Page 66 of Que Será, Syrah

It’s a crazy moment. I feel hopeful and validated, optimistic and invincible. And I blame everything that happens after on that feeling. I really should know better by now.

Chapter 15

Clay

One week bleeds into the next and Allegra’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She and her sisters have resolved whatever tension there was between them, and she’s bursting with ideas to promote the winery. None of which seems to involve breaking laws or contravening the WDO—something that makes my life infinitely easier. Not to mention that a happy Legs is a spectacularly sexy Legs.

Miles is back from his honeymoon; he’s walking around with a perpetual grin and an aura of sexual satisfaction. Under normal circumstances, that’s the kind of thing guaranteed to make him the butt of some good-natured (for the most part) jokes. But not this week. I’m doing him a solid by giving him cover. So yeah. Too long/didn’t read? Life. Is. Good.

I’m so relaxed, that I don’t even stress when I get the call about a possible disturbance on Silverado Trail. A group of bikers has been spotted on the road and the fear is that they might slow down traffic, which normally is not the kind of thing the sheriff’s department is asked to handle, but I volunteer to check it out all the same.

I’m pretty sure what I’ll find when I get there, and I kind of want to see it with my own eyes.

The day is unseasonably warm as I make my way to the coordinates I’ve been given. The sky is cloudless and blue. The mostly denuded grapevines glitter in the hard sun. Here and there I spy a cluster of desiccated grapes clinging stubbornly to their vines.

If I understand correctly, they’ve been left there on purpose. Something to do with concentrating flavors, and some kind of rot? I don’t know. I’ve never claimed to know anything about making wine, but that sounds like bullshit to me.

Up ahead, the bike group comes into view, moving slowly, with Legs in the lead. Two wine-bottle-shaped, mylar balloons, attached to the flagpole at the back of her bike, bob along behind her. A wide smile breaks over my face. She appears to be singing, gesturing widely with expansive, theatrical waves of one hand while she steers with the other. And, unexpectedly, I feel my heart constrict in my chest. She looks so joyous, so carefree, so completely in her element. It’s intoxicating.

But that’s an unfortunate reminder of why I’m here.

As I understand it, the bikers may have been drinking, which might pose a problem. In fact, come to think of it, that might be why this ended up on my desk (so to speak) in the first place.

Cycling under the influence is a misdemeanor (as per the California Vehicle Code, Section 21200.5). I’m not sure Legs knows that.

I refocus my attention on the group. And…yeah, so far, so good; I see no issues, no reason to be concerned. Everyone’s wearing a helmet. They’re staying in line and keeping to the side—for the most part. No one appears to be inebriated—an important consideration. No one is wobbling more than usual, or straggling too far behind, or struggling too obviously. Still, my busy brain can’t help but catalogue all the possible problems that might crop up, all the myriad factors working for and against them.

Like the weather, for example. It’s warm, like I said, which might increase both the need for hydration, and the possibility of heat stroke. On the other hand, visibility is good, so they’ve got that going for them.

Then there’s the road. Despite being narrow and winding, rife with blind curves and hidden driveways, it’s also flat and level and well maintained. And—another point in their favor—I know the group is being led by someone who grew up here, who knows the hazards and is familiar with the terrain.

On the other hand, there’s the drinking to be considered. Normally, I’d be vociferous in my objections. Driving any kind of vehicle while inebriated? No stars at all. Would not recommend.

But I have inside information. Legs has explained that all the wineries involved have agreed to special abbreviated tastings. That all the bikers are to receive vouchers allowing them to return for full tastings at a discounted price. So, theoretically, it should not be a problem.

A bigger problem, and my main concern at the moment, is the median age of the bikers. They all appear to be on the far side of fifty, which is forcing me to re-evaluate the danger they face from heat stroke, dehydration, slower response times, reduced balance, and possibly, a lower tolerance for alcohol.

I tap my brakes, slowing my speed, widening the space between us, turning on my hazard lights—as a warning to the vehicles behind me. I’mma hang back here and chill, just keeping an eye on things. For safety’s sake.

Air flows in through my open windows, carrying the scents of hay, dried leaves, and overripe fruit. The sound of Leg’s voice floats in as well, making me smile. The melody is a familiar one, the words are not. And my smile widens when I realize what I’m hearing; yet another Legs Martinelli original.

“When I was still too young to drink,

I asked my Nonna which should it be?

Would I like white wine, would I like red?

Here’s what she said to me:

“Que Será Syrah

You might try a nice Chablis,

Mourvedre, or Pinot Gris,

Que Será Syrah

“Then I grew up and got engaged,

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