she came to my defense, or Bee’s (even the cousins, a time or two) when we were all kids. And I love her for it.

Except that, A—I’m not her cub (or anyone’s cub anymore).

And B—I don’t fucking need saving. Not this time, anyway.

And C—more than anything, right now, I want Clay and my sisters to like each other. And this really isn’t helping!

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