Page 96 of Que Será, Syrah

“If he found a judge willing to believe him, he could potentially have ended up with much more than the half of my share—that he was already not entitled to—that he was asking for. He could have taken part of your shares, too. There was no way I could let that happen.”

“But you love Caparelli,” Rosa protests. “As much as any of us.”

I nod in response. “Yeah. I do. But I love you guys more.”

As Rosa crowds beside me on the swing and I’m engulfed in yet another three-way hug, I send up a quick prayer—that the bolts and the chains supporting this swing don’t fail.

Sometimes heroes have to walk through fire to protect those they care about; that’s something I’ve heard Clay say. And, given his history, I’m not sure if he means that metaphorically, or not. I’m not feeling particularly heroic at the moment. But I’m definitely feeling singed. So, maybe that’s the first step?

Over the murmur of my sisters whispered promises, “We love you, too.” And “We will fix this,” I hear the crunch of car tires on gravel.

“Heads up,” Jake remarks. “We’ve got company.”

Nico? I think hopefully as my sisters and I untangle ourselves. I’m so ready to get this over with. But Rosa, turning in her seat to look at the drive, positively growls, “Oh, hell, no. Not this again!” Which is how I know my first guess is wrong.

Then she’s off the swing and charging across the porch. “Deputy Romero,” she chuffs in warning. “This is really not a good time.”

“Sorry, about that, Ma’am,” Clay replies. And is it fair that my heart still leaps at the sound of his voice—even now? It so fucking isn’t. “But I’m going to need to speak to your sister for a moment.”

“Which sister?” Rosa asks, while Jake come up beside her, silently offering support; and Bee and I share a sisterly eyeroll. Which sister, indeed.

“Allegra,” he says, with a nod in my direction.

“Why?” Rosa asks crisply. “What’s this about?”

“That’s a very good question,” I mutter. But then it hits me. And I’m jumping off the swing, once again—this time without braining myself, thankfully. I lean over the porch railing and glare at Clay. “This better not be about my driving again,” I say, as my eyes drink in every detail of his appearance. He’s in full uniform, standing tall and straight, but overall, he looks like shit. His eyes are heavy, his face looks drawn. Serves you right, I think. “And you’d better have proof of whatever it is you’re accusing me of, Deputy. Pictures, or it didn’t happen. If all you’ve got is hearsay, my lawyer will see you in court.”

As I’ve been speaking, Clay’s face has been slowly turning an unhealthy shade of red. Now he demands, “Who did that to you? Was it Carvalho?”

“What, this?” I touch my face gingerly, wincing a little at the bruising. “Oh. No, that was Jake.”

Then Clay glares at Jake, Jake glares at me and, almost too late, I realize my mistake. Oops.

“I’m joking,” I assure Clay hurriedly. “It was an accident. But that’s the only accident I’ve been involved in today. So, again, if that’s what you’re here about, you’re wasting your time.”

“Hold up,” Clay replies, lifting a hand in warning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to. So, stop right there, before you say anything incriminatory. That’s not why I’m here. It’s about your ex.”

“My…what?” I snarl, all at once seeing red because; this again? “Are you talking about Nico?”

“Unless you have another one?”

Oh no, he did not. I scoop up the papers from the chair where Rosa left them. Then I storm across the porch.

“Allegra.” Rosa stops me at the top of the stairs. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better,” I lie as I stomp down the stairs and across the lawn. “Here.” I slap the papers into Clay’s chest. “You can give those to Mr. Carvalho the next time you see him and tell him I hope he roasts in hell.”

“I’m sure he is,” Clay mutters, looking at the papers in confusion. “What’s this?”

“You tell me” I take a step back and cross my arms. “I assume you can read.”

He quickly scans through the pages, his scowl deepening with every paragraph. When he’s finished, he stares at me, his eyes wide with dismay. “You gave up your winery?”

Ouch. Fuck. I inhale sharply as the blow lands—probably harder than intended. I have to will myself not to cry. “So no, then; apparently you can’t read.”

“What do you mean? I just?—”

“No,” I repeat, stepping forward once more. Bending the papers back, I search upside down for the pertinent section, stabbing my finger at the page when I find it. “Look. D’you see what it says here?” I ask, then read it aloud, “‘Has not and will not accept the bequest.’ So, no. Clearly, I did not ‘give up’ my winery; ‘my winery’ was only ever a concept. It didn’t actually exist. I mean…” I flap a hand to indicate our immediate surroundings. “Obviously, this winery exists, but my interest in it was only ever a potentiality, which now is null and void.”

---