Page 75 of Que Será, Syrah

“I know that. That’s why I planned it as a rest and lunch spot. And no, before you ask, I did not sell any food. The bike company provided the lunches. Okay?”

“I know you think I’m a hard ass,” he replies. “But I’m just trying to protect us both.”

* * *

A stack of boxed lunches awaited us as we rolled up Caparelli’s drive. As we approached, I tried to do the same as I’d done with Belmonte, viewing it as an outsider would.

The house itself was looking a little bit dingy. The sign in front was faded and chipped, with gilt paint flaking off the letters. I knew that my sisters, Rosa in particular, had expended an enormous amount of time and energy (and as much money as Rosa’s frugal soul would allow) just getting it to this point.

That was not a criticism, by the way. I’d seen the books and the accounts. I was aware of the constant juggling act she maintained. I wouldn’t take on Rosa’s job for the world.

Well, I couldn’t anyway. I didn’t have the experience. I didn’t have the education. I probably didn’t even have the smarts for it.

I just wished there was some magic that would restore the whole property to the way that I remembered it. But at least the terrace looked great.

I had taken my sisters’ advice. I’d moved one of the tables (the sauvignon blanc; the one I’d painted a pale greenish cream color) down to where the lawn met the vineyard. I knew the field workers often ate their lunches there. They were embarrassingly grateful that I’d thought of them. I felt bad because I really hadn’t. I felt even worse when I remembered what Rosa had said about the lighter colors becoming stained.

There was no denying that the three remaining tables fit the space perfectly, however. And even I had to admit that the dark, pearlescent charcoal paint was a perfect choice. Classier, more elegant, more refined than my earlier choices.

As everyone ate, I told them about the winery, the awards we’d won in the past, the exciting new wines we’d soon be releasing, my sister’s skill. I’d posted a QRC on the wall, that people could scan if they wanted to be subscribed to our newsletter (still just a concept). And nearly everyone did. I encouraged people to wander around and thought nothing of it when two of the women stopped to admire one of Nonna’s rosebushes…

* * *

“Uh-oh,” Clay observes.

“Would you stop interrupting,” I snap. “I suppose you would have known better and warned them to keep their distance?” And he’d have been right, my inner critic points out. It’s not like you didn’t notice the bees when you were out here last week.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Clay replies. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me at all. I mean, maybe if it had been a school group, I might’ve thought of it. But a bunch of grown-ass adults? At some point you have to learn to take care of yourself.”

“So, you really don’t think it was my fault?”

Clay shakes his head. “Did you tell her to go stick her face in a flower? Are we about to get to the part of the story where you confess to having chased her around the vineyard, with a bee in your hand trying to get her stung?”

“No!” I cross my arms and glare at him. “You know I would never do any of that.”

“Then I can’t think of any reason to blame you.”

But I could still blame myself…

* * *

Gracie had shrieked when the bee flew up her nose—so loud, that I was surprised when I was the only one who came running. By the time I reached her—a handful of seconds, at best—her eyes were already swollen shut and she was having trouble breathing. Thank God her best friend had taken the tour with her, she’d seen this before. She knew where Gracie kept her Epi-pen, and how to administer it.

My biggest contribution was calling the ambulance.

No one complained (at least I didn’t hear it) while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Or while the EMTs were assessing Gracie’s condition. She was frightened enough that she opted to be transported to the hospital, rather than continue with the tour. Which…really wouldn’t have been an option at that point, anyway.

My heart sank a little when I checked the time and realized that we’d missed our time slots at the last two wineries.

It sank even more when I announced to the group.

And when I watched their faces fall, and heard the grumbling begin…I may have lost a little of my common sense.

At first, I suggested a tour of the grounds as compensation. But I guess the threat of encountering more bees was making people nervous. Then somebody asked about a barrel tasting, reminding everyone about the story I’d told them over lunch—all about the new, sparkling wine my sister was experimenting with. And about how she’d given us tastes, even though the juice (really, you couldn’t call it wine yet) was still in the early fermentation stages. And suddenly, everyone wants to see the wine cave, everyone wants to taste Bianca’s version of Champagne…

* * *

“Let me guess, you took them to see the barrel room, or whatever it’s called?”

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