Page 92 of Que Será, Syrah

“The Carleo,” Geno affirms. “And who do you think makes the Carleo?”

“Oh, everyone knows that you do, Uncle Geno.”

“Sì. I make the Carleo.” Then he sits back in his chair, so fiercely proud of what he’s accomplished, and in that moment, epiphany slips its silken dagger under my ribs and into my heart.

And I see beyond the pride. I see fear and vulnerability and pain. I see an unloved child. I see myself. And I fucking hate it.

I was going to try and ferret out his secret—what is it that’s making the Carleo so blah. I was going to try to convince him to support Bianca and Vitto—the next generation of Lamberti/Martinelli winemakers. I even thought he might have some ideas for how we might be rid of Nico.

And maybe one of these days I’ll try again. But, for now, I’ve lost my taste for the game.

* * *

Shortly after, I take my leave of my aunt and uncle. I check the time when I get back to my car and consider breaking for lunch before my next stop. But eventually, I decide against it. Losing my lunch is a distinct possibility; and I’d rather not risk it.

“Allegra,” Jimmy sounds surprised when his assistant ushers me into his office. “This is unexpected. I assume this has to do with your grandmother’s um, bequest to you?” He stumbles over the last few words, his voice breaking ever so slightly. And in that moment his grief is so painfully obvious that it brings tears to my eyes. Or maybe that’s my own grief?

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I-I should have called ahead.” The sound of my voice is unexpected too. It emerges as something soft and sad. I force it into something closer to its normal range as I finish with a jaunty, “But hey! You know me.”

His lips curved in a small, but unmistakable smile as he presses a button on the intercom that connects him with the outer office—I swear, it must be an antique. He’s probably been using the exact same one since the nineties… The eighties? Longer maybe? —and requests my grandmother’s file. Then he sits back and folds his hands and says, “Yes. I do know you. Quite well. Possibly better than you think.”

Which…really doesn’t help calm my nerves at all. Maybe not, Jimmy, I think to myself; maybe not.

I clear my throat and try again. “Actually, there were a couple of things I wanted to discuss with you.”

Jimmy nods, his expression serene, his voice admirably under control. “Oh, of course. And how thoughtless of me not to offer my congratulations. I did speak with your sister, yesterday. So, has this to do with your recent, er, marriage? Will we be drafting a will today, as well?”

“No!” This time I’m mortified to have almost shouted the word. “No, definitely not.” And then, of course, the whole wretched story comes tumbling out yet again—with only one small pause to allow Jimmy’s assistant to deliver the requested file. And apparently Clay was right about this, too. It does get easier with repetition.

“Well, this is all very troubling,” Jimmy says when I’m finally done.

“I know,” I say in a very small voice. “What can I do?”

And now it’s his turn to embark on a long, and convoluted—and painful! —dissertation on all the ways that the situation might conceivably play out, none of them good, and all of which, basically, come down to the same unpalatable conclusion.

I really have screwed the pooch on this one. It’s probable my sisters will pay the biggest price. And teams of lawyers and multiple judges will likely be picking at the remains of my grandmother’s estate, for a very long time. We’d have been better off letting Geno have it.

“Of course, there are always exceptions,” Jimmy says carefully. “Unexpected circumstances…”

“Miracles?” I joke.

Jimmy smiles. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“But, seriously. There must be something?”

“Yes, of course. The case is not entirely hopeless. If we can prove that the marriage was never valid, without exposing you to prosecution in the process, that is, and if your husband—” he breaks off, possibly due to my instinctive flinch, checks his notes, and then corrects himself, “I’m so sorry, if Mr. Carvahlo can be persuaded to be reasonable, to accept a settlement of some kind?—”

“What if I stayed married to him?” I ask, grasping at straws. “Would that be better? If so, I’m willing to take one for team, if you think it would help. Although obviously we’d have to get it in writing, because I wouldn’t trust him otherwise. Not that I trust him now. But perhaps the prospect of a green card and a small settlement... No?”

I break off when Jimmy begins to shake his head. “No. No. That would be…completely unacceptable. Under no circumstances should you put that, or anything remotely like it, into writing. That would almost certainly be perceived as proof of fraud or attempted fraud on your part.”

“Oh. Right,” I sigh. “Of course.” This is what I get for attempting to think on a mostly empty stomach. I really should have eaten more for breakfast. Or maybe not skipped lunch. I wonder what Jimmy would say if I suggested we order something in?

“Also,” Jimmy continues, unaware of the direction my thoughts have taken, “If I might remind you, according to what you’ve told me, you are not currently married to Mr. Carvahlo. Nor were you ever actually married to him. And nor does it appear that Mr. Carvahlo would wish to remain married to you—were he actually married to you; which he is not—for any longer than necessary. Was that not what you told me?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “I was forgetting about that, too.”

“Understandable. I’m sure this is all very distressing for you.”

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