Page 74 of Que Será, Syrah

I shrug, not willing to admit the truth. That it wasn’t fast at all. That I’ve been obsessed for years with the idea of getting a phoenix tattoo myself. Ever since the first time fire nearly destroyed my life. “It just came to me.”

“Well thank you,” she says. Then she cuddles against me, nestling her butt against my groin. She sighs in contentment and closes her eyes. After a moment she murmurs. “I’m so glad you pulled me over, and that my license was expired and…all of it.”

I chuckle softly as I pull her close. “Well, I had to. You were being…reckless.”

Chapter 16

Allegra

Noah, the owner of Wheeling Through the Vines, is enthusiastic when we drop off the bikes the next morning—and excited to get the next Tour and Pour on the calendar. It seems most of the reviews that have been coming in have been positive, and he’s blithely unconcerned about the fact that I’d needed to call two separate ambulances. “That’s why we make ’em sign releases,” he says cheerfully.

Clay is quiet as we walk back to his SUV—and it’s a heavy, judgmental silence that rattles my nerves.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as he navigates us in the direction of home. “You’ve been quiet ever since we left the bike shop.”

“Ah, it’s nothing.” He shrugs. “I just hate guys like that.”

“Who—Noah? Why? He seemed nice enough.”

“Why?” Clay shoots me an annoyed look. “Because he doesn’t care anything at all about his clients, that’s why. As long as they’ve signed releases and leave five-star reviews, it’s all good. So, what if they need an ambulance, or sustain injuries, or get saddled with astronomical medical bills. Let’s get the next tour on the books and rake in that guap.”

I stare at him, openmouthed. “Those were my clients, too, you know. I was the one in charge. Yet you told me I should leave the Rogeres behind; that I was overreacting to Gracie’s bee-sting. So, is that what you secretly think of me, too?”

Clay shakes his head. “No. I think you showed a normal amount of concern. And I did not say you were overreacting. I told you to stop catastrophizing about it. Either of those situations could have gone sideways; but the time to be aware of that is when you’re in the moment. Agonizing about something after the fact, when there’s nothing you can do about it? How does that help anyone?”

“Maybe,” I say, and then fall into a protracted silence until Clay breaks it by saying, “Okay, I guess now it’s your turn.”

“What?” I ask, frowning as I try to remember what we were talking about.

“Now you’re the one who’s gone quiet. I know you’re still upset about yesterday. And I know it’s about more than just the bee-sting. I wish you’d tell me. Maybe I could help?”

Talking about yesterday is the last thing I want to do. On the other hand, the closer we get to the winery, the more my tension mounts. And he does give good advice. “I don’t want you to judge me.”

Clay’s eyebrows rise. “When have I ever done that?”

“You mean other than the night you pulled me over for speeding? Don’t you dare pretend you weren’t judging me then!”

“Fair,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “But that’s when I didn’t know you. I don’t think I’d do that now.”

“Unless I started driving badly,” I suggest.

“Well sure,” he says, grinning playfully. “But it’s your driving that I’d be judging in that case. Not you.”

I nod and pretend to agree, but I’m not sure I do. Me, my driving, my choices, the mistakes I make. Isn’t it all the same thing?

“So…yesterday?” he prompts.

“Okay, I say. Then I nod again. It’s funny actually, but I meant to tell him all of this last night. It’s partly why I went there. But it’s embarrassing and I chickened out. I wanted just one night of fun. And yes, one night of not being judged. But we’ll be home soon, and my sisters will be there, and I feel like I have to unload on someone before I get there…

* * *

My bikers were in good spirits after we left Clay and the Rogeres at the side of the road. It was a little bit shocking, actually. I knew they were all strangers, but all the same, their lack of interest surprised me. We stopped at one more winery, almost directly across from Belmonte, and that was somewhat bittersweet. While the bikers enjoyed their wine—and the herbed almonds the winery had provided to go with—I contemplated the vineyards I’d played in as a child, trying to imagine it from Clay’s point of view, remembering what he had said about seeing the house from a distance, lit up for parties. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like knowing I did not belong or would not be welcome there. It occurred to me that that was probably part of the reason why I had not yet made time to visit my aunt and uncle. I couldn’t be certain of my welcome.

Soon, I promised my inner critic; I’ll stop by for a visit soon. But it continued to nag at me, even as I gathered my group back together and headed for the next winery on our route: Caparelli…

* * *

“But you don’t have any wine there,” Clay interrupts.

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