Page 8 of Que Será, Syrah

“We could have picked you up at the airport,” Rosa insists. “And avoided…all of this.”

“I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone,” I say before I can think better of it, and then wince when it hits me how stupid that must sound. Bianca’s lips roll in. She’s trying hard not to laugh, and I guess I can’t blame her. “Yeah, yeah. Say less.” I rest my head against the seat back and close my eyes. “It just seemed simpler to buy a car, that’s all. And it would have worked out fine, too, if only that Romeo dude hadn’t been such a jerk about my license being expired.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Bianca asks, “Who?”

“Romeo,” I repeat opening my eyes to find Bianca looking confused and Rosa shooting me puzzled looks in the rearview. “You know. The cop who busted me?” If anything, they look even more confused, bordering on alarmed—like I’d hallucinated the whole thing, which I know damn well I haven’t. “Oh, come on! What is this? He was at the station—I know you both saw him. About six-foot-two, dark hair, square chin, nice guns?” Nice eyes, too, which is something I noticed only after we got to the station, and he removed his shades. They reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who.

Rosa and Bianca share a wordless look then Rosa asks, “Are you… You’re not talking about Deputy Romero, are you?”

“No, I— Wait, what?”

“Deputy Romero,” Bianca says. “He’s the only deputy I saw there that matches your description.”

“And it was definitely his signature on the citation,” Rosa agreed.

“Nooo,” I groan, and begin smacking my head against the headrest repeatedly as the implication hits home. “No, no, no, no, no.” I’ve obviously been in the service industry for far too long. He doesn’t tend bar or wait tables, he’s a sheriff’s deputy; so, of course he wouldn’t have had his first name on his name tag. What the hell was I thinking? “Don’t tell me that. Shit!”

“Hold up a minute,” Bianca says. “Are you saying you called him Romeo? To his face?”

“Yes,” I mumble, feeling my face flame. I hate appearing foolish, probably something to do with being the youngest child, always one step (or more) behind.

“Repeatedly?”

“Unnh,” I groan again; I don’t want to think about it. “Probably? I don’t recall.”

“Wow. I’d’ve loved to have seen his face.”

“Right?”

My sisters nod in agreement with one another.

I glare at them both. “No,” I say. “You wouldn’t have.” And, since I’m the one who has actually seen said face, I figure I’m also the only person in this car who actually knows what she’s talking about. “Are you certain his name is Romero?” I have to ask. I mean…yes, the late afternoon sun was in my eyes, my eyeglass prescription may not be up-to-date, I’m vaguely dyslexic, and I was trying not to stare too obviously at his chest, but it’s always possible that I was right, and my sisters are wrong, isn’t it? “Maybe you’re the ones who got it wrong.”

“Allegra,” Rosa protests, “Of course, we didn’t! He spent so much time out at Caparelli this summer I was starting to think we should charge him rent.”

“He did? Why?”

“All part of Geno’s brilliant scheme to run us out of business. He?—”

“Or someone,” Bianca quickly interjects. “Who may or may not have been acting on Geno’s behalf.”

“Riiiight,” Rosa corrects herself, deploying sarcasm at about the same skill level that Serena uses when wielding a racquet. “Some person or persons unknown, for reasons that may have been wholly unrelated to our uncle’s attempt to regain control of Caparelli, repeatedly called the station to lodge bogus complaints against us, sabotaged our operations, and stole equipment that by sheerest coincidence just happened to end up at Belmonte. Quelle surprise.”

They both sound like they’ve been talking to lawyers. Probably the same lawyer; and I’ll bet I can guess which one. This also sounds like exactly the type of family acrimony Nonna had been hoping to prevent by keeping her plans a secret. Much good that did her. I imagine I, too, will be meeting with Jimmy Davenport in the not-so-distant future. More joy; someone else I can disappoint.

“I still don’t see what this has to do with Deputy Romero,” I say, only stumbling a little over the second (wholly unnecessary) R. “Why was the Sheriff’s Department getting involved in our family drama?”

“I told you. Mostly it was because of all the anonymous calls they received claiming that we were out of compliance.”

“It seems there are only a handful of deputies assigned to the Oak Creek Canyon station,” Bianca explains. “Because it’s so small. And according to Miles, they all work twelve-hour shifts—either day or night. So, Romero, who works the day shift, caught most of the complaints. He hasn’t been too happy with any of us.”

“Terrific,” I mumble, feeling unaccountably angry. If I’d have been here sooner, could I have done anything to prevent this mess from happening? Doubtful. I’ve never had much luck influencing any of my family. But I could have tried. And perhaps, I could at least have prevented my family from alienating Deputy (Extra R) Romero. “So, you’re saying that’s why he was such a hard ass? My car got impounded because you’d all spent the summer pissing off the local heat?” Which, now that I think about it, makes perfect sense; because it seemed like we were getting along great, at first.

My sisters share another long-suffering glance, reminding me yet again exactly why I wanted my own car. So that I could do my own thing and not have to put up with all this Judgy Mcjudgerson bullshit.

“As I understand it,” Rosa says dryly, “Your car got impounded because you were driving without a valid license. Are you saying that’s not what happened?”

“Not to mention all the other charges that he could have filed but didn’t,” Bianca adds. “Like the speeding and the expired tags, and…wasn’t there more?”

---