Page 60 of Que Será, Syrah

“If you say so,” I respond—not at all convinced.

“All right, well…I’m gonna get back to work,” she says. Then she glances around once again and adds, “You are going to change the labels though, right? The last thing we need is for Romero to think we lied to him.”

“I’ll handle it,” I promise. I don’t want to, but I guess I’ve got no choice.

After Rosa leaves, I stare discontentedly at the paintings for a while, trying to recapture a little of the joy I’d felt while I was hanging them up. The atmosphere is great, peaceful, serene, prosperous—ideal for an art exhibit. Less so for an up-and-coming winery. All I can think about is the money we’re not making—and not going to be making—any time soon. Not from paintings, or food trucks, or even wine.

After a moment, I dig out my phone and check my texts. Just as I suspected, Clay left me a message. A really short one:

“Sorry.”

“Me, too, Romeo,” I sigh sadly. “Me, too.”

I almost type that in the chat box, then reconsider. “Et tu, Brute?” Yeah, that would be even better. Much more pointed—no pun intended. Or would it? After all, I’d still be sending a multi-word answer in response to a one-word text. And that would give him the W.

In the end, I leave the message on read, turn off my notifications and return my phone to my pocket. And to think, the week had started off so promising, too.

Over the next couple of days, Clay and I do talk. And text. And he apologizes—sort of—for putting a wrench in all my plans…

“Look, I hear you,” he says during one conversation, his frustration vibrating through the phone. “The WDO is fourteen pages of crap and nonsense. It’s ambiguous, it’s inconsistent, and don’t even get me started on all the places where it actually runs counter to the laws of the state! It’s a fucking shit show. I didn’t write the damn thing, and I sure as hell don’t agree with most of it. But, barring a court order, you still have to follow it, as best as you can. And it’s still my job to make sure you do that. Which I knew was going to be a problem for us, sooner or later. I told you going in that it would be.”

“It’s not a problem,” I answer stubbornly, and partially inaccurately. “I just didn’t appreciate being blindsided, that’s all. Oh, and then being tag teamed by you and Rosa? Not cool.”

“That was not my fault,” he insists. And of course, he’s right. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Rosa’s fault. Nope, once again the fault was all mine.

“If you could just try not to embarrass me anymore in front of my sisters, that would be great,” I tell him.

“I’ll try,” he promises, which I guess is all the assurance he can give me. It’s not enough, but I guess it will have to do.

* * *

Sunday, we have dinner with the Lambros. Bee and Rosa do most of the cooking, moving around Nonna’s kitchen in a complicated dance as they boil pasta and stir sauce and assemble the cheeses filling for the stuffed shells. I’m relegated to tearing lettuce for salad and grating a mountain of Parmigiano Reggiano.

It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, or don’t remember how to make Nonna’s classic dishes—of course, I do. But it’s been years since I’ve had a kitchen to call my own. So, at the very least, I’m sadly out of practice. “Did you do a lot of cooking in Argentina?” I ask Bee.

“I did, actually,” she answers, looking surprised. “Mostly for myself; I found it relaxing, after a long day. But I ate out a lot, too. The food there is amazing. They eat a lot of beef, of course. In fact, they say there’s more cattle there than people. You must have cooked, too,” she adds. “Didn’t you? I mean, Europe! The produce, the fish, the cheese—although I know Nonna always said you shouldn’t mix those last two.”

“Oh, no one cares about that anymore,” I say, happy to sidestep the question. “That’s considered a very old fashioned idea now.”

“Well, Nonna was old,” Rosa points out. “And she was born here, so I guess those rules must have been handed down years and years ago.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Probably.” And then we all fall silent. And I don’t know about my sisters, but I’m thinking about our grandmother, and wishing she was here—even if it was just to scold us when we let the pasta water boil over, or for swiping tastes of the cheese filling—yum.

“Raw egg,” Bee cautions me as I go back for a second taste.

“Don’t care,” I respond making a face. And I don’t. It tastes so good that at least I’ll die happy. “Hey, I could make some bruschetta,” I suggest, when a happy thought strikes me. “You know, for appetizers? We have tomatoes and basil, don’t we?”

“Yes. But don’t you need the oven for that?” Rosa asks. She points at the trays of shells. “These are about ready to go in.”

I shrug. “It was just a thought. How about I open some wine? We can have a toast.” But before they can answer, the back door opens and the cousins come pouring into the house—a loud and noisy, Italian American flood. And then Jake and Jansen, and Jansen’s dog return from testing the barrels, or whatever they were doing. Probably hiding out at Jansen’s place, watching the hockey game that I know was on today.

And then someone else starts opening bottles and pouring wine, and I’m once again shunted to the sidelines, but at least this time there’s a dog to play with. And I start to think that, when I do get my own place, I should get a pet.

Which, of course, leads me to thinking about Clay, and wondering how he feels about animals. Which leads me to wishing—once again—that I could have invited him. Or maybe not. In fact, I’m profoundly grateful for his absence when, over dinner, the discussion gets into legally gray winery practices. And, yet again, the fault is mine. Because I finally get to try the Carleo and…like Bee said, it’s not bad wine, but something is definitely off with it.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can do with these grapes,” Vitto tells Bianca—as he swirls and sniffs and sips and shakes his head. “I’m sure it will be amazing.”

“I do have ideas,” she says, smiling mysteriously.

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