Chapter 3
Allegra
S pend any amount of time with winemakers and you’ll hear the term terroir mentioned, usually with a certain amount of hushed reverence. Basically, terroir refers to the various environmental factors that might influence or affect the growing grapes. Ideally, it’s what allows the grapes to become the fullest expression of themselves.
When I wake up on the morning after my arrival, I know immediately where I am. It’s as though, from the depths of my soul, I can recognize my own terroir. From the cool, soft air slipping in through my open window—bringing with it the familiar sound of bird song and the equally familiar mélange of fragrances rising up from the earth—to the same familiar views I’d grown up with, everything looks, sounds, smells and feels like home. And I am quite sure that, before too many more hours have passed, I’ll be able to say that it tastes like home, as well.
This is the place that shaped me, that made me who I am. It’s impossible not to imagine that—if only I could run downstairs fast enough, before I’m entirely awake—I’ll surprise my Nonna in the kitchen, fixing breakfast.
To be sure, there have been some changes (and mostly not great ones) in my immediate vicinity. My room looks nothing like it did when I left it. In the years since I’ve been gone, someone has removed my belongings and most of the furniture, taken down all my posters, and painted everything—walls, ceiling, doors and trim—a dull, dreary white. Blech.
Fun Fact: Before Napa was known around the world for wine, it was best known (at least within the state itself) for its psychiatric hospital. Back in the day, if you’d said that someone had “gone to Napa” it carried very different implications than it does today. This room, with its sparse furnishings and uninspired color scheme, is deffo giving those vintage Napa vibes.
Earlier in the summer, Rosa’s (very much ex) boyfriend Jake Wright had been staying here, helping out with the grapes. It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen Jake, and I was really hoping he’d still be here when I got back, but it looks like I’ve missed him, too. And given that this was the room Rosa chose to put him in, I can’t say I’m too surprised. Although, on the other hand, now that the harvest is in, there was probably not that much for him to do here, anyway.
But it’s depressing, you know? I always had a sort of thing for Jake. It was never an “I want to bone my sister’s boyfriend” kind of thing. More of an, “I wish we could be family” type of deal, mixed in with a healthy dose of envy.
Jake’s parents owned the vineyard right next door, and they were real parents. Unlike some other people I could name who were too busy getting themselves killed in a freak sailboat accident or running off to Italy with the guy they might have been (definitely was) cheating with to actually be there for their daughters when they needed them.
Which sounds unfair, I know; but as a kid, that’s how it felt. And who knows how much of it was true? I heard the Wrights sold their place, recently, and moved away. Which—yay for us—meant Jake was free to lend a hand at Caparelli this summer, but which probably sucked for him.
There is one good thing about this room, however; it doesn’t encourage laziness. I’m not inspired to lie in bed and reminisce, which I’m especially grateful for this morning. I was too tired last night to go over all my plans for Caparelli’s future with my sisters, but there’s no time like the present (or so they say—I can’t honestly say I’ve ever noticed it making a difference) so I jump out of bed, wash and dress and head downstairs.
The first person I see when I enter the kitchen is the last person I’m expecting. Jake is standing at the counter, pouring coffee into an insulated thermos. “Omigod, Jake!” I rush over and give him a hug. “I can’t believe you’re still here. I thought I’d missed you.”
“Hey there, Legs,” he says as he hugs me back. “It’s good to see you, too. I hear you had some excitement last night.”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that.” I wave my hands dismissively. “I like the beard, by the way. But how are you still here? I figured you’d bail at the earliest opportunity. Which reminds me, where are you staying? I didn’t kick you out of my room, did I?”
“I uh…” He glances at Rosa who comes to stand beside him.
“You didn’t kick him out,” my sister says, and I feel my eyes bug out as she slips her hand in Jake’s. “We’re in Nonna’s old room. I hope you don’t mind. But neither you nor Bee were here, and with two of us?—”
“You’re back together?” I’m so excited, I’m practically squealing. “Really? That’s so great!”
“Wait’ll you hear the rest of the story,” Bianca says, from the breakfast table where she’s finishing a bowl of yoghurt, berries, and granola.
“The rest?” I turn back to Rosa, very much not reassured by the blush on her cheeks. “What does she mean?”
“Well, y’see, Jake and I got married right after?—”
“You what ?” I want to believe that I sound happy for them, but judging by the expressions on both their faces, I haven’t fooled anyone. I can’t believe they didn’t include me. My usual feeling of not really belonging, of always existing on the periphery of everyone else’s life crashes over me. “Married? This summer? Without telling me?” What the actual fuck?
“No. That’s not— ” Rosa says, shooting an annoyed glance at Bianca, who’s carried her dishes to the sink.
Bianca smiles back at her. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I reacted pretty much the same way when I found out.”
Jake nods. “And that was still better than your uncle’s reaction.”
“Geno knows, too?” I glare at Jake. This is just getting better and better. “Are you saying I’m the last person to find out about this?”
Rosa sighs. “Legs, it’s not what you think. D’you remember when Jake and I went off on our high school graduation trip?”
“The one where you guys broke up? Of course, I remember.” I remember how much I’d hated that. Because if Rosa and Jake, who anyone could see were made for each other, couldn’t stay together, what hope was there for the rest of us?
“Yes. Well, we kind of made a detour,” Rosa says now. “We went to Vegas instead and got married.”
“Whoa. That—” I stare at my sister. It seems like the more she talks, the less sense she makes. Or maybe it’s just me; maybe I just don’t understand what she’s trying to say. But that’s not the way communication is supposed to work, so one of us is clearly at fault. “That was like ten years ago.”
“Almost ten and a half now,” Jake corrects.
“Here.” Bianca hands me a cup of coffee. “You might want to sit down for this.”
Figuring it’s generally wise to take my super smart sister’s advice, I retreat to the table and take a seat. The coffee is good—and it does taste like home, even though everything else is feeling uncomfortably foreign. Like I’ve wandered into an alternate universe. “Okay so, what happened after that?” I shoot Jake a look. “Don’t tell me. You went out for groceries and never came back? Did you get amnesia or something? And, how come this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
“You didn’t hear about it because the first person I saw when we got home was Geno. He convinced me not to tell anyone.”
“Of course, he did,” I mutter, rubbing my temples, as it suddenly hits me; Rosa has stolen my plan. By which, of course, I mean, Nico’s plan. Which was briefly mine, as well. Until it wasn’t. And which is suddenly sounding like it would have been a really good plan, after all. Because right about now, I’m kind of wishing that I, too, had a surprise hubby that I could pull out of a hat. “So, what gun did Geno hold to your head?”
Rosa shrugs. “There were a few, actually. Nonna’s health being the biggest. She’d been hospitalized while we were gone, and Geno was desperate for us to get the marriage annulled before she got out.”
I want to laugh, even though it’s not at all funny. “Annulled? Omigod. That’s a joke, right?”
“No. Of course, it’s not. Why would I joke about something like that?”
“Because it makes no sense, that’s why! What grounds did you have to annul your marriage? And what did any of it have to do with Nonna’s gallbladder operation?”
“Gallbladder?” Now Rosa looks confused. “He said it was her heart!”
“What?” Bianca turns to stare at Rosa. “No. No, it was her gallbladder. I’m sure of it.”
“Of course, you’re sure of it!” I snap at Bianca. “Because that’s what it was.”
“Ye-es,” Bianca replies hesitantly. “Probably. Unless we were the ones he was lying to.”
I feel my mouth drop open. “Fuck. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“He really is a bastard, isn’t he?” Rosa (who almost never swears) says furiously. “Well, besides that guilt trip, he also told me I was being ungrateful, irresponsible, impulsive. I was set to start college in the fall, and he reminded me that my tuition had already been paid and that we wouldn’t be able to get a refund if I decided not to go. He said it would kill Nonna—or, at the very least, cause a relapse, or break her heart all over again; or something equally dire—if she were ever to learn that I was following in Mama’s footsteps, dropping out of school and rushing into marriage, just like she did.”
“You are nothing like Mama,” I protest angrily. “And what did your being married have to do with college, anyway? Married people go to college, don’t they?”
Rosa shrugged and shot a rueful look at Jake. “What can I tell you? I was eighteen. It made sense at the time.”
“I suppose,” I concede, shrugging a little as I remember that, when I was eighteen, I’d also allowed Geno to talk me into doing something stupid. Not quite as stupid as Rosa’s breaking up with the boy she’d already been in love with for most of her life, but stupid all the same. “I mean, I guess I can see that. So, when did you get remarried?”
Another look passes between Rosa and Jake. Then Jake says, “We didn’t.”
“What? But didn’t you just say…?”
“We didn’t have to get remarried. Because I never filed the paperwork for the annulment. We’ve been married this whole time.”
I blink at him in surprise. “For ten years?”
“Yeah.”
I turn to Rosa. “And you didn’t know?”
She shakes her head. “Didn’t know and didn’t believe it when he told me.”
“Bruh.” I scowl at Jake—who’d just admitted to having held my sister’s future hostage for an entire decade. “Not cool. Not cool at all! I mean, what the hell , Jake?”
Be careful what you wish for , I think to myself as chills wash over me—that eerie sensation that Nonna had always referred to as a goose walking over her grave. Having Jake join the family is exactly what I’d wished for all those years ago. He was the big brother I’d always wanted and the father figure I’d needed after my own father died. Not that there weren’t other men in my life. But my uncle was always too absorbed in his own concerns—his reputation in the community, the winery and his sons (in pretty much that order). And he and my cousins always seemed to view me and my sisters as poor relations—the kind of people you pitied and low-key disdained, but for whom you were grudgingly (and super annoyingly) responsible, all the same.
But Jake is nodding. “You’re right,” he says sheepishly. “It wasn’t cool; you’re not the first person to mention that. And, for what it’s worth, I have apologized.”
“But it’s also not your business,” Rosa tells me, taking her husband’s side over mine, which I guess I should have expected.
Except that it literally is my business. Jake’s turning up now, just weeks after we’d inherited the winery is giving serious ick. Not to mention the fact that, since Rosa was (technically) already married when Nonna died, doesn’t that mean Jake stands a good chance of being awarded fifty percent of her share if they ever do divorce? Which I hope they won’t because they really are perfect for each other.
But that’s the old me’s perspective. I used to be a lot more trusting than I am right now. And speaking as a newly minted cynic, it all sounds super sus. “Fine. Whatever,” I tell her, shrugging to show I don’t really care—a barefaced lie, but they don’t need to know that.
“All right well, I’d love to see how this plays out,” Bianca says, slinging a heavy-looking canvas tote over her shoulder and heading for the farm-house’s back door. “But I’m already late for work, so?—”
“No, wait!” I say, stopping her before she can slip out the door. “Don’t go yet. I wanted to go over some of the ideas I had for the winery.”
“Sounds great,” she replies, not even slowing her steps. “Maybe tonight, or sometime this week, for sure.” And she’s gone before I can pin her down to anything more specific than that.
“Where’s she even going?” I complain to Rosa. “I thought the harvest is in, isn’t that what you said yesterday? That the grapes have all been pressed and crushed, etc? Aren’t they all fermenting away at the moment?”
“Yes, but?—”
“There’s still a lot to do,” Jake points out. “The numbers still need to be monitored, etc.”
“Sure,” I agree. “I get that. But does that have to be done rightthisfuckingminute? She couldn’t even spare half an hour to talk to me?”
Rosa smiles. “You’ve met our overachieving sister, haven’t you? You thought working at one winery at a time would be enough for her? Oh, no; she’s also making wines for Bar Down. That’s where she’s gone this morning. There’s even more work that needs doing over there—blending, bottling…”
“Wait, what? She’s making wines for who?”
“Bar Down. The winery formerly known as Take Flight,” Jake says, smiling a little sadly.
I stare at him in dismay. “You mean your ?—?”
“My family’s former winery,” he says, finishing my sentence, if not quite the way I would have. “Yes. Exactly.”
“When did this happen?” And how come I’m the last to know about this, too?
“Just since August.” Rosa frowns at me. “She did tell you. Remember? She said she was going to help out over there in exchange for using their lab?”
“Helping them out is one thing. Making wine for them is a whole different thing.” It’s huge. It’s a commitment and a conflict of interest and…oh. Fuck. This has got to be killing Jake. “So, she’s in bed with the competition?” I ask him. “Or should I say, ‘sleeping with the enemy’?”
To be fair, relations between winery owners in Napa are usually pretty good. Usually. But nothing about this situation is as usual, and I can’t help wondering just how hostile things may have gotten around here lately.
“You shouldn’t say either one,” Rosa scolds. “Not if you’re going to be saying it in front of Bee.”
“Although it is literally accurate,” Jake jokes.
Which earns him a stern look from my sister and a gravely toned, “Not helping.”
“What do you mean literal?” I ask, no doubt looking as puzzled as I feel. Because they can’t mean what I think they mean. Can they?
Rosa turns her frown on me. “Do we really need to spell that out for you?”
“I mean…yes?”
She stares at me for a moment and then says, “Okay, hold on a minute.” She shoves a hand through the heavy mass of her hair and peers at me through narrowed eyes. “I assumed that Bianca had already told you about Jansen; is that not the case? Are you saying that was just a really poor, random word choice, on your part?”
“I have no idea,” I say, feeling totally at sea. “Who’s Jansen?” If this is jetlag, I might need to go back to bed for the rest of the week.
“Jansen Beck,” Rosa replies.
“The hockey player?”
“Former hockey player,” Jake clarifies. “Current winery owner.”
“You follow hockey?” Rosa asks, looking totally mystified. “Since when?”
“I wouldn’t say I follow it, exactly. But I know his name. He plays—or I guess I mean played—for some team out of Long Beach, didn’t he?”
When you’re on an international cruise ship, someone is always talking about sports. You pick up a lot of gossip. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, had included the tidbit about Jansen Beck’s plan to retire from hockey and buy a winery in Napa. I guess it stuck with me because I was always on the lookout for any news from home. But then the other shoe drops. “Okay. Now I remember. She did mention him, didn’t she? I think she said he had all his teeth?”
Rosa smirks. “As I recall, she said she ‘thought’ he did. But only after you asked.”
“Right.” I nod, and slurp down another mouthful of coffee. I really need the caffeine to start kicking in. “It’s all coming back to me now. But are you saying he and Bianca?—”
“Are seeing each other,” Rosa says quickly, before either Jake or I can say something cruder, I suppose. “Yes, that’s what we’re saying. We don’t talk about beds or sleeping.”
“Or sex,” Jake teases. “Or Bruno.”
“Or boxed wine?” I suggest, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“You mean cardbordeaux,” Jake fake scolds me.
“Or anything that’s not our business,” Rosa says, looking low-key disgusted with us both. But once again, how is this not my business? Because if Bianca is hooking up with the owner of the winery next door—a winery that Jake already has emotional ties to—wouldn’t the next logical step be for the four of them to form a partnership and run the two wineries together?
After all, it’s what Papa did with Belmonte and Capparelli—what Geno still wants to do. But it would leave little old lone wolf me very much on the outside.
It would also explain why Geno’s been having a menty b. I think I might join him.
“So then, what am I here for?” I demand because holy cluster crush, this is worse than I thought.
“What do you mean?” Rosa asks, looking innocently perplexed.
“What do I—?” Cazzo! I rein in my temper and try again. “Look, all summer long, every time we chatted, you and Bee have been all ‘where ya at?’ always comin’ at me, wanting me to hurry back, and for what ? I’m here now, and I have no idea what I’m even supposed to be doing. And it doesn’t sound like you do, either.”
Rosa sighs. “I don’t know, Allegra. But I don’t have time for this aggro. Jake and I have to get to work now, too. So, why don’t you just focus on getting your own stuff squared away, and I guess, like Bianca said, we can get together later and discuss our plans. All right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I lie again. “No worries.” And maybe in the meantime, I’ll visit my uncle and get his side of the story.
In the end, I don’t go to see Geno. I decide to poke around Caparelli instead, to see what’s been done, and what still needs doing. Which—talk about depressing—holy shit!
First of all, there’s no tasting room to speak of. Which, considering I’d been counting on claiming that as my domain, the place where my talents would really be able to shine, puts a huge crimp in my plans.
The room that used to be Caparelli’s tasting room (way, way, way back in the day) has good bones—including a terracotta tiled floor, a turn-of-the-last-century oak bar and built-in wine racks, high, raftered ceilings, and three sets of double glass doors that open onto an unkempt (but possibly redeemable) brick terrace at the side of the house.
It’s obviously been decades since it’s been used for anything other than storage, however, and the place needs to be dusted, swept for cobwebs, and scrubbed from floor to ceiling. Including the windows, which are so caked with grime you can’t even see through them.
After that, it will need to be painted. And furnished. And lit—preferably with something other than the bare bulbs that are currently hanging out of the ceiling.
And, yeah, I get why this wasn’t Rosa’s first priority, or Bianca’s either, obviously. Until you actually have wine to sell, you don’t really need an attractive room for people to taste it in. And I know money’s been tight, and other expenditures might have appeared more urgent, but I’m worried they’re going to tell me there’s no budget (or plans) for it at all.
And I can’t even say with any certainty that they’re wrong. Financially, it might make sense for us to start out selling direct to restaurants, to wine stores and distributors, or even online, but that doesn’t exactly play to my strengths. And if you eliminate all the things I’m good at right off the bat, how am I ever going to start pulling my weight?
One bright spot on my tour of the winery is the wine cave, which is looking better than I expected. And I’m briefly optimistic that I can make that work in my favor. Someone’s obviously put money into it recently, updating the lighting and purchasing pricey French oak barrels. If I can talk Bianca into letting me use the space for tastings and occasional events—by promising not to get in her way and to not to let the public get too close to her equipment—it could be a win-win.
At least, that’s where my thoughts are headed until I talk to a couple of the cellar rats and learn where the money that went into fixing it up came from. Jansen Freaking Beck, that’s who.
Sheesh. I haven’t even met the man and already I’m feeling hostile towards him—and twice as panicked as before. I’m going to lose everything if I’m not careful, and if I don’t start proving my worth immediately. And there are only so many ways for me to do that.
So, I pivot again. I suborn one of the interns into driving me over to Napa (the city, that is) so I can get my license sorted and pick up my car. Then I run a few errands.
It’s while I’m browsing through all the antique stores on Second Street that I catch sight of Deputy Romero seated at a window table in a small, sidewalk café, having an early lunch with another deputy—who also looks somewhat familiar. Before I can stop to reconsider, I’m crossing the road and pulling open the door to the restaurant.
The lunch rush hasn’t started yet, so I’m seated immediately, albeit at a small, dark table toward the back. After ordering—fish tacos (something I haven’t had in ages !) and a locally produced hard kombucha—I make my way to the front of the restaurant.
He looks up as I approach. Our eyes meet and…I can’t interpret the look that crosses his face, but his eyes definitely go dark and my pulse speeds up in response.
“Ms. Martinelli,” he says in a voice that’s all gravel and smoke and…mmm. Yum. I hadn’t noticed that the other day. “Something I can do for you?”
“Hmm?” I’m momentarily distracted by the question because, yes, please . I’m sure there are many things I’d like him to do for me. “Oh! No. Sorry. I just…it is Deputy Romero, isn’t it?”
He frowns at that. “I believe we already established that, didn’t we?”
I sigh. “No, unfortunately, we did not. My sisters told me that was your name. And of course, I was hoping they were wrong. Which, if you know anything about my family, how likely was that to be the case, right?”
“I’m not following,” he replies cautiously, which makes me want to kick myself.
Of course, he’s not following me. I’m babbling like an idiot. Pull yourself together , I order myself. “Sorry,” I say again, which irritates me even more. I’m generally not the kind of person who goes around apologizing for every little thing. But something about this guy has me rattled. Which—annoying as fuck, to be sure—also has the potential to be really, really good. In the right circumstances. “I have dyslexic tendencies,” I tell him, hurrying into speech before I make even more of a mess of things. “Which is not a big deal normally, but it does means that occasionally, especially when I’m tired, my eyes sorta cross and I don’t always read things correctly.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“No, it’s fine. What I’m trying to say is that, when I looked at your name tag the other day, I really did think it said Romeo. So, that was why I?—”
I break off, startled by the muffled snort of laughter coming from Romero’s companion. “Romeo?”
Shit. Did I just make things worse?
Romero shoots the other man a quelling look, then turns his attention back to me. “You were saying?” he asks. His tone is polite, but I swear I can see a small smile flickering at one corner of his mouth.
“Oh, just that’s why I started calling you…that. I wasn’t trying to be funny, or rude, or…or whatever else you might have thought. I just…wanted you to know. That’s all.”
“Ah. Well, thank you,” he says. And now I know I’m imagining things because, if anything, he looks a little disappointed. “And can I assume you got everything straightened out with the DMV as well?”
“Oh, my license. Yes.” I feel myself blushing a little. “That’s all taken care of. Thank you for that, by the way.”
“For what?” he asks, looking startled and wary again.
“For only charging me with an infraction. You did me a favor.” I’ve read up on the subject. The choice was his. He could have written it up as a misdemeanor, if he’d really wanted to be a dick. And while the infraction fine was hefty enough, the misdemeanor charge carried an even bigger fine, a court appearance, and the possibility of six months in jail. Ack!
He smiles wryly. “You’re welcome. But considering I’d also have had to appear in court for anything other than an infraction, I’m pretty sure I did myself a favor, as well.”
“Even so, I’d like to buy you a drink. To say thank you.”
“I appreciate that. But unfortunately, I’m on duty at the moment, so...”
“Oh. Right. Maybe another time?”
“Perhaps.”
“All right. Well, I’ll let you get back to your lunch.” I start to turn away and then think better of it. “My name’s Allegra,” I say in the instant before I remember that “But you already know that don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Right. Well, Legs, then. People call me Legs.”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I do turn away then. I make it all the way back to my table before it hits me that he still hasn’t told me his name. “Fuck,” I mutter beneath my breath as I resume my seat. My food’s arrived and it looks and smells amazing. But all I can think about is, what the hell do I call him ? For someone who doesn’t want to be called Romeo, he’s sure doing his best to channel Montague’s heir. “What’s in a fucking name, for real.”