Page 80 of Que Será, Syrah

I straighten up at that point, no longer amused. Legs shakes her head, as though to clear it. “No, wait. Are you saying Nico is here?”

Nico? And just like that, this non-existent husband has a name.

“Yes!” Rosa exclaims, as her hands fly wide, somehow managing to sound simultaneously validated and disappointed, which is a lot to pull off with a single gesture. But then her frown returns. “Well, of course, I mean Nico. Just how many husbands do you have?”

Which is a fucking great question.

“None!” Legs says, but her protest rings hollow. Then she turns to me and repeats it, “None!”

“Well, I don’t understand,” Rosa says. “Are you saying you’re divorced?”

“Of course not,” Legs replies. And then she nails that coffin all the way shut. “Do you know how long it takes to get divorced in Europe? Even in Romania it’s at least six months.”

Annnd I’ve heard enough. “Ladies.” I nod as I swing myself into my truck. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Clay, wait,” Legs begs.

I shake my head and allow myself a single sentence, “Late for work.”

But that, as Legs would say, is only the official story. If you want the truth, the real reason I’m leaving is because there’s nothing she can say right now that I want to hear. And I don’t really trust myself to speak.

Chapter 17

Allegra

As Clay peels out of the drive, tires squealing, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re not okay. I’d jump in my car and follow him back to town so we can continue this discussion, but he’s been nothing but honest with me up until now, so it’s hard to justify that level of distrust.

“Just how long has this been going on?” Rosas asks, eyeing me with suspicion. But I’m still in a state of shock and can’t even begin to make up an answer.

I’m saved from trying when Bee runs up and tackle-hugs me crying, “I’m sorry. I overreacted yesterday. I didn’t mean any of the things I said!”

“No, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Your wine—omigod! I never would have let that happen if I’d been paying attention—that’s all I meant when I said I was distracted!”

“Forget the wine; you could have died!”

Forget the wine? And that’s all it takes to start me crying too, both of us spouting nonsense like, “no, no, I’m fine,” and, “It doesn’t matter, I don’t care,” and, “please, don’t say that,” until Rosa’s voice breaks through all the noise. “Could we please stay on topic? This is important!”

Bee and I pull apart. But one look at Rosa’s face—eyes wet, lower lip trembling—has us both reaching out and dragging her into a three-way embrace. And I give up trying to interpret what any of us are saying.

But like I told Clay earlier, these downbursts don’t last very long. Soon we’re pulling apart and wiping our eyes. “Let’s go inside,” Bee suggests. “I need a drink.”

Rosa nods. “It’s early, but I think we all do.”

And I couldn’t agree more. “It’s wine o’clock somewhere.”

So, a short while later, we’re curled up in the living room with glasses of the Tempranillo that Vitto’s been secretly experimenting with. And shaking our heads at Geno’s stupidity in not allowing him more room for self-expression.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that uncommon,” Rosa says. “Jake’s friend Wade is facing the same problem at his place. “His dad won’t let go of the reins there, either.”

“Speaking of Jake, where is he?” I ask. I need to apologize to him, as well.

Rosa and Bee exchange worried looks. “Oh, um…”

“What?”

“He volunteered to give Nico a tour of the vineyards.”

“No!” I sit up so abruptly that my wine nearly spills. “Don’t let him anywhere near this place. The whole reason he married me was to get his hands on Caparelli. He’s a fucking leach!”

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