Page 59 of Que Será, Syrah

“I wasn’t,” I assure him. “But that doesn’t apply to food trucks, does it?”

“What food trucks?” Rosa asks. “We haven’t talked about food trucks!”

We hadn’t talked about paintings either. But I know better than to point that out. “There wasn’t any reason to. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Food trucks are fine, actually,” Clay tells us both. “As long as they have permits from the county and are not operating on public property.”

“Can we go back to the art for a minute?” Rosa asks, zeroing in on Clay. “You said it can stay—yes? We don’t have to take them down, we just can’t sell them?”

Clay nods. “That’s correct. Ideally, I’d ask that you change the labels to omit the prices. And just refer people back to the gallery if they want more information, but…”

“What?” My mouth drops open. “You want me to redo the cards and my arrangement with the gallery? Do you know how much extra work, and time, and hassle that’s gonna entail? Not to mention how many sales will be lost if we force people to traipse back and forth across town just to buy a piece of art? Something like thirty-six percent of purchases are impulse buys.”

“That’s the gallery’s problem,” Clay says. “What you need to be concerned with is not getting sued by the county.”

Rosa gasps. “Sued by—? No! No, no, no. We do not want that.” She turns to me and says, “Look, Legs, maybe we should take them down and send them back. Just to be safe. We can’t afford to fight a lawsuit.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Clay replies quickly. “Just amend the cards. I’ll write it up that the artwork is on loan from the gallery and is just being displayed here—that should cover you. And I’ll stop by Vin Vista, when I leave here. and make sure that’s clear to them, as well.”

“Thank you,” Rosa says, looking surprised. “That’s very considerate.”

Meanwhile, I’m gritting my teeth and holding my tongue. I mean, I should be the one talking to the gallery owner—not Clay. Does he not trust me to handle things on my own now either? Typical.

Clay shoots me a look that I can’t decipher—Anxious? Apologetic? Who fucking knows—and takes his leave. Rosa lingers for a moment.

“That was…surprisingly easy,” she says, looking puzzled.

“Do you really think so?” I scoff.

Rosa nods. “I’d almost say suspiciously so. I feel like I’m waiting for another shoe to drop. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel like a trap.” She frowns abstractly. “Do you think he has a thing for you? Or maybe he just feels bad about impounding your car.”

“It’s probably awkward for him,” I counter. “Since the wedding. I mean, you’re all such good friends with Miles, and so is he.” None of which is a lie, but my conscience still twinges. Which is something I’ll just have to live with, since this is clearly not the time to come clean.

“Maybe.” Rosa glances around and sighs reluctantly. “I hate that WDO.”

“The what?”

“The Winery Definitions Ordinance. It makes zero sense. Why shouldn’t we be able to sell art? It looks great in here, and you’ve done a fantastic job. I just wish we had some wine for you to sell, or for the public to sample—or anything.”

I nod, and think about mentioning the food trucks again, then think better of it. “Well, talk to Bee,” I say, instead. “Convince her to work on something that we can release early. Maybe like a Pet Nat, or a Rosé?”

To my surprise, Rosa shakes her head. “No. Bianca’s got the wine on lock. She knows what she’s doing with it, and we’re not going to second-guess her or do anything to make her think we don’t trust her judgment.”

She’s not wrong, but for a moment I do feel a bit of envy. It’s nice to be trusted. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe there’s some kind of shortcut we could take, some other way we could sell wine now. We could talk to the cousins? We know that at least some of Belmonte’s wine was made using our grapes, maybe they’d be willing to let us sell some of that here?”

Rosa shakes her head. “You could try, if you want. Bee and I both talked to Geno, hoping he would do the right thing. But I don’t think it even matters at this point. We’re just going to run afoul of that stupid ordinance again. As I understand it, it’s not enough that the grapes were grown here. The wine would also have to be fermented, or refermented in Caparelli’s facilities. And I think that ship has sailed by now.”

“Fuck,” I mutter—partly in frustration, partly because my phone just buzzed with an ‘incoming text’ notification, and I’d bet carboys to bocksbeutel that I know who’s trying to reach me. It’s gotta be one of two people—either Clay or Jimmy. Neither of whom I want to talk to right now. “Well then…what about the wine Bee’s making for Jansen?” I suggest. “I mean, I don’t know what he’s paying her, but maybe she’d be okay with him giving her some of the wine she’s making, in lieu of salary? Or at least in part?”

“Same problem, though. It’s mostly all fermented by now. Besides, she’s making it there, not here, so...”

“Details,” I say snapping my fingers to show how little I care about those. “I’m sure we can find a way around that. We’ll just roll a few barrels down the road, and let it finish fermenting here.”

“Oh, sure. That’d be great for the wine,” Rosa rolls her eyes. “Do not suggest that to Bee. She’d probably have an aneurysm.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it in those terms, if I were talking to her,” I point out. But Rosa’s not having it.

Let it go, Legs. I know it’s tough right now. It is for all of us. But we’ll get through it. It’ll be okay.”

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