Page 61 of Que Será, Syrah

I mostly listen while the others talk—eating and drinking and attempting to figure out what I don’t like about this wine. It’s dark, round, full-bodied. Maybe a little too round for a cabernet. And a little too off-dry, as well. A little too flabby. Of course, Geno might be blending it with something else—a merlot, perhaps (because Sideways isn’t entirely wrong about that) or even white zinfandel, although Vitto would have to know if it’s something like that. “Do you think Geno’s adding a concentrate?” I ask Leo, who’s seated beside me.

And maybe I said it a little louder than necessary, because conversation instantly stops and everyone stares at me.

“What?” I ask, glancing around the table. “It’s not that uncommon, is it? I thought a lot of wineries did that?”

“Are you looking to throw down, Legs?” Gianni asks—and I’m pretty sure he’s joking, although not entirely. “’Cause those are fighting words.”

“Unless she’s right,” Leo points out. “In which case…?”

And then we’re all looking at Vitto, who shrugs and says, “I mean, anything’s possible. But no winery that wants to keep their reputation intact would even think of doing something like that. Even to suggest it is not good. That kind of talk could ruin a winery. It’s only about one step above claiming that someone’s been adding wood chips to his chardonnay to give it more of an oaky flavor. Supermarket chains might do things like that but…”

“Unless she’s right,” Leo repeats.

Vito nods. “Yes. Fine. Unless she’s right. I hope she’s not but…I just don’t know. I’ll try and find out.”

“It was only an idea,” I say again, in a very small voice.

“You said what you thought,” Leo say kindly. “That’s not wrong. It’s just not something that’s occurred to us before.”

I nod, to show I understand, but it’s clear they’re having strong thoughts about it now. And not happy ones. And I guess this makes it official. I am the family buzzkill.

I feel that even more when Gianni asks Rosa if we’ve “given any more thought to the name change idea.” Which is the first time I’m hearing anything about it.

Rosa shrugs. “Not really. I think we’ve tabled that topic for now.”

Then she glances inquiringly at Bee who nods in agreement. “Yes. For now.” And the conversation moves on to other topics, and no one appears to realize that I’m just sitting here frozen, blindsided once again. Was there a question of a name change? Did I miss a memo? And why does it seem like everyone knows about it but me?

I’m relieved when dinner ends. I only wish the whole night was over with.

While the Lambros and I deal with cleanup, Rosa whips up a big batch of Nonna’s zeppoli, and Bee (with an assist from Jansen) puts together a row of boozy affogatos—the ingredients for which were the cousins’ contribution to dinner. Coffee, Amaretto, and toasted almond ice cream from a local creamery. It’s an adult upgrade on one of our childhood favorites.

When we were little, movie night at Nonna’s was a tradition. Whenever our parents were busy, or needed a break, she’d invite us all over. She’d line the living room floor with sleeping bags, and after dinner we’d all gather there. We’d eat zeppoli and ice cream sundaes and watch movies until we fell asleep.

At least, that’s how I remembered it. Being the youngest, I always got the best seat in the house—Nonna’s lap—albeit for the shortest period of time, since I always fell asleep first. If the others got up to more interesting activities after I fell out, I never heard about it.

Tonight’s movie is A Good Year. Russell Crowe—wearing eyeglasses! And speaking French! Not Keanu, but definitely doable. Although that was not something I thought about when I saw this as a kid. As a matter of fact, I found it boring and confusing. It’s hitting different now, in a lot of ways.

It starts off with a man—Crowe—returning to the winery in France where he went to live after his parents died. His Uncle Henry, the man who raised him, has died as well now—without making a will—and Crowe (or rather, his character—Max) is assumed to have inherited the entire estate, as his uncle’s only known relative.

Coming this soon after Nonna’s death, I suspect it’s hitting different for the others, too. A heavy silence falls over the room as we watch Max explore the now derelict estate.

During the flashback scene (in which a young Max is learning to play tennis. Or, learning to lose at tennis, from the looks of it) Gianni stirs suddenly and says, “Jesus. He’s just like dad.” And I’m not sure if he means the overbearing, tough-it-out uncle, or the whiny, tantrum throwing kid. Maybe it’s both? And I’m all at once caught up in a flashback of my own…

* * *

I remember Nonna talking to Jimmy about death—the ways in which it impacted people, vs the way it affected families. It might have been in conjunction with her will. Or maybe someone they knew had just died. I don’t really know. I was eavesdropping, as per usual, and couldn’t ask for details.

“We’re always affected by the death of someone close to us,” I remember her saying. “Little fractures of the soul. Some people heal quickly, others take a long time, but no one goes back to being exactly as they were before.”

Jimmy murmured something in response—I couldn’t hear what. And Nonna laughed sadly.

“No, because when the entire family is affected—when there are multiple fractures, and no one is whole—that’s when families shatter. There’s no one left to hold the pieces together. So they come apart like an old ceramic bowl when it hits the floor. The pieces fly in all directions, landing who knows where. Maybe one of them ends up under a bureau, where no one ever thinks to look for it. And the more pieces you have, the harder it is to fit them all back together.”

“So melodramatic,” Jimmy chided. “But that’s not inevitable, is it? Not all families react like that.”

“No, but I’m afraid mine will,” Nonna said, sounding so sad that my heart broke a little for her.

I got to my feet, ready to burst through the door and hug her tight and promise that I had her back, that I’d never let that happen. But before I could take a single step, Jimmy spoke again—this time in a tone I’d never heard him use before. “Cara.” Just one word, but that’s all it took. Because, in that moment I finally realized that ‘Cara’ was more than just a nickname. It wasn’t a shortened form of the name Carmel; it was an endearment. And the way his tongue caressed the word told me something else.

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