Page 79 of Que Será, Syrah

“Yeah?” I lift my head to look at him. “So, you’re not mad?”

“Well, I am a little bit,” he admits. “If I’d known all this last night, I’d’ve taken the whole day off. We could’ve gone up to Calistoga and spent a few hours soaking in the hot springs.”

“Ohhh, that sounds nice,” I reply.

Clay’s lips twist. “I know, but it’s too late. I already took the morning off; I can’t call in now.”

“It’s the thought that counts?” I suggest, hopefully.

“No,” he sighs reluctantly. “It’s really not.”

But he’s wrong. And I’m not even playing. Nice as the hot springs would have been, just knowing he cares enough to think of doing something like that for me? That’s all I need. “Raincheck?” I offer, before I think it through.

Clay smiles. His eyes light up as he nods. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Maybe sometime next week?”

“Oh, but wait. I’m forgetting. Aren’t you afraid that’ll blow our cover?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” he says. “Most of the people I work with have families; there’s not a lot of spa days on their calendars. I think we’ll be okay. Besides, you know we’re not going to be able to hide this thing forever, right?” His brow furrows as he adds, “Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to figure out a way to tell people about us.”

“Like an official story?” I tease.

“Yeah. Like that.” Clay’s gaze flicks to the winery’s entrance, and then back to my face. “I still hate the idea of leaving you here. Are you gonna be all right?”

“Of course,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

So, he puts the truck back in gear, and we refasten our seatbelts—because regulations. And we drive the dozen or so feet down the road, and maybe half that distance again up the drive. Then we park and unbuckle again.

“Uh-oh,” Clay mutters, glancing out through the windshield. “Want me to stick around for a minute?”

Rosa is pacing on the lawn in front of the house, with her phone at her ear. As soon as she sees us she ends the call and comes running up to meet us.

“Um…sure,” I say as I jump from the truck. “Good idea. Maybe she won’t yell as loud in front of company.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says.

Then Rosa is here, yelling, “Allegra, where have you been? We’ve been calling all night!” And I guess I have to give this point to Clay.

Clay

“I-I’m s-sorry!” Legs exclaims, stuttering in reaction to her sister’s distraught expression. “I didn’t have my charger; my phone died. Did something happen?”

“Uh, you tell me,” Rosa says, gazing pointedly at my truck. “What’re you doing?”

“What? Oh!” Allegra’s face clears. “No. Nothing. Clay was just nice enough to give me a ride back from the bike shop.” Then she catches herself, flashes me an apologetic look and corrects herself. “Sorry. I meant Deputy Romero.”

Rosa’s eyes narrow. “I’m sorry, where did you say you went last night?”

“Oh, let’s not worry about that,” Leg says. Her innocent smile wouldn’t fool a child. “What’s happening here? Everything okay?”

“Well, that depends.” Rosa’s gaze flickers once again in my direction as she says the last thing I’m expecting. “Your husband is here. Anything you want to tell me about what you did last summer?”

Husband? I swallow the word with difficulty. But, if the old saying about how, ‘a wink is as good as a nod to a blind man,’ is valid, I figure the reverse is true, as well. And the strangled cough that emerges from my mouth is fucking damning.

“I don’t have a husband,” Allegra snaps. Then she looks at me and say, “I don’t!” And if her sister had suspicions about us before, I figure they’ve just been confirmed.

So, I lean my arms on the roof of my truck, prop one foot on the running board, and settle in—abandoning all pretense that I’m not hanging on their every word, or that I don’t have a vested interest in the outcome. It was a nice little cover story, while it lasted.

“What do you mean—no husband?” Rosa demands. “He showed us the license, and…and visa documents that the two of you had signed. And pictures of the two of you taken all over Europe. Are you saying they’re fake?”

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