Page 65 of Que Será, Syrah

“What kind of blend did you say this was?” Rosa asks, taking another small, experimental sip.

“A field blend,” Bee replies—a nonsense answer that earns her two disbelieving glances.

“Really?” I demand.

“No, what varietals?” Rosa clarifies—unnecessarily, in my opinion. It’s inconceivable that Bee didn’t know what she meant.

“Just, you know,” Bee shrugs nonchalantly—too nonchalantly, if you ask me. “Two of the grapes we harvested at the beginning of the season.”

“Bee…”

“Fine. It’s a pinot and a chardonnay.”

Rosa blinks. “But that’s…”

“Champagne?” I squeal in delight. “We’re making CHAMPAGNE?”

And now I’m the one catching disgusted glances from my sisters.

“Legs,” Rosa scolds, reproachfully. “C’mon.”

“What?” Bee stares at me, aghast. “No! Of course not!”

“Oh, I know, I know,” I brush their protests away. “We aren’t allowed to call it that. But…are we?”

Bee’s eyes sparkle excitedly. A grin spreads over her face as she nods. “Yes? I…I think so? Maybe?”

“Omigod,” I scream. Fetal champagne splashes everywhere as I tackle-hug my sister. Thankfully, Rosa has the presence of mind to grab the glasses out of our hands before they go flying, too. “Bee! I love you! Both of you,” I amend, pulling Rosa into our hug. “This is…” I say, my voice breaking. “Omigod.”

“Legs?” Rosa puts a hand on my shoulder and tugs, leaning in to see my face. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

I shake my head and sniffle loudly. “Nothing’s wrong. This…it means everything.”

Bee’s eyes widen in alarm. “You know it won’t be ready for a while yet, right? And—we still don’t know—it might be awful.”

“What? No way.” I shake my head. “Awful? Those grapes? Grown here? With you calling the shots? Pfft. Of course it won’t be awful. I already know, it’s going to be exceptional.”

“I think so, too,” Rosa agrees. “But, Legs, you’re looking awfully upset for someone who claims to be happy.”

“It’s because you listened to me,” I tell them. “I didn’t think anyone was listening. And I know I’ve screwed up, and that you hate all my ideas?—”

“What?” Bee asks.

“We listen,” Rosa protests. “And of course we don’t hate your ideas.”

“We don’t,” Bee agrees. “You have good ideas. Not about paint colors, or pizza toppings, perhaps. But, in general…”

“Wine colors,” I snap back with faux annoyance. “Wine. Why don’t you get that?”

Bianca lays a hand on Rosa’s arm. “Promise me something,” she tells her. “If I ever produce a vintage that looks like that—” She nods toward the terrace.

“Fired,” Rosa responds, with perfect deadpan. “Immediately.”

“Thank you,” Bianca replies solemnly.

“Oh, screw you both,” I grouse, but without heat, as they pull me in for another three-way hug. For the first time since I got home— No. For the first time since I got the call about Nonna—my heart feels light.

We can do this, I think, as I send my thoughts winging up to heaven. We will do this. We’ll make you proud.

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