Page 91 of Que Será, Syrah

And then Rosa rolls her eyes and says, “On second thought, maybe I won’t have kids.”

And Bee laughs and says, “Maybe you feel like you already do?”

And it feels so good to laugh and tease each other. But eventually, of course, it has to end.

“Okay, well,” I say as I get to my feet. “I’d better go and get ready for the day. I have some errands to run.”

Rosa glances up and asks, “Do you need any help?”

And at the same time Bee offers, “Would you like some company?”

And then Rosa says, “You’re not alone, you know.”

“Or, at least, you don’t have to be,” Bee adds.

And all I can think about is last night, and Clay. And yes, I really am alone. But I smile and say, “No thanks, I’ve got this.”

And I’m still smiling as I leave the room. But honestly? This is why I don’t do mornings.

Chapter 19

Allegra

“Allegra! Well, this is a nice surprise,” my Aunt Janet greets me with a hug as I enter my uncle’s office at Belmonte, where apparently time never passes. If Nonna’s hammock was an office, it would look and feel like this. Well, not as stuffy and formal as this, but otherwise, samesies.

“You look like you got a little bit of a tan,” my aunt observes. “Did you have a nice vacation?” I have not seen the woman in five years, yet she’s speaking as though I’d only been gone a few weeks. “Is the jetlag very bad?” Or make that days.

“Che cosa,” my uncle (who clearly suffers from no such delusion) complains. “What jetlag? She’s fine. She’s been back for weeks.” The subtext—that this is the first time I’ve bothered to see him—is made clear in the discontented expression he’s wearing. Or maybe he’s still mad at me for the raisin remark I made during our phone call back in April? Hard to know.

“How’ve you been, Uncle Geno?” I ask as I plop myself into one of the chairs in front of his desk (while my aunt lowers herself gracefully into the other one). “It’s been a while, huh?” Because two can play the subtext game.

My uncle gives the kind of shrug that Italian infants begin practicing when they’re still sleeping in bassinettes. Vague and elaborate, it’s a gesture that can mean so many things—I’m fine. So what? Who’s asking? Go fuck yourself –Or nothing at all.

“We’ve been a little worried about your sisters, dear,” my aunt leans in to confide. “But hopefully, now that you’re back, you can convince them to do the right thing?”

Since she doesn’t spell out what ‘the right thing’ would be, I take the liberty of interpreting it as I please. “Oh, I will,” I say brightly. “I promise.”

Janet is pleased with my response. Geno…not so much. My uncle may be many things, slow-witted isn’t one of them. “They cannot run a winery all on their own,” he insists. “In Napa, of all places!”

“Is it unusually difficult here?” It’s Aunt Janet who asks the question. Yes, I’m surprised as well.

Geno fixes her with a look which, like the shrug, could have many meanings. Janet flushes. “Well, I don’t understand why it would be,” she protests. “It’s America. You don’t even have to speak Italian.”

“Or French,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Or Spanish. Or Portuguese. German…Hungarian…Greek, of course…I think that’s it.”

Geno’s nostrils flare. “No. That is not why. It is because it is so very small, a mere forty-five thousand acres. And the grapes grown here are the best in the world. To see even a fraction of them go to waste— Bah, it makes me furious.”

See what I mean about the raisin remark? Yeah, he’s still pissed.

“But they’re not going to waste,” I say, hope rising (phoenix-like) in my chest. Is he serious? Could it be this simple? Can I actually get through to him (and yes, ‘do what neither of my sisters could’)? “Bianca’s wines are already winning awards. And she was using Argentinean grapes. (Yes, all right? I know.) Imagine what she’ll be able to do with Napa grapes! She’ll make you so proud, Uncle Geno.”

“Vitto is making wine now, too,” Aunt Janet says as her gaze flickers nervously between us. “I think his wines are very good.”

“I’ve heard that,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers and praying that I don’t say the wrong thing. “Everyone says he’s very talented.”

Aunt Janet beams proudly. Uncle Geno shrugs again. “All these things he wants to try. Everything new, new, new. New equipment, new methods, new varietals, new blends, new barrels. Even new corks,” He leans forward, really getting into it now, looking animated for the first time since I sat down. “Do you know what wine has won more awards, over the course of more seasons than any other?”

“The Carleo?” I ask, flashing my best customer service smile.

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