Gone With the Wine (Pour Decisions #2)

Prologue

Bianca

I pick up my phone and check the time. Still too early.

I press a hand to my quaking stomach. My arms and legs are tingling as if I’m cold, but out here on the terrace at Castillo Lorenzo Winery it’s a comfortable late summer temperature with afternoon sun warming the stone and scenting the air with bougainvillaea. I don’t know why I’m nervous about this video call with my family.

Oh wait. It’s my family. That’s why I’m nervous.

I gaze out at the rows and rows of malbec grapes stretching into the distance where the snow-capped Andes Mountains rise against the clear blue sky. Absolutely breathtaking.

It’s harvest time here in Argentina, and I’ve taken a break from the frenetic pace for this call. Obviously, I couldn’t go home for this right now.

I’ve been living and working here just outside Mendoza, Argentina, for years now but the beauty never fails to affect me. The elegant wine-tasting terrace is shaded with vines, shrubs, and Jacarandas that bloom velvety lilac in November, and brightly colored flowers spill out of big pots. Guests are enjoying their samples of malbec, syrah, and cabernet franc.

My phone buzzes with the notification. I start and drop my gaze to the screen, tapping it and moving to the far side of the patio away from guests. The face of my older sister Rosa appears. She’s sitting in the Napa, California office of James Davenport, the Lamberti family lawyer. Also in the room, although I can’t see them, is our Uncle Geno, Aunt Janet, and our cousins Gianni, Vittorio, and Leo, Jr. Leo’s the son of our Uncle Leo, Geno’s brother, but he passed years ago.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Bee!”

We make stilted small talk, acutely aware of the other people in the room with Rosa. Still no Allegra, our younger sister.

“Are you sure you sent Legs the link?” I ask.

“Yes, of course I did. I just have no idea what time it is over there. Could be middle of the night.”

“Nah, closer to eight or nine pm. Barely dinner time.”

At that moment the screen splits in two, Allegra joining our three-way call.

God, I miss them.

“Hey, Bee!” my younger sister says. “And Rosey Posey. Sorry I couldn’t make it back. How are you holding up, Rosey?”

“I’m fine,” Rosa says. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be here, too.”

Allegra shrugs a shoulder. “You know how it is. I’ll try to be there for the memorial.”

She’d better do more than try. I catch Rosa’s exasperated eye roll. We both love Allegra, but she’s never been what you’d call dependable.

“You’ve got time,” Rosa says. “We won’t hold the memorial until after harvest season at least. But you really should be here for it, Allegra. After everything Grandma did for us. Pay our respects.”

Allegra nods, her face shadowed by the late afternoon sun behind her head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Nonna raised us herself, after Daddy died and Mama ran off to Italy with Sergio. We owe her so much. My heart squeezes with grief.

“Where are you this week, Legs?” I peer at my phone, taking in the gorgeous old buildings behind Allegra. “Greece?”

Allegra shakes her head, curls dancing. “Gibraltar.” She waves a hand behind her. “I might actually get some time to look around before I move on.”

“That’s so cool.” Rosa smiles.

Allegra couldn’t be much farther away from me.

When I left Oak Creek Canyon in California eight years ago for college, I was happy to escape. I wanted to be on my own in the world, not part of the Martinelli-Lamberti family, not the girl whose mom ran away to Italy with a man, not the invisible middle sister. I was eager to make my own mark in the world, and I’ve been working hard ever since to achieve that.

My full scholarship to Cornell University was a dream come true and my ticket out of Napa. Waaaaay out of Napa. Then I decided to do my internship in Argentina—even farther from Napa. When I was offered a job at the winery where I interned, I took it. I’ve been the assistant winemaker here ever since, working with Milenko Torres, an elite winemaker who’s been producing internationally awarded wines including his amazing malbec.

And I’m starting to be known, too, as Milenko gives me the freedom to develop wines of my own. It’s what I’ve always wanted—to be known for something I’ve accomplished myself, something that’s not just brushed aside or ignored, not something that belongs to the “family.” That’s what they did to Nonna. She never got credit for her creations; they were always “Belmonte” wines. I want to create elegant, complex, delicious wines and I’m on my way to doing that.

Rosa holds up a finger to her lips, indicating we should be quiet. She turns her iPad and I see Mr. Davenport walking into the room.

He takes a seat behind the wide, official-looking desk at the front of the room, then looks directly at Rosa’s iPad. And frowns.

“Hi, Mr. Davenport,” Rosa says. “I know this is a little unorthodox…”

“But so are we,” Allegra adds with a laugh.

I hear Rosa’s sigh. She’s never had much patience for Allegra’s antics.

“Sorry, sir,” she says to Mr. Davenport. “You know my sisters, Bianca and Allegra.”

“Quite well,” he answers.

Allegra waves. “Hi, Jimmy!”

I hear someone snort, then cough in a feeble attempt to cover laughter. I, too, have to bite my lip on a smile.

“As I was saying, Mr. Davenport,”Rosa continues seriously. “My sisters Allegra and Bianca are both out of the country but want to participate in the reading as well.”

“That’s fine.”

Rosa turns her tablet around again. Mr. Davenport takes his glasses out of their case and slides them on. “As long as you don’t disrupt the proceedings.” He directs his attention to the phone with a raised eyebrow.

We’ve known James Davenport almost our entire lives—he’s been the family lawyer for as long as anyone can remember. And he knows us. Sometimes to our embarrassment.

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“It’ll be just like I’m there in the room,” Allegra adds.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says drolly. “Just—be appropriate, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Rosa says.

“Thank you. Is anyone else joining us virtually? Your mother, perhaps?”

I wince.

Rosa says, “No, sir.”

One corner of my mouth kicks up. Yeah, Mama wants nothing to do with this family anymore.

It’s not our fault Mama decided to run away to Italy with a man soon after her husband died. But we’ve always suffered the consequences of that. I swallow a sigh.

“Thank you all for being here,” Mr. Davenport lays a hand on the stack of papers on the desk in front of him. “I know this is a sad and difficult time for the whole family.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes briefly.

Damn. He was Nonna’s friend as well as her lawyer. Of course he’s sad, too.

Clearing his throat, he taps the papers again. “Your mother” – he nods at Uncle Geno – “and grandmother” – he glances around the rest of the room, his gaze encompassing Rosa, Allegra and me via the smartphone, and our three cousins – “was a remarkable woman. She will be greatly missed. She also lived a full life, loved her family, and had very specific thoughts about her will and what would happen after she passed. Her greatest desire was that you remain a family, supporting each other, regardless of what’s in these papers.”

Nonna used to say family is the core of everything. I miss her so much already. My eyes sting and I bow my head as I blink back tears.

Mr. Davenport starts reading the documents in front of him, details about safe deposit boxes, life insurance, bank accounts. I don’t know why everyone has to be present for this. Uncle Geno has been running the family business since Papa passed away. Mama wasn’t interested in sticking around, so she gave up any connection to the business once she left the country (and her daughters) behind. Our generation? Well, except for Allegra and me, they’re all working for Uncle Geno in some capacity, or will eventually, but it’s going to be decades before they actually take the reins.To clarify—Uncle Geno’s sons will take the reins. Rosa already works for Uncle Geno, but I don’t see him giving her any control. I’m loving my life here in Argentina, working with a talented, knowledgeable mentor, making amazing wines. And Allegra? She’s busy traveling the world and when she’s done, who knows where she’s going to land.

“In regard to Belmonte Winery.”

Yeah, yeah, get on with it.

Mr. Davenport reads Nonna’s words from papers he holds. “‘Geno, you have been a faithful steward of the family winery, and I trust you to keep that tradition strong for future generations. All holdings from your father, and his father before him, are passed down to you.’” He pauses and flicks his gaze up, presumably toward Uncle Geno. “‘I have every hope that your sons, my beloved grandsons, will carry on that tradition on the land bequeathed to your lineage. I love you all.’”

Just what I expected. I’ve been overlooked my whole life, as the middle child, but being overlooked by Nonna in this way stings. Ah well. I’ve followed a different path, and it’s fine.

I hear Uncle Geno speak. “Thank you, James. I know how hard?—”

“We’re not finished,”Mr. Davenport interjects.

“Excuse me? You’ve gone over everything—the accounts, the financials, the properties…”

“One property.” Mr. Davenport sets that paper aside and glances down at the one remaining in his hand. “Belmonte Winery.”

I frown, my fingers tightening on my phone.

“These are the final wishes of Maria Carmela Bianchi Lamberti, in her own words. ‘My dearest children and grandchildren. I love you all and wish I could have remained with you forever, in our little patch of heaven on earth. I have loved every moment together, and wish you all nothing but peace, prosperity, and happiness.

“‘As you know, when I married my sainted Leo, I brought my family birthright, Caparelli Vineyards, with me. It had been passed down to me by my mother, God rest her soul. And though I allowed my sainted Lorenzo to run both wineries as one, it has remained my birthright throughout our marriage and beyond. Geno, when you took over for your father, you continued to treat them as one entity, as agreed upon previously. But now, in my twilight years, I wish to rebuild the tradition started by my mother, and pass Caparelli Vineyards on to the next generation of wine-making women in our family. My dear daughter, Caprice, has chosen to live and work overseas with her second husband, and has shown no interest in Caparelli for many years. Therefore, I leave my vines, my property, and my birthright to my three granddaughters, Rosa, Bianca, and Allegra, to carry on the proud matriarchal tradition of Caparelli.’”

I smack my hand over my mouth as I gasp.

“‘I also leave a modest bank account –” Mr. Davenport holds up a folder “– to provide some cushion should they choose to bring Caparelli back from disuse. I hope with all my heart that they do. My darlings, my tre sorelle, I wish you all well in your new adventure.”

Holy shit. What? I press a hand to my forehead, suddenly hot and dizzy.

Mr. Davenport folds his hands on the desk and looks at each of us in turn. “Any questions?”

“What the hell is that?” Geno’s voice is loud enough to be clearly heard on my phone.

I’m wondering the same, Uncle Geno.

“Your mother’s last will and testament. It is quite legal, and she was of sound mind and body when she wrote it. There will be no point in challenging it.”

“But it makes no sense. Caparelli and Belmonte have been combined for decades! Caparelli can’t exist on its own. You agree with me, right?” Rosa turns her phone and he’s looking directly at her—and us—hands planted on his hips. “You’ve been working for the family for years. You see how the two are intertwined.”

Rosa doesn’t answer and there’s a long silence.

Yes, they’ve operated as one organization for as long as I can remember. But I also remember the stories Nonna used to tell us, of growing up on Caparelli’s grounds, how proud she was when it became hers, how she chose to share it with her husband while still retaining that birthright for her own. And she’s entrusted it to us? I can’t…I…

“Besides, there’s no way you’ll be able to get it up and running on your own in time to save the grapes,” Uncle Geno says.

“She’s not on her own,” I snap.

“Excuse me?” Uncle Geno frowns.

“She’s right,” Allegra says. “There are three of us. She’s not on her own.”

I shift my focus to the tiny image of Allegra on my phone as she weighs in from across the globe.

Uncle Geno waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Not like you’ll be doing much from your little European vacation. Just like your mother.”

I hear Rosa suck in a breath as I wince. Uncle Geno’s always been a little crotchety, but why is he being such a jackass?

“Belmonte needs the grapes. We have plans for them. And if you don’t allow us to harvest and use them, they’ll rot on the vine.”

What? He really thinks we can’t do it! He thinks we can’t harvest the grapes ourselves.

“Then we’ll just turn them into raisins and make a profit that way,” Allegra says.

“Allegra!” Rosa’s mouth falls open.

I grin. Oh my God.Allegra is known for saying what’s on her mind. Sometimes second by second.

Uncle Geno’s smile is fake. “Our arrangement has worked just fine for decades. We’ve even honored the history of Caparelli vineyards through our Carleo Cabernet.”

The Carleo. The “tribute” wine Uncle Geno has been selling for years. The one where Nonna’s contribution has been reduced to a side note.She was a gifted winemaker, but never got the credit she should have. These days, lots of women are working in the wine business.

I think I get my love of winemaking from her. I think I have talent, too. But I’ve always been disregarded by Uncle Geno. His son is Belmonte’s winemaker and Uncle Geno won’t have it any other way. And honestly? My sisters never really paid much attention to my wine creations, either.

“There’s no reason to fix what isn’t broken,” he says.

Rosa finally speaks up.“I think…I’ll have to talk to my sisters about it.”

“But—”

The image on screen jiggles and shift as Rosa stands.

I speak up, too. “Yes, we have to discuss our options. All of them.”

“Girls!” Uncle Geno booms. “I must insist?—”

“Nope.” Allegra laughs through the phone. “Pretty sure you don’t get to insist anything. Andiamo, sorelle mie, let’s discuss our options.”

“We’ll be in touch about the financials,” Rosa says to Mr. Davenport.

She sounds like a winery owner already. I smile.

Winery owner. Whoa.

I own a winery.

The image shifts again as Rosa walks out of the room. Once outside the building, she holds up the iPad so we can see her face, blinking a little in the bright California sunlight.

“I have just one thing to say,” Allegra pipes up, her eyes wide on my smartphone screen.

“What’s that?” Rosa asks.

“Holy shit.”