Chapter 4
Clay
“ S o. You and Allegra Martinelli,” Miles Henderson muses, gaze tracking Legs as she returns to her table. “Man, I did not see that coming.”
“You still haven’t,” I reply, struggling to keep my temper in check. He’s getting married in five days. Shouldn’t he be keeping his eyes to himself? “Because there is no ‘me and Allegra Martinelli’. She was a traffic stop. End of story.” And I hope to hell I’m doing a better job of convincing him of that than I am myself.
“Better be—for your sake. Because, given the amount of time you’ve spent investigating her family this summer, I’m pretty sure the department would view it as a clear case of conflict of interest if the two of you were to get together.”
“I’m aware,” I tell him, taking a bite of my burger. It’s Kobe beef, which is typical for the bougie restaurants in downtown Napa—one of the many reasons I rarely eat here. Although I have to admit, it does taste pretty good.
“I know you’re aware of department policy,” Miles says, “But is she?”
“I very much doubt it. Why should she be?”
I can understand why Miles’s concern. His fiancé is besties with one of Allegra’s sisters. I think she might even be a member of their wedding party. When things started to heat up this summer, he requested to be reassigned out of Oak Creek Canyon rather than run the risk of violating policy.
“And anyway, she’s been out of the country for the last several years. So, whatever’s been going on around here, she was probably unaware of it.”
“Yeah well, Bianca—her sister—had been gone even longer. That didn’t stop you from suspecting her.”
“I didn’t suspect anyone,” I point out. “I didn’t invent those false complaints. I’m just the jackass who got stuck following up on them. And trust me, if we start getting anonymous calls about Legs over there, I’ll be following up on those as well—no matter what you think.”
“Well, I think that’s a lot more likely to happen than you realize,” Miles says, looking troubled. “I mean look, we all got up to no good, now and again, back when we were teenagers. That’s par for the course. And Allegra was a few years younger than me—more like your age—so all I really know about her is what I remember hearing at the time. But she had a reputation for being on the wild side, even then.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” I say, just barely managing to repress a smile. Because yeah, that tracks with the Legs I remember. “But I don’t get why you’re so concerned. I turned down her offer of a drink, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. This time.”
I nod and shrug, acknowledging the truth in that implication. Because yeah—even knowing it’s a bad idea, on another day, I might decide differently. “I doubt it’s going to be a problem,” I tell Miles. “I cited her for driving without a license; I impounded the car she’d just bought; I embarrassed her in front of her sisters and stuck her with a hefty fine. So, I’m pretty sure she hates me right now.”
Miles shakes his head. “Jesus, Clay. No wonder you’re still single.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning that, in my experience, women rarely offer to buy drinks for men they hate—unless they’re trying to get something out of them.”
“You might be right,” I admit. “Or then again, maybe you’ve just been hanging out with the wrong women.”
Allegra
By the time I’m finished with my lunch, the deputies are gone. Monty—my new nickname for Deputy Nameless, short for Montague, obvs—shot one of those smoldering looks in my direction right before he left. The veiled smile. The hot gaze. The nearly imperceptible nod of his head. Even from across a crowded restaurant, I could feel the BDE. And it made up—if only a little—for the lack of encouragement I’ve been getting from him otherwise. There’s something between us, I’m almost sure of it. I have no idea what, exactly, but it feels hot and dangerous and damn near irresistible.
After splurging on dessert—because how do you say no to lavender Crème Br?lée? – I go back to running errands. I pick up cleaning supplies, painting supplies, and enough snack food to feed an entire stadium of tailgaters. Then make a quick detour to nearby Solano County to hit a big consignment furniture warehouse and arrange for a few pieces to be delivered.
When I get back home, I grab a few of the padawans (who, to quote Prince, are doing something close to nothing—as far as I can tell) and put them to work. Within no time at all they’ve got the boxes moved out of the tasting room, and the barrels moved in. Then we’re scrubbing floors and polishing woodwork; stringing lights along the ceiling; painting the walls a soft, cypress green that will highlight everything I need it to (the oak, the tiles, the wine); and washing the original Caparelli-logoed wine glasses that I’ve unearthed from behind the bar—one of the two lucky finds I’ve made here today.
The food is a big draw (as I knew it would be) and soon my army of hive workers has tripled, and then quadrupled in size. It’s a party now. And, to make things even more fun for them, I take a few minutes to teach them the words to a couple of the songs Nonna and I made up years ago.
The next thing you know, we’re all singing as we work. It’s like a scene out of a freaking movie musical. And just as I’m wishing my family could see me now, my sisters and Jake show up with another man. Judging by his build, I’m guessing this is the hockey player.
“I suppose we should have known who was behind the mutiny,” Jake says, looking equal parts resigned, exasperated, and fond. “Legs, what’s going on? You Shanghaied my interns.”
“I think you mean our interns, don’t you, bro-in-law?” I correct, and yeah, okay, that might have come out sounding a tad snarkier than I meant it to. “Aren’t they doing a great job?” I gesture at the room around us and then focus on the unfamiliar face, “And you must be Jansen?”
“Guilty,” he says with a slow sexy smile that’s almost as good as one of Monty’s. And which (were he not involved with my sister) I might even have found tempting. Rawr.
“This is my younger sister Allegra,” Bianca tells him. Then turning to me she asks, “Legs? Are those my barrels?”
“Maybe?” I say, casting a quick glance at the trio of sixty-gallon barrels that I’ve repurposed into bistro tables. “I mean, it’s not like anyone was using them.” I shoot another glance at her boyfriend and add, “And I’ve seen the wine cave, by the way, so don’t pretend you don’t have plenty more—even newer than these.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Well, I don’t know why not.” I shrug and then turn to Rosa who’s been staring fixedly at the wall behind the bar in a way that’s making me antsy. “Do you like the paint? It’s limewash. No chemical smell, so it shouldn’t affect anyone’s wine tasting experience. And supposedly you never have to clean it. Although, I’m not sure what the FDA will have to say about that. Do you know?”
“Where did you get that?” she asks instead, turning her frown on me.
“The paint? At the hardware store in Napa. Why?”
“No, not the paint.” She points at the metal Caparelli sign that I’d hung up earlier. “That sign. It’s just like the one we’ve got hanging in the kitchen.”
“It is the one from the kitchen,” I tell her, “That’s where I got it. I think it works much better out here, don’t you?”
“Legs!”
“What?”
“It was a gift,” she tells me. “A tenth anniversary wedding gift from Jake to me. And no, actually; I thought it was perfect right where I had it.”
“What do you mean ‘it was a gift’? You told me you found it in storage?”
“I found it,” Jake explains. “While I was searching through my mom’s storage unit. I think she must have picked it up while she was antiquing.”
“Well, I don’t know why either of you should have had it,” I tell him. “It’s obviously Caparelli property—and you know my Nonna would never have gotten rid of it. But I guess if Rosa really wants to keep it in the kitchen, that’s her call.”
“Gee, thanks so much,” Rosa says, her Serena level sarcasm on full display, yet again. “If you’re sure it’s not too much of an inconvenience?”
“Well, it is, actually,” I can’t help but point out. “I mean, here I am, trying to put this whole tasting room together with no budget whatsoever and you’ve got this perfect piece of memorabilia just lying around being wasted. And instead of using it in a way that makes sense, you want to hide it in the kitchen, where no one can see it except us.”
“Anniversary present,” Rosa enunciates slowly. “From my husband.”
Who you didn’t even know you had , I think to myself. Who ghosted you for an entire decade . But I guess we’re just ignoring all of that now. So instead, I say, “Tasting Room. No budget.”
Rosa sighs. “I know. I heard you. And I like what you’ve done. Really—it looks terrific. But don’t you think it’s a little premature? Not to mention that maybe you should have talked to us about it first?”
Oh, like you and Bee talked to me about everything you did this summer? Or anything you did? I think to myself. “I tried to talk to you. This morning. But no one had time. And no, it’s never too early to start marketing. That’s doubly true if you’re right about Geno and he really is trying to sabotage us.”
“He really is trying to sabotage us,” Jake assures me—which does nothing to reassure me that he’s a disinterested party. ‘We,’ Jake? Really? I am so, so screwed.
Before I can even formulate a response, Bianca (who’s been looking increasingly distracted) suddenly asks, “What’s that they’re singing?”
“Singing?” I ask, because sometimes it takes me awhile to process what someone has said.
“That song,” Bianca says. “What is it?”
“Oh, that. I call it the Bentonite Slurry Song. I just taught it to them today. It’s cute, right?”
“The what now?” Rosa asks.
“Bentonite Slurry,” I repeat, blinking in surprise at all the blank stares I’m getting. It’s not possible that none of them know what I’m talking about, because even the interns got the gist. I roll my eyes and start to sing, “If you think that your wine’s looking blurry, you should try using bentonite slurry. You should try using bentonite slurry to clear up the grime. Yeasts, and haze, and tannins will scurry when you add that bentonite slurry; when you add that phyllosilicate slurry, to your vats of wine.”
“That actually all makes sense,” Bianca murmurs, speaking to Jansen, who’s looking perplexed.
“Yeah?” He shoots her a smile. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
I frown at them both. “It’s about wine, so of course, you should take her word for it,” I tell Jansen—not at all happy that he’s lightweight dissing my sister’s wine expertise. “And of course, it makes sense,” I tell Bianca. “I pay attention.” Then I launch into the bridge—which is even more accurate, and therefore even more likely to impress her. “Just three TBs to a pint of H2O is a pretty good ratio. Bring your water to a boil, before you pour the powder in. Then blend it up smoothly.
“Can’t be done ’til you’ve completed fermentation and moved your wine to a cooler destination. Stir it well but avoid agitation, and your wine will shine! You’ll have glassy, glossy, clear-as-crystal, radiant wine.”
“You wrote that?” Rosa asks when I finish.
I nod. “The lyrics, yeah.”
“It’s really good,” Bianca says, as Rosa nods agreement.
“Thanks,” I say, shrugging casually and not pointing out that their response would have warmed my heart a whole lot more if they could only have managed to look and sound even a little less surprised.