Chapter 6
Clay
“ D eputy Romero?”
I glance up from my menu to find Legs standing beside my table, smiling winsomely. “Ms. Martinelli. Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, even as my gaze strays involuntarily across the room to the table where, last time I checked, she’d been seated with her cousins. Yes, they’re still there. And shooting death glares in my direction—which, frankly, is nothing new.
“Well yes, actually,” she replies. “Since you ask. You could let me buy you that drink I’ve been offering. I mean, assuming you’re off-duty.”
Shit. Of course. I should’ve figured that was coming. I hesitate for an instant, trying to decide how best to play this. I could lie and say I’m working. Or point out the obvious, that I already have a drink. I could suggest we do it another time or try and convince her that it’s really not necessary. But then I see a flash of disappointment hit her eyes.
“It’s just a drink, Deputy,” she teases. “I’m not offering to have your babies or anything, you know.”
“Ah. Well. I’m glad we got that out of the way.”
“Mm. Although, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that they would likely be very pretty babies.”
I can’t help but grin. “Oh, no doubt. But don’t you think…” I trail off as I realize that this is exactly how this conversation should not be going. If Miles were here, I know he’d be urging me to shut it down fast, to ‘just say no,’ to all of it. But Miles is not here. In fact, at this exact moment, Miles is probably happily ensconced in a first-class seat, sipping champagne and toasting his bride as the two of them wing their way to a Hawaiian honeymoon.
So, he has no legs to stand on—pun intended—and I… Well, I’ve just spent the better part of the day celebrating his wedding, surrounded by a goodly number of happily paired-off couples; including (I couldn’t help but notice) both of Allegra’s sisters. It’s been fucking torture. And if she’s spent the day feeling even half as left out and lonely as I have, it would be cruel to turn her down. And unnecessary. And…let’s face it, not nearly as much fun as it would be to continue flirting with her for just a few more minutes. I mean…we’re both adults. And it’s just a drink. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, a lot, apparently, because the next thing you know I find myself saying, “I tell you what. I will accept that drink, but only if you’ll join me for dinner.” And yes, thank you, I have lost my mind entirely. I mean, clearly, I have.
Accepting a gift of under twenty dollars (ie a drink, while off-duty) falls into what’s very much a gray area. Yes, it’s frowned upon, but it’s exponentially far less problematic than the conflict-of-interest charges I’m positively begging for by asking her on what could very reasonably be misconstrued as a date.
But hey, what’s life without a few risks?
“All right,” she says, eyes lighting up at my suggestion. “I’d like that.” Her cheeks flush pink. She’s smiling broadly as she pulls out the chair across from me. And that right there—the look in her eyes, the blush on her face, the smile on her lips—that’s all the reward I need.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can’t help but notice that her cousins are still scowling at me. But since that seems to be the whole family’s default expression where I’m concerned—less Allegra—I pay it no mind. As per usual.
She might not remember much about the night we spent together down by the river, but I do. And, ill-judged or not, I want this chance to catch up with the-girl-from-the-party, the-one-who-got-away, and to maybe find out what happened to her that long ago summer. It’s one night—no. Hell, no. Not even one night. It’s a single meal, a couple of drinks, a few hours at most. All of which will take place in public, with plenty of witnesses to attest to the fact that nothing untoward occurred. After which, she’ll go her way, and I’ll go mine. No harm, no foul, and—with any luck at all—no unfortunate fallout.
“So, what’s good here?” she asks.
“D’you mean to drink?” I ask, having noticed that she’d picked up the drink menu. “If you’re talking wine, you probably know more about the subject than I do.”
“Probably,” she agrees as she lays the menu aside. “But no, I meant to eat. I already know what I’ll be drinking. I noticed earlier that they have a Chardonnay from a winery that I’ve been hearing good things about. It’s in the Los Carneros AVA; and I haven’t had any wines from there yet, so I’m curious to try it. I’m just not sure what to get to go with it.”
“They’re known for their burgers,” I say as I hand her the dinner menu. “But the barbacoa puffy tacos are outstanding. That’s what I’m getting.”
“Mmm. That does sound good,” she says. “But perhaps not with Chardonnay.”
“Well, what does go with Chardonnay?”
“Seafood, poultry, some pasta dishes—anything like that.”
“Dungeness crab tostadas?” I suggest.
“Ooh, yes. That sounds perfect. Thank you. I haven’t had Dungeness crab in years!”
“Well, good then. Glad I could help.”
The server comes to take our order, and I get another Saison. It’s called Cuffing Saison, and it’s one of their seasonal offerings. Legs chuckles when she hears the name. “I swear, beers, boats, and racehorses have the best names,” she observes.
“Not wines?”
“Sadly, no. I mean, there are a few that do; but it’s not common. I wish more wineries would get behind the cutesy, clever names. But I guess it’s just not a big part of the winemaking culture.”
“So is Chardonnay your favorite wine?” I ask, as it hits me that that was what she’d been drinking the night we met.
She shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t really have a favorite. Or rather, I don’t just have one favorite. I like a lot of different wines; it depends on the occasion. What about you—do you only drink beer?”
“Most of the time,” I admit. “But, like you, I don’t just stick to one type. In fact, that’s one of the things I like about craft beers—they’re not generic. I can always tell what kind of beer I’m drinking; there’s no guesswork involved. And I can choose what I order to match what I’m eating. I guess you’d call that pairing, right?”
Legs grins. “Look at you, all up on the lingo.”
“With wine, on the other hand, it’s either white or red—I can’t tell anything beyond that.”
“What? No, that’s?—”
“Beer is easier. If I order a Saison, I don’t expect it to taste like an IPA. If I ask for an IPA, I know it’s not gonna taste like a Lager or a Porter or a Pilsner.”
“Or a wheat beer,” she says. “Or an Altbier, or a Lambic, or a Doppelbock—yeah, I get it. And you’re not wrong about that.”
I have to admit, I’m surprised. And maybe a little impressed. “For someone who doesn’t like beer, you sure seem to know an awful lot about it.”
She frowns. “What do you mean? I like beer.”
“You do?” I blink at her foolishly while I adjust my thoughts. In my memory I can still hear her pretend-gagging: blech, blech, blech .
“Yes. I just don’t like cheap, generic beer. But, then again, I don’t like cheap, generic wine, either. There are a lot of really good craft beers out there. I like cider, too, for that matter. And whiskey, and…a whole bunch of other stuff. Tequila, for example. But this is Napa so…you know…when in Rome?”
I have no idea. So, I shrug and tell a little white lie, “Makes sense.”
“Anyway, wines are the same. They don’t all taste alike, either.” I must look skeptical because she rolls her eyes and says, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit that, possibly, especially to the untrained palate, the differences are maybe a little more subtle. But Master Sommeliers are able to distinguish between nearly every fine wine in the entire world with ridiculous accuracy. You could certainly learn to tell more about a wine than simply is it white or red. There are different types of grapes, different blends, different vintages. Have you ever had a vertical flight?”
“I wouldn’t know. I have no idea what that even is.”
“It’s when you try several glasses of what’s basically the same wine from the same winery, made from grapes grown on the same vines, but each glass contains a different vintage. It’s amazing how just one little factor—in this case how the weather changes from one year to the next—can make such a huge difference in the taste of.”
“Interesting. I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Well, no. Don’t do that. I mean, I’d be happy to show you, if you’re actually interested. Although, I’m somewhat hamstrung, at the moment. It’ll be a few years before I’ll be able to set up that kind of tasting at Caparelli. And Belmonte’s out, because apparently my uncle is being a dick. But there are plenty of other wineries around, and if you wanted a tasting buddy, I’d be happy to tag along.”
“Thanks. I’ll…keep that in mind.” I smile as I say it, trying to let her down gently; but, c’mon. She has to know how bad those optics would be, right? Or then again, maybe she doesn’t.
“If you think about it, it would be kind of a win-win,” she says musingly. “I really ought to be familiarizing myself with what’s out there and what’s selling right now, anyway. And that could be awkward if I were to go by myself.”
“I don’t know why,” I say in an effort to change the subject. Although since we’re still talking about wine, it’s probably not enough of a change. “You sound extremely knowledgeable. And even I can tell you’re passionate about the subject.” And to be honest, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve known a few people whose lives were ruined by drink. I’m related to most of them. Which, yes, is probably another reason that I tend to stick with beer. “I’m sure any winery owner would be thrilled to have you hanging out in their tasting rooms, talking to people about wine. And whatever awkwardness there might be, it probably wouldn’t last beyond the first few sentences.”
“Well, thanks,” she replies sounding doubtful. “I mean, I hope I sound knowledgeable. But I grew up here, you know? I think it would be more surprising if I didn’t sound like I knew what I was talking about. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just fooling myself. Because you don’t always know what you don’t know—if you know what I mean. And I didn’t go to school for any of this stuff like my sisters did.”
“Hey,” I tell her. “Don’t sell yourself short. I grew up here too. And dealing with winery owners is a big part of my job, at the moment.” A job I’m clearly ill-suited for. “And…I don’t feel like living here has given me any particular advantage, or inside knowledge—at all. I’m pretty sure I don’t know nearly as much about wine or the wine industry as I should.”
“You grew up here?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she studies my face a little more intently.
“Yeah, sure. I…” And suddenly I realize I don’t want to rehash the same conversation we had five years ago. I don’t want to mention Clear Lake, don’t want her to make the connection—or worse yet, not make the connection. And, mostly, I’m enjoying myself for the first time in months. I don’t want things to get weird. “I mean, not entirely. But…well, you know…mostly.”
“You don’t sound very sure, about that,” she says, lips twitching as she grins. “But not to worry. There’s an easy way to tell if you count as local. Just answer one question for me. Do you identify as a Napkin—yes or no?”
“Fuck, no.” I stare at her, appalled. “Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you even asked that.”
Legs gurgles with laughter. “And there you have it. Definitive proof.”
“Of what?”
“Of your status as a local. Obvs!”
“Why’s that? Because I think Napkin is a stupid name for Napa residents?”
“Nooo. Because you’ve clearly heard the term before, and you have strong feelings about it. Your actual opinion isn’t the deciding factor. There are people who live here who do use it to describe themselves, you know.”
“Yeah. And you know who they are, right? They’re the same people who open bougie restaurants that only tourists eat in.”
“Well, yes, that’s quite possible. But that just proves my point. They obviously feel just as strongly that it’s a good name for us.”
“And what do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t count,” she says, shrugging it off so quickly, that I find myself frowning.
“I can’t imagine that’s true. In what way?”
“I’ve been away too long. I’ve got the whole, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ thing going on. I was homesick and learned to appreciate all the stupid little things that used to irritate me. Which, I’d like to think was what my uncle intended when he shipped me off to Italy; although I’m not convinced it was.”
Before I can question her further, our server returns with our drinks. Allegra spends the next several moments sniffing and sipping and swirling her wine. She even pulls out her phone to take a picture and make some quick notes.
“Sorry,” she says when she notices my surprise. “But I’ve been thinking of starting a wine blog. We don’t have any of our own wine to blog about yet, but I figure maybe I can start off talking about other local wines, as a way to build an audience ahead of time. After all, it’s never too soon to start branding.”
“If you say so.” Lifting my glass in a small toast, I say, “Hey, maybe I should start one, too. I could highlight local beers.”
Her eyes are twinkling as she raises them to meet my gaze. “A Napa based beer blog? Wow. You really like to buck the trend, don’t you?”
Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it . But that’s a dangerous thought, so I keep it to myself.
“You know,” she says after a moment. “Here’s a thought. There is a winery-slash-brewery operating right in downtown Napa. I’ve been meaning to check it out. Maybe we could go there for our first tasting. Afterwards, we could both blog about it, or do a joint video, or… Oh. Wait a sec.” She pauses, her eyes going wide. “What if we did a collab? It could maybe even be a regular feature where we could both talk about the same wine or beer from two different perspectives. Like a ‘he said, she said’ sort of thing. I bet people would find that interesting.”
I’m sure my bosses would find it extremely interesting ; I think to myself. And not in a good way .
Thankfully, it’s at this point that our food arrives, and I’m spared the trouble of having to explain that I’d only been joking about the blog. That commenting on specific, local businesses when I should at least be preserving the appearance of neutrality is a whole lot more than merely ‘bucking the trend’. It’d be more like career suicide.
Allegra snaps a few more pictures, and then we settle in to eat. I have my own version of her “are you a local?” test—a non-verbal one, which she passes by not even hesitating to pick up her tostada with her hands.
“Good?” I ask, amused by the happy little noises she’s making.
“So good,” she responds between bites. “How’s yours?”
“Also good,” I say. The meat is perfectly smoked, with just the right amount of heat from the chipotle glaze. The blue corn tortillas are pillowy perfection, and the paper-thin sliced radishes add a note of crispy, spicy freshness. Before I think better of it, I find myself asking, “Wanna bite?”
She’s chewing, so she doesn’t answer right away, but the calculating look in her eyes makes me wary. Too intimate, I think to myself, as she puts down her tostada and carefully wipes her fingers clean. Too much like a date .
“On one condition,” she says at last, then quickly amends, “Two conditions. If I can also try your beer, and if you’ll try my pairing as well, and let me know what you think.”
“Fair enough,” I say as I hand her my plate. She pushes hers across the table. We exchange drinks, and dig back in.
The tostada is also excellent. The crab is sweet and buttery, the avocado and crema are offset by fresh green notes from the jalapeno and cilantro—but that’s all as I’d expected. The wine, on the other hand, is a revelation. It’s got…a weight to it and a creaminess. Almost like a Stout, except that (of course) it tastes nothing at all like a Stout. What it also doesn’t taste like is anything at all like my memory of what a typical white wine tastes like. Cheap. Generic . Yep, the lady may have a point.
“Well?” she asks, after I’ve gone back for a second sip. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right,” I say as I hand her the glass, and we go back to our original dishes. “I think I could learn to tell wines apart.”
Not that I will, of course, because…well, I don’t know how far I’d get on my own. I’m pretty sure I’d need assistance from someone like her. And that’s never going to happen.
In fact, none of the things that she’s suggested tonight—not the blogging, or the collaborating, or the hanging out with each other at wineries or breweries or whatever—are ever going to happen. At least not in the foreseeable future.
Still, she’s nodding happily. So rather than saying any of that and spoiling the mood, I say the first thing that pops into my head. Typically, it’s also about the dumbest move I could make.
“So how did you end up going to Europe,” I ask. “You said it had something to do with your uncle?”
I don’t miss the flicker of pain in her eyes, the way her smile dims ever so slightly at the mention. This is a mistake ; I tell myself as my heart begins to pound. Am I about to learn the answers to the questions that have plagued me for the past five interminable years, the reasons why she ghosted me without a word? Will dredging up those memories cause her to put two and two together and realize who I am?
And how the hell do I respond to it, if she does?