Que Será, Syrah (Pour Decisions #3)

Chapter 2

Allegra

“ I don’t understand,” my sister Rosa says—not for the first time. “It’s not that we’re not happy to see you and all. I mean, of course we are! But how are you even here?”

“Well, see, there’re these things called airplanes,” I tell her wearily. “You may have heard of them.”

“Very funny,” Rosa glares at me from the rear-view mirror.

Bianca, sitting catty-corner in the passenger seat, like she’s afraid to completely turn her back on me, shakes her head. “Really, Legs. I think we deserve a better answer than that! You’ve been promising for months that you were coming home, and?—”

“Oh, stop exaggerating,” I groan. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“No, she’s right,” Rosa says. “It has been months. I remember because the first time was at the will reading—all the way back in April. We talked about holding Nonna’s memorial after the harvest and you said you’d be here.”

I hadn’t. But what’s the point in arguing? People remember what they want to remember. “Yeah well, there you go. It’s after harvest, and here I am.”

“Yes, except that every time we asked you since then about when you’d be back, you just said, soon,” Bianca reminds me. She’s a scientist. They’re relentless when it comes to facts.

“Well, I’m sorry ,” I tell her. “But I had things to do.” Embarrassing things that I will never, ever divulge to either of my sisters. “I got here as soon as I could. And I’m here now, aren’t I? So, why are we still talking about this?”

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell us you were coming,” Rosa says. “We could have gotten things ready for you.”

“Maybe I wanted to surprise you; you ever think of that?”

“Well, you did that,” Bianca says, smiling ironically. “When Rosa told me we had to go and bail you out of jail I was definitely surprised.”

Okay, so maybe that part was my fault. But bail is what the officer I first spoke to at the station called the money she said I’d need in order to get my car released. And I guess by the time I got Rosa on the phone, I had started freaking out and wasn’t as clear I might have been. My bad.

“We could have picked you up at the airport,” Rosa insists. “And avoided…all of this.”

“I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone,” I say before I can think better of it, and then wince when it hits me how stupid that must sound. Bianca’s lips roll in. She’s trying hard not to laugh, and I guess I can’t blame her. “Yeah, yeah. Say less.” I rest my head against the seat back and close my eyes. “It just seemed simpler to buy a car, that’s all. And it would have worked out fine, too, if only that Romeo dude hadn’t been such a jerk about my license being expired.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Bianca asks, “Who?”

“Romeo,” I repeat opening my eyes to find Bianca looking confused and Rosa shooting me puzzled looks in the rearview. “You know. The cop who busted me?” If anything, they look even more confused, bordering on alarmed—like I’d hallucinated the whole thing, which I know damn well I haven’t. “Oh, come on! What is this? He was at the station—I know you both saw him. About six-foot-two, dark hair, square chin, nice guns?” Nice eyes, too, which is something I noticed only after we got to the station, and he removed his shades. They reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who.

Rosa and Bianca share a wordless look then Rosa asks, “Are you… You’re not talking about Deputy Romero, are you?”

“No, I— Wait, what ?”

“Deputy Romero,” Bianca says. “He’s the only deputy I saw there that matches your description.”

“And it was definitely his signature on the citation,” Rosa agreed.

“Nooo,” I groan, and begin smacking my head against the headrest repeatedly as the implication hits home. “No, no, no, no, no.” I’ve obviously been in the service industry for far too long. He doesn’t tend bar or wait tables, he’s a sheriff’s deputy; so, of course he wouldn’t have had his first name on his name tag. What the hell was I thinking? “Don’t tell me that. Shit!”

“Hold up a minute,” Bianca says. “Are you saying you called him Romeo? To his face?”

“Yes,” I mumble, feeling my face flame. I hate appearing foolish, probably something to do with being the youngest child, always one step (or more) behind.

“Repeatedly?”

“Unnh,” I groan again; I don’t want to think about it. “Probably? I don’t recall.”

“Wow. I’d’ve loved to have seen his face.”

“Right?”

My sisters nod in agreement with one another.

I glare at them both. “No,” I say. “You wouldn’t have.” And, since I’m the one who has actually seen said face, I figure I’m also the only person in this car who actually knows what she’s talking about. “Are you certain his name is Romero?” I have to ask. I mean…yes, the late afternoon sun was in my eyes, my eyeglass prescription may not be up-to-date, I’m vaguely dyslexic, and I was trying not to stare too obviously at his chest, but it’s always possible that I was right, and my sisters are wrong, isn’t it? “Maybe you’re the ones who got it wrong.”

“Allegra,” Rosa protests, “Of course, we didn’t! He spent so much time out at Caparelli this summer I was starting to think we should charge him rent.”

“He did? Why?”

“All part of Geno’s brilliant scheme to run us out of business. He?—”

“Or someone,” Bianca quickly interjects. “Who may or may not have been acting on Geno’s behalf.”

“Riiiight,” Rosa corrects herself, deploying sarcasm at about the same skill level that Serena uses when wielding a racquet. “Some person or persons unknown, for reasons that may have been wholly unrelated to our uncle’s attempt to regain control of Caparelli, repeatedly called the station to lodge bogus complaints against us, sabotaged our operations, and stole equipment that by sheerest coincidence just happened to end up at Belmonte. Quelle surprise .”

They both sound like they’ve been talking to lawyers. Probably the same lawyer; and I’ll bet I can guess which one. This also sounds like exactly the type of family acrimony Nonna had been hoping to prevent by keeping her plans a secret. Much good that did her. I imagine I, too, will be meeting with Jimmy Davenport in the not-so-distant future. More joy; someone else I can disappoint.

“I still don’t see what this has to do with Deputy Romero,” I say, only stumbling a little over the second (wholly unnecessary) R. “Why was the Sheriff’s Department getting involved in our family drama?”

“I told you. Mostly it was because of all the anonymous calls they received claiming that we were out of compliance.”

“It seems there are only a handful of deputies assigned to the Oak Creek Canyon station,” Bianca explains. “Because it’s so small. And according to Miles, they all work twelve-hour shifts—either day or night. So, Romero, who works the day shift, caught most of the complaints. He hasn’t been too happy with any of us.”

“Terrific,” I mumble, feeling unaccountably angry. If I’d have been here sooner, could I have done anything to prevent this mess from happening? Doubtful. I’ve never had much luck influencing any of my family. But I could have tried. And perhaps, I could at least have prevented my family from alienating Deputy (Extra R) Romero. “So, you’re saying that’s why he was such a hard ass? My car got impounded because you’d all spent the summer pissing off the local heat?” Which, now that I think about it, makes perfect sense; because it seemed like we were getting along great, at first.

My sisters share another long-suffering glance, reminding me yet again exactly why I wanted my own car. So that I could do my own thing and not have to put up with all this Judgy Mcjudgerson bullshit.

“As I understand it,” Rosa says dryly, “Your car got impounded because you were driving without a valid license. Are you saying that’s not what happened?”

“Not to mention all the other charges that he could have filed but didn’t,” Bianca adds. “Like the speeding and the expired tags, and…wasn’t there more?”

“You mean the ‘reckless driving’ charge?” Rosa asks, shooting me a look in the mirror. I don’t know how to interpret that remark. Is that supposed to be snarky or rude? Is she intentionally referencing my tattoo, or has she forgotten all about that by now? She’s smiling, so maybe she thinks she’s being funny. But the jet lag is catching up with me and I’ve used my last spoon.

“Right. Got it. I guess we’re thinking it was my fault. As usual.”

“Well…yes, Allegra,” Bianca responds, a little more bluntly than usual. “I don’t know who else you think is to blame.”

“Honestly, it sounds to me like he went easy on you,” Rosa says. “Maybe you should be thanking us for softening him up, or something?”

“Whatever,” I grumble. Then I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you,” Rosa continues. “Romeo’s a much nicer nickname than any of the ones we’d come up with for him. He should be happy.”

Right , I think; he looked real happy . I’m tempted to ask my sisters if either of them happens to know what the deputy’s actual first name is, but I’m supposed to be sleeping, so I don’t. No one says anything for a while, but eventually my sisters go back to quietly discussing my actions. And, eventually, same as always, they conclude that this whole situation is just so typical of me. Which would probably hurt more if it wasn’t also accurate.

My family has always viewed me as a screw-up. And sometimes they’ve been wrong. In this case, however, not only are they correct, but they don’t even know the half of it.

All the same, Rosa is one hundred percent incorrect about at least one thing; there’s nothing “soft” about Deputy Hard-Ass-Extra-R Romero. I wish I knew who you remind me of , I think. And then I really do fall asleep.

Clay

By the time I finally get home from work, going out is just about the farthest thing from my mind. So, I place an order for tacos, allow myself one beer (it’s a work night, but I deserve it) and kick back on my couch. I try channel surfing, but nothing catches my interest. My thoughts keep drifting into the past, back to a certain party I’d attended, down by the river, the summer I’d turned eighteen…

I can’t recall now how we’d even found out about it. I know that I’d gotten a ride there with some friends and I imagine one of them had heard about it from someone else—who may have heard about it from someone else again. That’s how those things usually worked.

Other than the guys I came with, I didn’t know anyone there—they mostly looked like prep-school types to me, which was something that I very much was not. I’m also pretty sure we were trespassing on private property, because if we’d been on public land, the place would have been crawling with cops. Instead, it was just a bunch of kids—maybe three dozen in total, maybe four, maybe less than that. It was hard to tell exactly. We were outside at night and there wasn’t a lot of light to be had. People kept slipping away in groups of twos or threes, disappearing into the trees, or into the bushes that lined the dusty dirt paths, or into the backseats of nearby cars.

There was music coming from somewhere not too far in the distance (I had no idea from where. Perhaps a local festival? Or a house party?) and people were dancing. There was wine—a lot of wine, and not all of it labeled—because, again, it appeared that quite a few of the kids present had ties to wineries, and ready access to Napa’s most famous and ubiquitous commodity. There was some beer as well, and a few bottles of stronger stuff. Weed was only mostly legal, at that point. Not that it would have mattered, since we were all under twenty-one, as far as I could tell. But it was enough of a gray area that it was a safe bet that no one was going to come out and investigate the smell like they probably would have done a few years earlier.

The theme of the party was Midsummer. I do remember that, because someone (or maybe several someones?) had strung solar-powered twinkle lights all through the manzanitas that clustered around the riverbanks, prompting several of the girls to remark that it looked like fairyland, to which someone else (usually a guy, trying to sound knowledgeable) would respond that it was meant to, and then mumble something vague about Shakespeare.

My man-card was still pretty new at that point, so I wouldn’t have been caught dead saying anything about fairyland myself, but that didn’t stop me from thinking it, too.

I’d managed to snag one of the few bottles of beer and between that and the zaza I was feeling pleasantly crossfaded as I headed down a path that seemed to wander alongside the riverbank. And that’s when I saw her. She was humming to herself, dancing in the shallows, with her hands above her head and a bottle of wine clutched in one of them. Her hair was long and loose, curling nearly to her waist. It swayed from side to side following the movement of her head.

She was not exactly dressed to impress, in cut-off jeans and a graphic T. But I was impressed, all the same. Her legs were long, and the shorts were cut very short and the T-shirt hugged her breasts in a way that made the slogan stretched across her chest a little difficult to decipher; but I managed. “Sonoma Makes Wine,” I read silently. “Napa Makes Auto-Parts.” Wow. I figured it took a lot of guts to wear that shirt here in the heart of wine country. Either guts, or civic pride, perhaps? “Are you from Sonoma?”

Her eyes shot open. “No?” she said, sounding slightly confused. “Are you from Sonoma?”

“No, I’m from here,” I said, then added. “I mean, I’m from Clear Lake originally, but yeah, I’m…I’m local.”

“Clear Lake,” she repeated as she tilted her head to the side. “I’ve heard of it. It sounds pretty.”

I shook my head. “It’s not.”

“So, why were you asking about Sonoma if neither of us are from there?”

“It’s on your shirt,” I replied, gesturing at her chest.

She glanced down at herself and giggled. “Oh. That. Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? I thought it was funny. Also, it pissed off my uncle, so…”

“So, that’s a good thing?”

“Uh…yes! Obviously.”

Except, of course, that since I had no idea who her uncle was, it had not been obvious. Nor did I care.

“He takes himself way too seriously,” she explained. But then she frowned and added, “Except, as it turns out, it also pissed off my cousins. And that was sucky. I definitely didn’t mean for that to happen. But it’s too late now. I’m committed, so...I can’t just back down.” She sighed and tipped the bottle to her mouth, dropping her head back, losing her balance as she did, and stumbling just a little.

“Hey! Um…why don’t you come out of the water before you fall?” I suggested, feeling a little worried as I suddenly remembered that a girl had drowned a few years ago, not that far from here, at a similar party.

Her eyes met mine. “Why don’t you come in the water,” she challenged. “We can fall together.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening. I glanced around and noticed that there was a grass-covered berm a few feet back from the riverbank. I hitched myself up to sit on it and counteroffered, “I think if either of us is gonna fall, we should do it here. It’s softer. Come and check it out.”

She studied me for a moment. Then she sighed and began picking her way over and around the rocks that lay beneath the water. She’s like Venus , I thought, when she finally emerged, barefoot and smiling triumphantly.

She bent to scoop up a pair of sandals, then came and seated herself beside me. For a moment she gazed into the distance, her lower lip protruding in a small pout that I found fascinating. “I really wanted to dance tonight,” she said, at last. “But I guess no one else wants to, after all.”

She sounded sad, and I wanted to rectify that. I’d opened my mouth to tell her that people were dancing. That, if she just followed the path back to where I’d come from, she’d see them for herself. But selfishly, I didn’t. I wanted her to stay here with me, rather than seek out better company elsewhere. “It’s good music,” I said instead. “I can see why you’d want to dance to it.”

“Yep,” she replied, popping the p in a way that suggested I’d hit upon another sore point. “It is.”

“Where’s it coming from—do you know?”

“Mm-hm. Sure do.”

Okay then. Clearly there was a story there as well. “So, what’s your name?” I asked, in an effort to change the subject.

“Legs,” she answered, which of course prompted me to look at hers.

“Ah. Okay. I can see why that’d be the case, as well.”

“What? Oh. No. Not those,” she held up the bottle and waved it in the air. “Legs like these.”

“Huh?” I looked at her blankly. She gazed back at me expectantly.

When it became clear I had no idea what she was talking about, she glanced at the bottle, as though to double-check that it was still there. “Oh,” she said, sounding slightly startled. “I guess you really can’t see them through the glass, can you? Okay, never mind.”

She lifted the bottle to her lips once again, and my gaze got caught on the way her lips pursed around the glass, the way her throat moved as she swallowed. “What are you drinking?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Wine,” she replied, frowning at me, as though I’d asked a trick question.

“Yeah, I know. I meant what kind?”

“ Gooood wine,” she drawled, drawing the first word out provocatively. Then her expression changed and giggling slightly, she began to sing.

I recognized the melody right off. It’s an old song about a kid at camp writing letters to his parents at home. I vaguely recalled hearing it back when I was a kid myself, probably part of some cartoon. But the words she sang were new to me…

“Is it Sauterne? Is it Riesling? Sauvi-B can be so pleasing. Is it special, for entertaining? Or just a wine to drink whenever it’s not raining?”

“What?”

“Because it doesn’t rain much here—get it? So, it’s an everyday wine.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“Shh, there’s more.” Clasping a hand to her chest and shaking the bottle dramatically, she launched into the chorus. “Decant me, I hate my bottle. Can’t you see? I taste like rubble. Let me breathe before you try to share me with your friends and family.”

“Ah. That’s the wine talking,” I joked, earning myself an approving smile.

“Very good,” she said as she angled her body to face me, singing the next chorus while gazing deep into my eyes . “ Is it Malbec? Or a Cab-Franc? Is it juicy, with a good rank? Do I need to keep explaining? If you decant your wine your guests won’t be complaining.”

“Who’s complaining?” I asked, a little breathlessly. I’d gotten caught in her gaze. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her. I wanted to fall back into the grass with her and touch her everywhere. But I also wanted her to keep looking at me the way she was doing, with that smile, and those eyes…

“No one is,” she answered. “That’s just the way the song goes.”

I found myself lost in confusion. “Huh?”

“Complaining. It rhymes with explaining. Also raining, and entertaining. It’s not about anyone in particular. It’s just something I do for fun.”

“So, you wrote that yourself?”

“Not the melody, just the words. Well, most of them. I have a collaborator. Sometimes we bounce ideas back and forth.”

I felt a spike of jealousy. “Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”

She pulled back, pouting again. “Why do you assume it’s a guy? Because women can’t write song lyrics? Really?”

“What? No, I…I don’t think that. I was actually hoping it was another woman.”

“Oh,” she said, looking slightly confused. “Well, good.” She started to lift the bottle again, then changed her mind and held it out toward me. “Here. Did you want some?”

I lifted my beer bottle in a small toast. “Thanks. Think I’ll stick with beer, though.”

“Beer? Blech!” She doubled over, pretending to be sick. Then she grabbed hold of my arm and lifted it so that she could peer at the label on my bottle. “Blech! Blech! Blech! Are you kidding? It’s not even craft beer! And you call yourself a local?”

“Yeah. ’Cause I am.” After a moment, I nodded at the bottle in her hand. “You know, you still didn’t answer your own question. Is it a Sauterne?”

“What, this ?” She shook her head. “Nooo. Of course, not. We don’t make Sauterne. That just fit the music. This is…hmm…I can’t remember.” She took another drink and rolled the wine around in her mouth, looking pensive. “Okay, let’s see. Lemon…nutmeg…maybe nectarine. Full bodied and…ooh, buttery. Yeah, that’s gotta be Chardonnay, but...”

She leaned closer, peering at the bottle, angling it to read the label in the nearly non-existent light. “Oh. Well. This is embarrassing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s my family’s wine.”

“And that’s not good?”

“Well, no. I mean, it was . Once. But it’s past its peak. So no, not as good as I was expecting it to be.”

“You’ve been drinking out of that bottle for a while now,” I couldn’t help but point out. “Couldn’t you tell it was bad without the label?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say it was bad. Also, it would obviously taste better in a glass. Plus, it’s not chilled, so I figured there were reasons why it didn’t taste as good as it should. But until I read the label, I didn’t realize that it’s been in the bottle for five years.”

“What difference does that make?”

“All the difference. Chardonnay is meant to be drunk within a few years of bottling.” She shook her head and said, “Rookie mistake. Next time I steal a case of wine I’ll be sure to check the vintage.”

“Wait. You stole an entire case ?” You didn’t have to know much about wine to know that a whole case of expensive wine was no small thing to lose. “Who from? Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”

“Oh, they’ll never notice,” she assured me casually and, I couldn’t help but think, na?vely. “Or even care, most likely, given that it’s so old. Who were they going to sell it to, at this point? I may have even done them a favor by saving them the trouble of having to get it hauled away. Besides, it’s my party, isn’t it? So, I had to supply something to get us started.”

“This is your party?”

“Yeah. Birthday and graduation.” She nodded, looking so sad that I clamped down hard on the inevitable next question, then why are you out here all by yourself, while everyone else is back up the trail, enjoying themselves without you? It was clear that she didn’t need the reminder—especially when she raised her bottle in a toast and said, “Happy Birth-a-gration to me.”

“So…the lights in the trees—that was you?”

She leaned back on her elbows, stared up at the branches and nodded again. “Yeah, that was me.”

“You did a good job,” I told her and was rewarded when her eyes lit up and she smiled. “Everyone’s saying it looks like fairyland.”

“Yeah? Do you like it?”

“I do.” Then, taking a chance, I reached over and took the bottle from her. She gave it up willingly, which I took as a good sign. “You know what else I’d like?” I asked as I set both our drinks aside then turned back to face her.

She glanced up at me, smiling in anticipation. “What?”

“This.” I leaned down, cupped her face in my hand and kissed her. She tasted of summer, of wine and flowers and sunshine, the last of which made no sense at all, since we were kissing in the dead of night under a full moon. But it was what it was and everything about that kiss felt right to me. I hadn’t kissed a ton of girls at that point, but I’d kissed enough to know this was something special.

I levered myself on top of her, loving the way her long legs immediately wrapped my hips to hold me in place. She’d tunneled her fingers into my hair and deepened the kiss, lips moving under mine, tongue slipping out to tentatively brush against my own. When I sucked her tongue into my mouth she groaned and began grinding against me, rubbing herself against my thigh.

I slid a hand up under her shirt, gliding over skin that felt impossibly warm and smooth. The barely-there bra she wore was made of thin, stretchy material; it presented no barrier. I pushed it, and her T-shirt, out of my way, shoving them both above her breasts. I palmed a tit, squeezing softly, loving the feel of the hard little point of her nipple poking into my hand, the soft whimper that fell from her lips.

“So sweet,” I said, settling my weight on my elbows. “Gotta taste ’em.” But when I glanced at her face, seeking permission, I was startled by the flush on her cheeks, the agonized expression and half-closed eyes. And all at once, I realized she was still moving against me, faster now, more urgently, while her nails dug into my shoulders, hard enough that they’d leave crescent-shaped indentations that I’d spend days hiding. “Damn, are you gonna come like this?” It was not what I planned to ask, and the question pretty much answered itself. “Yeah, you are.” I’d gotten girls off before, but never like this. “No, no, don’t stop,” I begged as her rhythm faltered, and embarrassment added more color to her face. “You go and get it, take what you need to get yourself off. I want you coming so sweet, giving it all up for me.”

When she continued to hesitate, I leaned down and swiped my tongue across one tight bud. And then again, and again, until her hips had picked up their pace again. One of her heels was digging into my back, the other was planted on the ground, providing leverage. I had my hands on both tits now, cupping them firmly as my mouth alternated between them, lavishing them both with attention, all the while murmuring encouragement. “That’s it. That’s it. All for me. Let me have it.”

When I felt her start to come, I lunged forward, sinking my teeth into the muscle where her neck met her shoulder, sucking and biting, marking her for my own while she shuddered beneath me.

Eventually, I raised my head to meet her gaze. “That was fucking hot,” I told her. “Let’s see if it was a good for you as it looked.” I slipped a finger up the leg of her shorts—no great distance—found her clit and ghosted a light touch over it, chuckling when she uttered a small “eep,” and flinched away from the contact.

“Too soon?” I asked, not surprised when she nodded. My hand itched to touch her again anyway; to touch her again and again and watch her dance against my fingers. I knew I could make it feel good, but she’d as good as said no, and I had to respect that. We didn’t know each other hardly at all, so she had no reason to trust me to play and not hurt her.

Ignoring temptation, I moved my finger lower, slipping into her wet heat. “God, you’re so wet,” I groaned, barely able to hear myself speak over the rush of my blood, loud in my ears. “I want to be inside you.”

She nodded. “Yes, I want that too.”

“Yeah?” I asked, checking in with her. “You sure? Not too soon for that?”

She shook her head. “No. Please. Now.”

Well, that worked for me. I sat up, hands going to the buttons of my jeans. Watching as she did the same—then getting distracted as she shimmied to get her shorts off…

All at once, however, she stopped, eyes going wide with something that was not lust. Something that looked a lot like dismay. And then I did the same as the distant roar I’d been hearing for the past few minutes grew louder, resolving itself into the sound of engines, racing towards us, coming closer.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, the words barely audible, as she pulled her shorts back up and scrambled to hide beneath the bushes, pulling me down with her. In another instant, fairyland faded beneath the blaze of headlights as maybe half a dozen ATVs hove into sight. We hunkered down where we were, saying nothing, barely even breathing, as they flew past us, headed toward the clearing where most of the party was taking place.

As soon as they’d disappeared around the bend, she went into motion. Pulling her clothes together and jamming her feet into her sandals, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit,” beneath her breath. “Fucking hell. What are they doing here? Damn it. It’s just like them to pull something like this. I fucking hate them.”

“You know those guys?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, I do,” she said as she slid to her feet and grabbed my hand. “They’re my cousins. C’mon. This way.”

Her cousins? “Wait. Where are we going?” I asked, balking a little as she tried to lead me down the same path her cousins had just come from. What if there were more of them? What if they decided to circle back?

She paused and looked over her shoulder at me. “Do you trust me, or not?”

“I…don’t know. Should I?”

“Yes! Because I know what I’m doing. Now…Oh. Shit.” She turned to face me. “Wait. Did you drive here? You didn’t, did you? Because if you’ve got a car back there, that’s gonna complicate everything.”

“No. No car. I got a ride with some friends. But?—”

“Okay, good. I mean, sorry about your friends, but come on. I know a way out.”

She took me along a path that ran through the bushes, probably originally made by deer coming down to drink at the river. And then over a small footbridge that I would never have found on my own. Wending our way through fields of grapevines, we eventually emerged onto Silverado Trail.

I glanced around me, trying to get my bearings. I didn’t know this part of Napa well at all, but it was quiet, cool, and dark. And, best of all, no one was chasing us. The fog had rolled in. The stars were hidden—as were we. “I think we got away,” I said, and my voice sounded unnaturally loud.

“Yeah, we’re good,” she agreed, almost whispering. “They won’t think to look for me here. And if they do, well, it won’t matter. Will it?”

I had no idea. But that’s not the part that snagged my attention. “Wait. Is that what that was? You think they were out there looking for you ? Was it because of the wine? Or…?”

“Nah,” she replied. “Stop tripping. They barely remember I exist. Plus, I already told you; they won’t care about the wine. They’re just all miserable and can’t stand the idea that someone else might be having fun when they’re not.”

I had a pretty good idea that she was wrong on at least two of those counts, but what did I really know? “So, what now?” I asked. I was hoping she’d suggest some place we could go to continue where we’d left off. Perhaps a barn we could sneak into, or a bedroom window I could climb through, or a car… A car would be real good, I thought, suddenly remembering that I was miles from home, without any means of transportation. If she had a car, we could park somewhere secluded and finish what we’d started. And then afterwards, she could maybe drop me off at home.

I was not surprised, however, when she shrugged and said, “Well, the party’s over now. And since we made it this far. I guess we should call it a night. No sense in pushing our luck.” Then her eyes grew wide. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think. Will you be all right? Can you get home from here?”

“Yeah, sure. ’Course,” I said, as though the prospect of having to walk for several miles with no jacket and the temperatures dropping was no big deal. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she said, taking me at my word—which both pleased and irritated me. She bit her lip. “Well, I…I hope I see you again?”

“Me, too,” I told her. “Even though I doubt your family will be too happy if they ever find out about…well, us.” Admittedly, I knew next to nothing about her family. But everything I did know—that they made wine, drove around on expensive toys, probably owned the land we’d been partying on, and seemed a lot more protective of their little princess than she seemed to realize—suggested they wouldn’t welcome her involvement with anyone who hadn’t been born with a trust fund under his pillow and a gold-plated spoon in his mouth.

She laughed. “They’re never happy about anything. But it’s okay. We just won’t let them find out, right? We’ll be like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yeah, that didn’t end too well,” I felt obliged to point out.

“Well, maybe not,” she agreed. “But it’ll be different for us. We’ll make our own ending.” Then she held out her hand. “Here. Give me your phone; let me give you my number.”

But when I pulled it out, my phone was dead. “Shit.” I stared at it in dismay. Now, I couldn’t even call for a ride if I wanted to. “What about yours?”

“I don’t have it with me,” she said, looking disappointed. “I think my uncle has figured out some way to track it, so I always leave it home whenever I don’t want the family to know where I am.”

Yep. Just like I thought. Super protective family. The absolute last thing I needed. “Okay, well…”

“Oh, I know!” she said brightening up. “This is genius, actually. My uncle is always after me and my sisters to take part in the Fourth of July parade—and I always say no, because it’s lame, and afterwards his friends always grill me about my plans for the future, and I never know what to tell them. But this year I’ll say yes, which will make him happy and earn me all the brownie points. And then you can find me at the end of the route, and we can get lost in the crowd. What do you think?”

I thought it was pretty goofy, as plans go. But I didn’t have an alternative. So, I took her by the shoulders and said, “I will find you! No matter how long it takes. You stay alive!”

She dissolved into giggles. “Omigod, I love that movie! I used to watch it with my Nonna. I cried so hard every time. But I thought we’d agreed we were going to be Romeo and Juliet?”

“I told you,” I said, pulling her close for a goodnight kiss. “I don’t like the way their story ends.”

“And I told you,” she replied, just before her lips met mine. “We’ll make our own.”

Of course, things rarely work out the way you want them to, and this was no exception. As it happened, my mom was going through one of her rare responsible phases. She threw a fit when I finally wandered in, shortly before dawn, then smashed my phone when I tried to show her that it was dead, that it wasn’t my fault that I hadn’t returned her panicked calls from hours earlier. Then she grounded me for the rest of the month, which was laughable on several counts. It was the first time she’d ever tried such a thing, the month was already almost over, and my social life was (at that point) all but non-existent. My friends were mostly angry with me for having bailed on them at the party. They had zero interest in helping me track down a girl whose real name I’d never learned, and who, in their minds, had set them up to get caught.

I did go to the parade on the Fourth of July. Or, rather, I went to a parade—the one that was held in downtown Napa. But it occurred to me (a little too late to make a difference) that nearly every little town up and down the valley hosted their own. We’d never specified which one she’d be at, but obviously she hadn’t meant that one, since she never showed.

I continued to look for her throughout the summer, and to ask everyone I met if they knew anything about a girl who called herself Legs, and eventually there were some rumors. I heard that she’d left town or fled the country. One person told me that he’d heard she’d eloped.

I didn’t know what to believe, but one thing was obvious; if she was still in Napa, she was keeping a very low profile.

Then, in October, a series of fires broke out in Napa and Sonoma. And after that, everything else seem massively unimportant.