Chapter 8
Clay
L egs scowls at me. “Caparelli is my winery, too, you know.”
And, oh boy, there you have it. I crash back to earth so abruptly it’s painful. The very rich really are different. They wander around Europe for years on end with no visible means of support, avoiding the wildfires that repeatedly displaced the rest of us, falling in and out of jobs on a whim. Until, out of nowhere, wineries are dropped into their laps.
“I guess I was forgetting about that,” I admit. I’m pretty sure it was intentional. Because that’s just one more reason why we shouldn’t be doing this, why I shouldn’t be enjoying her company as much as I am, and why we should both do our utmost to steer very clear of each other from this point forward.
“I think there’s been a lot of that going around,” she mutters darkly.
“A lot of what—forgetfulness?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Right. Well. The thing is, it’s easy for me to forget about your family connections,” I tell her. “Because I’ve been enjoying your company. But your family, on the other hand, they’ve been nothing but a major pain in my butt.”
She laughs at that. “They really are, aren’t they? I thought I was the only one who felt that way about them.”
“Not hardly,” I say as I lift my glass. “To families.”
“To families,” she responds touching her glass to mine. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without ’em.”
And we both drink to that even though, honestly, I think I’ve been doing just fine without mine. And given everything she’s told me of her recent history, I would have thought she felt the same about hers.
“But, seriously,” she says. “You really don’t have to worry about my sisters, you know. Or my brother-in-law, Jake. The three of them know this business inside and out. They were brought up with it; it’s in their blood. I know that sounds like a line out of a movie.”
“Just a little.”
“But it’s true, all the same. They’re good, law-abiding people. They’re ethical. They’re all serious about making Caparelli a success and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that”
It’s a nice thought, if somewhat biased, and I don’t miss the fact that she didn’t include herself in that defense. But clearly, someone does not agree with her assessment. Or someone doesn’t care about the facts and has either an ulterior motive, or an actual grudge against the Martinelli clan. “What about your cousins? Do you think they could be the ones calling in the complaints?”
“I actually asked them that. They all insisted that they don’t know who’s doing it.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I think I do. Mostly because I think they’re too smart to do something like that in the first place. But also…it just seems so petty. You know?”
I nod in a noncommittal sort of way; but I’m not sure I agree with that. There’s a lot of money involved, a lot of potential fines, a lot of unpleasant consequences. None of that says petty to me. “Well, I appreciate the insight,” I tell her, in as diplomatic a fashion as I can manage. “And if you learn anything more, I hope you’ll share it with me. But it’s still my job to follow up on all the complaints I receive. So...”
“I know.” She smiles ruefully. “It’s frustrating all the way around. But don’t you think it’s in everyone’s best interests if we can all at least accept that we’re on the same side?”
“I hear you. But I think that sounds…” My voice trails off. Far-fetched, unlikely na?ve, and possibly completely without merit. “Very tolerant of you,” I say at last.
Legs blinks in surprise. “Not really. Not unless it turns out that my cousins are right about you.”
“In what way?” I’m startled into asking.
“Well, one school of that says that the only reason you stopped me and impounded my car is because of who I am, because of the family connection.”
For an instant, I’m struck speechless. Because that’s uncomfortably close to the truth. “I stopped you because of how you were driving,” I say, focusing on the first half of her accusation. “I was worried you’d cause an accident. I had no idea who you were at that point.”
“I know,” she sighs. “My sisters keep reminding me of that, too.”
“Well, you brought it up,” I point out as I pick up my last taco and take a big bite. Legs finishes her wine and asks our server for some sparkling water. We both agree to take a look at the dessert menu and then move on to other topics.
“You know,” Legs says somewhat hesitantly, scratching at the tablecloth with the edge of her thumbnail—an odd sort of tell, and an unfortunate one, since it immediately has me remembering what her nails felt like digging into my skin. “It feels weird having to bring this up at this point, but I still don’t know what your name is
“Not that weird. It’s probably a good thing,” I say, which is also unfortunate, because of course she asks the obvious question.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Ah, you know. I don’t really like my name, so why would I want to share it?”
Unfortunately, I can’t remember if I told her my name the night we met. There’d have been no reason not to—then. Now…maybe I don’t want her to connect the dots. Maybe I’m hoping that she’s thought about me, over the years, as much as I’ve thought about her. Which is unlikely as fuck, seeing as she apparently had no reservations about jetting off to Europe, just days later, and ghosting me. Maybe I’d rather stay a mystery.
But she’s eyeing me with sympathy now and nodding her head. “Yeah, I get that. It’s the same for me and my sisters. None of us like our names. That’s how we ended up giving each other nicknames that we use more than our actual names. Well, not Rosa, so much, but Bee and I for sure do.”
“It’s not the same,” I tell her. “And anyway, I think Allegra’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. It’s okay on its own, I guess. But paired with Martinelli, it’s just too much. Too many ells, and people are forever misspelling it. But I suspect you’re deflecting. Which is cool, and all. But there has to be something I can call you other than Deputy.”
“Well, sure,” I say, finding a brief respite in my beer. “I mean, if Deputy’s too long, you could always just call me Sir.”
The look of shock and outrage that sweeps over her face, has me laughing. “Kidding,” I say as I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. “But, you know, most people just use my last name.”
Her lips roll in and it occurs to me that suggesting she’s ‘most people’ might not sit well with her, either. But after a moment she nods and shrugs and I’m fool enough to think I’ve dodged that bullet. Our server returns and we order—decaf coffee and pumpkin flan for her, a French apple tart with a locally produced Cheddar cheese, and another beer for me.
Once we’re alone again, Legs takes a sip of sparkling water and says, “So, fine. I guess I’ll just go on calling you Romero—like everyone else does.” She smiles sweetly and adds, “And I’m sure I’ll remember to use that second R most of the time.”
I laugh and bury my head in my hands. “I should have seen that coming, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes. Probably. You don’t seem unintelligent, after all.”
Right. That, too. But mostly because she could never, ever be like ‘most people’. Whatever was I thinking? “Fine. You win. My name is Clay. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” she assures me. She’s quiet for a moment. I watch as her eyes drift to the right, as though she’s imagining—as I suddenly am—how my name would sound emerging from her lips in a whisper, or a shout, or a mindless, repetitive chant. I belatedly slam the lid on all that conjecture when I realize that all the scenarios, I’m imagining are sexual in nature. From the flush on her cheeks, I wonder if she was doing the same.
“I don’t know why you don’t like your name,” she says, hurrying into speech. “I- I think it’s a good name. It’s solid, easy to remember; it’s short… Ohhh.” She leans in suddenly, her eyes wide as she covers one of my hands with hers. “Is that the problem? Is it short for something long and horrible?”
“Like what?” I ask, distracted by the press of her hands on mine, by the internal struggle that’s demanding that I move—either turn my hand to grasp hers, or pull my hand away. Neither seems optimal, so I force myself to not react.
“Well, I don’t know,” she’s saying. “Claymore? Or…whatever else it’s short for. Clayville? Claybourgh? Claynaught?”
“God, no. It’s not short for anything ,” I say as I solve my hand problem by sitting back in my chair, folding my arms and glaring with mock outrage. “Claynaught? Really? That’s just obnoxious.”
She grins unrepentantly back at me. “So then, I guess it’s gotta be spelled weird.”
“It’s spelled just like it sounds. How else would you even spell it?”
Legs rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s what I’m asking. Maybe it’s spelled with a K. Or with an E, like in Hey. Or with an E-I. Or an E-I-G-H. Or?—”
“Or an E-I-E-I-O? No. It’s just Clay. Just C-L-A-Y. Okay?”
“Okay, Just Clay,” she replies, and let the record show that, this time, she does not roll her eyes. But it’s a close thing. I can tell she wants to. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re saying that you were gifted, I presume at birth, with an entirely unobjectionable, perfectly serviceable, one syllable, easily spellable name. Which, I might add, when combined with your last name, gives you a total of only four syllables. Which is the same number of syllables in just my last name alone. So, unless you have a couple of obscenely long middle names…?”
“No middle name,” I assure her, and just barely stop myself from asking what kind of name she would consider obscene—because, of course, she had to go there.
“Lucky you,” she says, grimacing slightly. “I have three. You can have one of them, if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, just as our desserts arrive. “But I don’t think so.” And I do not spend the next few minutes, while our water glasses are refilled and our silverware is replaced, imagining scenarios that would involve the two of us giving or taking each other’s names. Because that would be stupid. All the same, and perhaps even more surprisingly, that’s also a close thing.
“So, then what exactly are you complaining about?” she asks, startling me, just as I’ve dug my fork into my apple tart.
“Complaining?” My gaze shifts—from her face to my plate, then back to her face again. “I wasn’t. What do you mean?”
“No. Not the pie. I’m still trying to understand about your name. Why don’t you like it?”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, putting down my fork and resting my arms on the table. “You can’t possibly find it that interesting.”
“I don’t know why you’d say that.” She shrugs. “But, after all, this is just basic getting to know you conversation.”
“Exactly. It’s basic. So…”
Her cheeks turn red as she toys with her flan. “What can I say? I find you interesting. But obviously sharing makes you uncomfortable. So then, let’s talk about something else. Do you follow any specific type of sports? My family really hasn’t until recently. Now we’re all learning about hockey, thanks to Bee’s relationship with Jansen Beck. So, that’s been different.”
I’m being a dick. I’m letting her carry the whole conversation, then giving her shit about it. “I guess what bugs me most about my name is what it represents, where it comes from, how I got it.”
“Really?” She perks up right away. “Is it an old family name? Like, do you have a rich uncle and your parents were hoping that if they named you after him he’d leave you all his money when he dies?”
“As if.” I roll my eyes, pick up my fork and finally get a mouthful of apple tart. Which is delicious, by the way. Rich, crispy crust, paper-thin, sweet-tart apple filling, offset by the sharp, vaguely yeasty taste of cheese. “You must be thinking of yourself. Because I have zero rich relatives—either living or dead.”
“Okay, then…was it the last name of the doctor who delivered you? And before you say no one does that—yes, they do. I grew up with a girl that happened to. She always said that her mom picked it to piss off her dad. See, her mom went into labor while her father was on the golf course. By the time he got to the hospital, Cameron had already been born.”
“I’m starting to think you know a lot of people with unusual stories,” I observe.
She nods. “I know. It is surprising, isn’t it? But I think that’s because most people feel comfortable telling me about themselves. Present company excepted. You don’t want me to know anything about you.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure I’m lying.
“We’ll see.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment then says, “In that case, my money is on it being either the street where your parents’ first house was located, or the name of a beloved family pet. You know, like the dog in Indiana Jones?”
“He wasn’t named after the dog,” I’m forced to point out. “He just called himself that beause he didn’t like his given name.”
“Aha! That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What? No!” I’m startled into replying. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would I give myself a name I don’t like to take the place of another name that I also don’t like?” I take refuge again in my beer glass, steeling myself, because I know I’m about to give her another ‘fun story’ to add to her collection.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Fine,” I say at last, giving up, like I should have known I would. “So, the first thing you should know is that my mom’s a little cray cray.”
She pauses with a spoonful of flan partway to her mouth and blinks at me in surprise. “Well, sure. Isn’t everyone’s?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“If you say so,” she replies, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Then her grin turns sly, and she adds, “But that’s like, just your opinion, man.”
I frown. “Is that another movie quote?” I’m pretty sure it is. The words—and more importantly, her delivery of them—are tickling something in the back of my memory.
She favors me with a smile of approval, and a quick nod. “Yes, it is.”
“Gonna tell me which one?”
“Maybe. But only after you explain about your name. Don’t think you’re gonna get away with distracting me with movie conversations.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, even though, yeah, I was hoping. “So, my mom was big into Astrology. Maybe still is. I dunno. She named me Clay because I’m a Virgo.”
Allegra’s brow furrows. “But isn’t Virgo the virgin? What does Clay have to do with— Oh, wait. Is this a Biblical reference? That’s clever.”
“Huh?”
“Sure. Isn’t it? You know, ’cause Adam and Eve were the original virgins, and Adam was made from clay.”
“Oh. No, it’s nothing to do with that.” It occurs to me that Legs and my mom would probably get along great—which is basically equal parts heartwarming and ball-shrivelingly terrifying. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I mean, of course I do; she’s Mom, you know? But she’s complicated and far from perfect, and the same goes for my relationship with her. It makes me wonder if that’s not part of why I feel so attracted to Allegra Martinelli.
Not in a weird way, and you can fuck right off if you think that’s what I’m saying. But because there’s something familiar about her particular brand of crazy, something comfortable and comforting.
In a very strange, and otherwise inexplicable way, I feel at home with her. It’s like she’s someone I can talk to. Someone who I know won’t judge me. Someone who sees me for who and what I am—except that she doesn’t. Does she?
She has no idea who I am. She doesn’t remember how we met. Which means the entire idea that we vibe with each other is a product of my own imagination.
“Virgo’s an earth sign,” I explain in an effort to get my mind of its weird tangent and our conversation onto safer ground. “It’s also what they call mutable. So, one of its characteristics, supposedly, is that it’s changeable, moldable?—”
“Oh, like clay!” she says, catching on. Then she pauses. Eyeing me critically she asks, “Is that accurate? I mean, do you think that describes you? Because that’s not the impression I get.”
I shrug. I’m not really sure how to answer that because, no, I never thought of myself that way, either. Although, on the other hand, I don’t like to think of myself as rigid or inflexible, either. “Who’s to say? Like you said, I was assigned that name at birth. So, it’s more of an interpretation of a concept than it is a character description.”
“I get that,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “You know though, now that you’ve explained it, I think it’s really?—”
“I have siblings,” I say, intentionally cutting her off. I don’t want to know how she’d finish that particular sentence. I’ve heard most of the variations. My mother is either brilliant, a genius, laughable, dumb, or legit in need of a 5150—the common term for a California law that allows people, who appear mentally unhinged, to be detained for a psych eval.
“Oh?”
“Twins. They’re Pisces. She named them Rain and River.”
“I like it.” Legs grins at me. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of those names.”
“It could be worse,” I tell her. “Mom always said she wished I’d been a Taurus—fixed earth—because then she could have named me Rocky, and we’d all have had the same initials.”
“Not a fan of the movies?”
“Not a fan of the alliteration,” I say with a grimace. “Rocky Romero? No. I don’t think so.”
She laughs then, a joyous, infectious sound that causes my heart to clench and leaves me feeling like the envious woman in the Harry Met Sally diner scene. I want what she’s having.
“Omigod,” she says, suddenly sober. “ That’s why you overreacted to me calling you Romeo. I’d wondered.”
“I did not overreact,” I’m stung into responding. I mean, I did, of course. But that wasn’t why.
“Dude! You so did. You impounded my car !”
I shake my head. “I don’t make the rules. Napa County has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to?—”
“Yeah, yeah. So you said,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “I remember.”
Of course she does . Take that, Miles , I think to myself, feeling disappointed even though I knew she had to resent that, at least a little.
“I’m sure there’s gotta be a way around it,” she says, and I can only shrug in response.
What answer could I give her, after all? Because of course, she’s going to think there are loopholes to every law, or that some laws don’t apply to her. That’s what I’ve come to expect of the very rich. And of course, she’s right—I probably could have thought of some other way of handling it. But I reacted rashly. Something my mom would likely attribute to my Aries rising sign…
“You’re Earth and Fire, Clay,” she used to say with tiresome regularity after the fires that un-homed us in 2017 and 2018. “That’s your nature. Which means this is nothing you can’t handle. There’s a reason we put clay the kiln. It hardens it, makes it stronger, less likely to bend or melt.”
Which generally caused the twins to exchange glances and say things like, “I think you mean, more likely to crack under pressure, don’t you, Mom?”
And while I knew that they all meant well, that my mother was attempting to offer comfort, that my siblings were trying, in their bumbling, adolescent way, to defend me, I can’t say that any of it landed well. And I wasn’t overly upset when Mom decided to move them all down to Cabo following the lockdown.
“Anyway, you’re not the only victim of poor parental decisions,” Legs says now, breaking what had become an awkward silence. “My sisters and I were named for wine . How cliché is that?”
“I don’t follow?” I reply, as grateful for the change of subject as I am perplexed. “Named for wine…how?”
“Well, it’s obvious. Rossa, or Rosso, is red in Italian. Vino rosso is how you say red wine. Vino Bianco is white wine.”
That explained her sisters’ names. “What’s Allegra mean?”
“It means my parents weren’t as clever as they thought they were. Also, they sucked at thinking ahead.”
“What?”
“They never anticipated having a third daughter, so…”
“I’m not following.”
“Well, what were the choices, once red and white wine were covered?”
“Rosé?” I suggest, and then stopped, stymied. “Oh.”
“Exactly,” she says, propping her head on her hand and looking glum. “Far too close to Rosa.”
“So then…?”
“Lively,” she answers. “Allegro means lively. A nod to sparkling wine, because of the carbonation.” She rolls her eyes and continues, “Not that we ever made a sparkling wine. The closest we ever came to anything like that were the small batches of Pét-Nat that my Nonna used to make every year, just to keep her hand in. I guess I should be grateful that my parents weren’t more literal because the Italian word for sparkling wine is Spumante. Can you imagine?”
I can’t help but grimace. “That’s even worse than Rocky.”
“Uh-huh. So much worse.”
“All the same,” I say—stupidly, because I feel like I’m channeling my mom, and that rarely works out. “You were named for Champagne, which is kinda cool, no?” It also fits her to a T. She is lively. Also bubbly, sparkling, irresistible and generally priced beyond my reach. “Isn’t that the best wine?”
“Not exactly.” She shakes her head. “Plus, I’d’ve had to be born in France for that to apply. At best, I’m just a sparkling disappointment.”
“What? No.”
“Yes. Absolutely. They were hoping for a boy.”
“Well then, that’s their loss.”
“Thank you. But, you know, even Champagne shouldn’t be called Champagne—that’s just more male entitlement.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Well, sure. There’s this cute little town in France, Limoux; I worked there for awhile. They claim that’s where the first sparkling wines were made. The stories vary—as they do—with one school of thought saying monks first made it in the monastery there. And that they taught the procedure to Dom Perignon. But the story the locals tell involve a married couple who they say invented the technique together. But then, when they split up, the husband took the recipe to the Champagne district, and claimed to have come up with it himself. And then insisted that, since his was the original, everyone else had to just call their versions sparkling wine. And that totally figures because women were the original brewers and vintners—and cooks, for that matter—but once anything becomes high profile, men insist on taking the credit and awarding themselves Michelin Stars and Grand Cru awards.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I tell her, then steer us back to safer topics by asking how she’s enjoying her dessert.
We have a bit of a tussle when the bill comes. I hand my credit card to our server without thinking anything of it until Legs frowns at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Paying for dinner?” I respond, feeling mystified.
“But I was buying you a drink, remember? Although, at this point, I think I should probably buy you several.”
Oh. That. “Thanks but…let’s not and say we did, okay?” I joke, even though she isn’t laughing. “Seriously. It’s like I told you the other day, that’s really not necessary.”
“I know it’s not necessary. It wouldn’t be much of a gesture if I didn’t have a choice. But?—”
“Look, this has been nice. I’ve appreciated the company and the conversation. So, why can’t we just leave it at that?”
“Well thank you,” she says, giving in a lot more quickly than I thought she would. “I really enjoy your company, too.”
I smile and nod, thinking, it would have been nice to enjoy more of it . Thinking, if only we’d met again under different circumstances . Thinking, perhaps, in another lifetime …
Which is when she hits me with, “So, I guess I’ll just pay for dinner next time?”
Shit. “I don’t think that will be possible.”
“What? Why not?”
“Well, for one thing… Look, your cousins weren’t completely wrong. Not that I have a grudge against your family—I don’t mean that, exactly. But while your family is under investigation, it would be a conflict of interest for us to see each other.”
“I don’t know why. Haven’t we already covered this? I wasn’t even in the country when most of it happened.”
“Still. Don’t you think your family might see it as a betrayal—you siding with the enemy? You already said they warned you away from me.”
“Yes. They did. Does it look like I listened to them?”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Legs, I…”
“I am not my family, Clay. Any more than you are yours. And I think we’re both old enough to decide for ourselves who we want to spend time with.”
“Well, my department might disagree with that assessment,” I tell her. “Maintaining personal contact with someone I met as a result of an investigation is also frowned upon.”
She stares at me then for a long moment without speaking. Then she gathers her things and gets to her feet. “Fine,” she says, just as our server returns with my credit card and the receipt for me to sign. “I get it. For the record though, I’m a big girl. You could have just said you weren’t interested in seeing me again. You didn’t have to lie and make up bullshit excuses.”
“Legs, wait,” I say. “I didn’t— They’re not—” But she’s gone, threading her way between tables, waving to her cousins from a distance. From the corner of my eye, I can see them turn to scowl at me again as I settle up with my server. “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble beneath my breath. “I’m not happy about it either.”