Page 78 of Que Será, Syrah

“So, you’re saying my wine is not contaminated with some random bacteria?” Bianca’s sarcasm game was on point. “You didn’t all nearly die? That’s a relief.”

“You tell people they can’t get a barrel tasting. But then you bring them to the place where the barrels are,” Rosa said—not far behind. “How does that not seem like a bad idea?”

‘Maybe because that’s been the script for virtually every barrel room tour I ever led,’ I nearly said, which was God’s own truth:

‘No, I’m so sorry, you won’t be able to get a taste. Our winemaker is very particular, and these wines aren’t ready to drink yet. But let me tell you about the oak we use for our barrels…’

“Look,” I told her, still trying to stay calm. “I had everything under control. And if Jake hadn’t distracted me?—

“Are you kidding?” Bianca asked. “If Jake hadn’t just happened to come in when he did?—”

Which is when I began to lose my shit. “Oh, he ‘just happened’ to come in? Right. I’m so sure.”

Rosa frowned. “Okay, time out. What are you implying, Legs?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I feel like someone’s always looking over my shoulder, checking up on me, keeping track of everything I do.”

Bianca’s lips compressed, as though she were trying to hold onto her temper. But apparently it didn’t work because the next words out of her mouth are, “Has it ever occurred to you that, maybe that’s your fault?”

Rosa nodded. “We never know where you are. You rarely keep us informed. Take today, for example. If we’d known ahead of time that you were planning something special, maybe one of us could have been on hand to help out?”

That burned. For so many reasons. Not the least of which was the assumption that I wouldn’t (or maybe shouldn’t?) be making the Tour and Pour a regular event. Close on the heels of that was my fear that the tour company would feel the same way. I wanted to scream; ‘Today was an exception. I really can do this. I don’t need your help!” But even if I’d screamed it at the top of my lungs, would any of them listen?

“Reach out if you need help,” Rosa is saying when I tune back in to our conversation. “Or ask one of us if you’re unsure about something.”

“Tell me something,” I said, glaring daggers at my sisters. “When’s the last time either of you thought to run something by me? When have any of you asked me for help, or advice on anything?”

Two blank faces stared back at me. And, trust me, I knew those looks. They weren’t the abstracted, ‘when was that now?’ expression people get when they’re attempting to activate their really long-term memory (because they know that the memory in question was forever ago). No, these were hard-core, ‘why would we ever do something like that?’ looks.

“Oh, that’s right,” I purred sweetly. “Never.”

“Legs,” Rosa tried to interrupt, but I was on a roll.

“I bet you can’t even imagine a scenario like that, can you? When would you ever need help from me? Well, guess what? That goes both ways. I can figure out how to do my own job, too. All. By. Myself. So, I don’t need you, or Jake, or anyone else, to babysit me.”

Which was when Rosa finally cracked. Honestly, I should have been expecting it. See, Bianca and I had always had hotter tempers. Or shorter fuses. Or whatever metaphor you care to use.

As kids, we’d battled a lot, but our fights were like microbursts; you know, those strong, sudden rainstorms that spring up out of nowhere and dissipate just as quickly?

Rosa was an entirely different animal when it came to her temper. If the three of us were rubber bands—yes, another metaphor—Rosa’s was the one that would have stretched the farthest. And then snap back the hardest. So, I really shouldn’t have been surprised when she responded to my babysitter dig with, “Well, good! Because none of us have the time to waste on that shit, anyway! So maybe you should stop making it necessary.”

* * *

Clay is silent as I finish my story—which is fine. My breath keeps catching and tears are leaking from my eyes and I’m not sure I’m ready for his reaction anyway. What if he agrees with my sisters? What if he’s disappointed in me, or starts pointing out all the mistakes I made? What if I’ve violated some stupidly obscure rule?

Oh, shit! What if opening the cave while the fan wasn’t on is the kind of violation that could get us shut down?

Just a few feet shy of Caparelli’s entrance, Clay pulls his vehicle off the road. The truck lurches a little, listing from side to side as we bounce over the grassy verge.

“I am so sorry,” he says as he puts the truck in park and turns to face me. “I thought talking about it would help. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

“You didn’t,” I say blinking rapidly. But in the battle between me and my tears, the tears have won.

He undoes his seatbelt, and then mine, and then he opens his arms and says, “C’mere,” as he reaches for me.

It’s awkward hugging over the console, but it feels nice. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I know I fucked up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Clay says. “Sounds to me like you had a lot thrown at you, all at once. Plus you were operating with limited information. I thought you did pretty good.”

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