Chapter 13
Allegra
T here are bees foraging among my grandmother’s rose bushes. Which surprised me, when I first heard them. After last week’s heavy rains, I figured they’d be holed up in their hives by now, huddling together for warmth, waiting out the winter—even though, in reality, winter is probably still several months away.
I know you’ve heard people say that California has no seasons, and of course that’s a lie. Probably the second biggest one they tell, right after the one about how it never rains here. Or maybe the third. D’you really think we’re all hippies? Think again. Sure, most days are pleasant and sunny, and Mediterranean Maritime Mild is the flavor del día, todos los días , but there are seasons. And it seems I’ve forgotten a few key facts about them. Like the way that summer can be too cool, winter can be too wet, autumn can be too hot, and spring can seem like one, long, endless fog bank.
Anyway, the bees: I can hear the drone from where I am lying, stretched out in the hammock that has hung between these trees for as long as I’ve been alive. Longer, probably. Although now that I think about it, it’s probably not the same one, is it?
It’s a little embarrassing actually, the fact that I can’t recall with any real accuracy what the original one looked like—but there again, that probably wasn’t the original , original one, either.
It’s hard to be the latecomer in a dynastic sort of family. To paraphrase from one of Nonna’s favorite movies, if you're gonna to be born this late in the game, you're gonna miss out on a few decades of family drama.
Which is not to suggest that I think the past was better. In a lot of ways, it was not. For example, when I was a teenager, I wouldn’t have been relaxing in the shade like this. Not on a day like today. No, I’d’ve been toasting in the sun—or attempting to. Lying on a towel in my swimsuit, working on my tan, or trying to sun-bleach my hair with lemon juice.
Given my Italian heritage, the hair lightening was a clear and obvious L. Unfortunately, so was the tanning.
Working against me there was the fact that Nonna was not a big fan of teenage me lying around in a state of undress while there were workers in the nearby fields. So, it’s not like I ever managed to give it a fair try.
Ironically, Nonna may have had a point. I’m pretty sure I’d’ve freaked the fuck out if I’d attracted unwanted attention for real, but the idea of a sexy someone showing up unexpectedly and overcoming my initial reticence? That was a hot and persistent fantasy.
The idea makes me hot even now…make that especially now that I can put a specific face to the fantasy. The idea of Clay joining me here, out in the open, where anyone could see us. Of him demanding that I bring myself off again… I’m so fucking tempted. It’s all I can do to keep from touching myself. I reach a hand down, over the side of the hammock, and search blindly for the bottle of sparking rose lemonade that I’d brought out of the house with me.
I uncap the bottle and take a long, satisfying sip and then return it to the grass. The result of all these maneuvers is just what you’d expect. The hammock swings gently, and I’m getting turned on all over again. I wriggle around as I try to get comfortable. And then, just as I’m contemplating whether a cold shower might be in order, the sound of someone (fairly close by, from the sound of it) clearing their throat startles me into opening my eyes.
I lose my breath when I catch sight of Clay standing at the edge of the drive, hat in hand, staring right at me. For a moment, I think I must be dreaming. The heat in his gaze makes me wish I was wearing my swimsuit now—or even less. A sheer, filmy robe? Or, perhaps, nothing at all? I want to invite him to share my hammock…even though I’m not at all convinced it would support our combined weight.
“Hey,” I say, smiling at him. “I was just thinking about you. What are you doing here?”
But he doesn’t smile back. And that’s an answer in itself, isn’t it? The fact that he’s wearing his uniform, and a sheepish expression lets me know that this is an official visit. He’s here as Deputy Romero. Which can only mean one thing.
“Oh, no. Are you kidding me?” I ask as I swing my feet to the ground and sit up. “What now? What obscure and ridiculous law are we supposed to have run afoul of this time? Whatever it is, you know it’s bullshit, don’t you?”
Clay sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t think so babe,” he says, just as the screen door slams and Rosa appears, striding across the lawn like a mother bear on a rampage. “Ah, fuck,” Clay mutters beneath his breath, and I couldn’t agree more.
“Deputy Romero,” she greets him as soon as we’re in earshot. “To what do we owe the pleasure this time?” Which is just so Rosa that I want to laugh. I mean, I can’t even count the number of times she came to my defense, or Bee’s (even the cousins, a time or two) when we were all kids. And I love her for it.
Except that, A—I’m not her cub (or anyone’s cub anymore).
And B—I don’t fucking need saving. Not this time, anyway.
And C—more than anything, right now, I want Clay and my sisters to like each other. And this really isn’t helping!
“Rosa, I got this,” I tell her when she pulls to a stop besides me, folding her arms and squaring off with Clay in a way that—again—would almost be laughable. If I didn’t want to cry in frustration.
“It’s fine,” Rosa brushes my assurances aside. “We do this all the time.” She glares at Clay and asks, “So, what’s today’s problem?”
“As I was just telling your sister,” Clay says, with a nod in my direction. “The Sheriff’s Office has received a report that you may be in violation of Ordinance 947, which?—”
“The Winery Definitions Ordinance.” Rosa nods. “Yes. I’m familiar with it. What part are we supposedly violating this time?”
“In this case, the problem involves section eleven, sub-section h, paragraph 2,” Clay responds, and if I didn’t know him as well as I’m starting to, I might’ve missed the way the corner of his mouth quirks up—like it does when he’s trying not to smile. Rosa stares at him blandly. Clay stares blandly back. And now—hand to God—it looks like they’re both hiding smiles.
I’m on the verge of asking if they’d like to be alone, when Rosa says, “Refresh my memory. Paragraph 2 has to do with what again?”
“It has to do with the artwork in your tasting room,” Clay explains, grimacing apologetically in my direction.
“What artwork?” Rosa asks, as she, too, turns to face me.
“Really?” I’m distracted from my annoyance with Clay—who at least knew about the artwork—by my annoyance with my sister, who should have known, but clearly didn’t. “The installation has been up for nearly a week!” I mean, technically, I’m talking about a work week, which is five days, and today is Thursday, so in actual time, it’s been three days since the pictures were hung. But still!
“Perhaps we could go and see it?” Clay suggests, and since no one has a better idea, that’s what we do.
“I’m sure I told you,” I say to Rosa. “Didn’t I? About the deal I made with Vin Vista?”
Rosa shakes her head. “Sorry, Legs. That’s not ringing any bells. What’s…Vin…what did you call it?”
“Vin Vista. It’s one of the galleries in town. We get to display a rotating collection of paintings and artwork. You get to keep your anniversary poster in the kitchen, where you wanted it—right?”
And yes, I’m loading on the guilt, because why not?
“Wait.” Just outside the tasting room door, Rosa stops in her tracks. “We are allowed to display artwork.” She turns to Clay and demands, “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But you can’t sell it.”
“Well, of course,” Rosa says. “But we’re not selling artwork. Right?”
They both turn to me. I shrug. “No. I mean, not technically.”
“Not…technically?” Rosa repeats. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Oh, just come and see it,” I urge as I take hold of her arm and propel her through the door.
“Isn’t it great?” I ask, as I spin around, gesturing to the art that decorates the tasting room walls. There are paintings of grapes, glowing in the sunshine. Studies of vines and leaves. Still lifes with wine bottles, or glasses, or barrels. Landscapes— “That one’s my favorite,” I say, pointing to a street-side view of the valley, with the Vaca mountains clearly visible in the distance.
I sneak a look at Clay and catch him looking back. We share a long look, and I just know we’re thinking of that conversation we had about his having lived in those hills. “The gallery has a stack of cards they’ll be handing out to direct people here to see the exhibit. And then, while they’re here, maybe we’ll sell them some wine; or perhaps they’ll want to have a snack, or a picnic.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Oh, and we have a bunch of the gallery’s cards on hand, too. So that people who want to see even more artwork will know where to go. It’s a win/win.”
“Great,” Rosa says. “Terrific. But we’re still not selling them—right?”
“Well, how could we? They’re not ours to sell, right? They belong to the gallery. Or maybe to the artists? I don’t really know how that works. It’s like a consignment arrangement, except the winery doesn’t profit from the sale. That’s the important part, isn’t it?”
But Clay is already shaking his head. “No,” he says as he turns from examining one of the exhibit labels. “It’s not a matter of whether or not you make a profit. This isn’t like the food clause. The ordinance is really clear on artwork, for some reason. You cannot sell it here. Period.”
“Wait. Food clause?” Rosa asks, sounding wary. “Why are we talking about that?”
I shrug in response. “’Hell if I know. I don’t even know what a food clause is.” At that, they both turn identical looks in my direction—made up of maybe one part irritation, three, or four parts concern. “What?”
“I’m talking about the clause that says wineries can’t charge the public more for any food item they serve than it costs them to provide said item,” Clay explains. “In other words, you can’t make a profit from any food that’s sold here. I assumed that’s what you were referencing when you mentioned profit?”
“I wasn’t,” I assure him. “But that doesn’t apply to food trucks, does it?”
“What food trucks?” Rosa asks. “We haven’t talked about food trucks!”
We hadn’t talked about paintings either. But I know better than to point that out. “There wasn’t any reason to. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Food trucks are fine, actually,” Clay tells us both. “As long as they have permits from the county and are not operating on public property.”
“Can we go back to the art for a minute?” Rosa asks, zeroing in on Clay. “You said it can stay—yes? We don’t have to take them down, we just can’t sell them?”
Clay nods. “That’s correct. Ideally, I’d ask that you change the labels to omit the prices. And just refer people back to the gallery if they want more information, but…”
“What?” My mouth drops open. “You want me to redo the cards and my arrangement with the gallery? Do you know how much extra work, and time, and hassle that’s gonna entail? Not to mention how many sales will be lost if we force people to traipse back and forth across town just to buy a piece of art? Something like thirty-six percent of purchases are impulse buys.”
“That’s the gallery’s problem,” Clay says. “What you need to be concerned with is not getting sued by the county.”
Rosa gasps. “Sued by—? No! No, no, no. We do not want that.” She turns to me and says, “Look, Legs, maybe we should take them down and send them back. Just to be safe. We can’t afford to fight a lawsuit.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Clay replies quickly. “Just amend the cards. I’ll write it up that the artwork is on loan from the gallery and is just being displayed here—that should cover you. And I’ll stop by Vin Vista, when I leave here. and make sure that’s clear to them, as well.”
“Thank you,” Rosa says, looking surprised. “That’s very considerate.”
Meanwhile, I’m gritting my teeth and holding my tongue. I mean, I should be the one talking to the gallery owner—not Clay. Does he not trust me to handle things on my own now either? Typical.
Clay shoots me a look that I can’t decipher—Anxious? Apologetic? Who fucking knows—and takes his leave. Rosa lingers for a moment.
“That was…surprisingly easy,” she says, looking puzzled.
“Do you really think so?” I scoff.
Rosa nods. “I’d almost say suspiciously so. I feel like I’m waiting for another shoe to drop. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel like a trap.” She frowns abstractly. “Do you think he has a thing for you? Or maybe he just feels bad about impounding your car.”
“It’s probably awkward for him,” I counter. “Since the wedding. I mean, you’re all such good friends with Miles, and so is he.” None of which is a lie, but my conscience still twinges. Which is something I’ll just have to live with, since this is clearly not the time to come clean.
“Maybe.” Rosa glances around and sighs reluctantly. “I hate that WDO.”
“The what?”
“The Winery Definitions Ordinance. It makes zero sense. Why shouldn’t we be able to sell art? It looks great in here, and you’ve done a fantastic job. I just wish we had some wine for you to sell, or for the public to sample—or anything.”
I nod, and think about mentioning the food trucks again, then think better of it. “Well, talk to Bee,” I say, instead. “Convince her to work on something that we can release early. Maybe like a Pet Nat, or a Rosé?”
To my surprise, Rosa shakes her head. “No. Bianca’s got the wine on lock. She knows what she’s doing with it, and we’re not going to second-guess her or do anything to make her think we don’t trust her judgment.”
She’s not wrong, but for a moment I do feel a bit of envy. It’s nice to be trusted. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe there’s some kind of shortcut we could take, some other way we could sell wine now. We could talk to the cousins? We know that at least some of Belmonte’s wine was made using our grapes, maybe they’d be willing to let us sell some of that here?”
Rosa shakes her head. “You could try, if you want. Bee and I both talked to Geno, hoping he would do the right thing. But I don’t think it even matters at this point. We’re just going to run afoul of that stupid ordinance again. As I understand it, it’s not enough that the grapes were grown here. The wine would also have to be fermented, or refermented in Caparelli’s facilities. And I think that ship has sailed by now.”
“Fuck,” I mutter—partly in frustration, partly because my phone just buzzed with an ‘incoming text’ notification, and I’d bet carboys to bocksbeutel that I know who’s trying to reach me. It’s gotta be one of two people—either Clay or Jimmy. Neither of whom I want to talk to right now. “Well then…what about the wine Bee’s making for Jansen?” I suggest. “I mean, I don’t know what he’s paying her, but maybe she’d be okay with him giving her some of the wine she’s making, in lieu of salary? Or at least in part?”
“Same problem, though. It’s mostly all fermented by now. Besides, she’s making it there , not here, so...”
“Details,” I say snapping my fingers to show how little I care about those. “I’m sure we can find a way around that. We’ll just roll a few barrels down the road, and let it finish fermenting here.”
“Oh, sure. That’d be great for the wine,” Rosa rolls her eyes. “Do not suggest that to Bee. She’d probably have an aneurysm.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it in those terms, if I were talking to her,” I point out. But Rosa’s not having it.
Let it go, Legs. I know it’s tough right now. It is for all of us. But we’ll get through it. It’ll be okay.”
“If you say so,” I respond—not at all convinced.
“All right, well…I’m gonna get back to work,” she says. Then she glances around once again and adds, “You are going to change the labels though, right? The last thing we need is for Romero to think we lied to him.”
“I’ll handle it,” I promise. I don’t want to, but I guess I’ve got no choice.
After Rosa leaves, I stare discontentedly at the paintings for a while, trying to recapture a little of the joy I’d felt while I was hanging them up. The atmosphere is great, peaceful, serene, prosperous—ideal for an art exhibit. Less so for an up-and-coming winery. All I can think about is the money we’re not making—and not going to be making—any time soon. Not from paintings, or food trucks, or even wine.
After a moment, I dig out my phone and check my texts. Just as I suspected, Clay left me a message. A really short one:
“Sorry.”
“Me, too, Romeo,” I sigh sadly. “Me, too.”
I almost type that in the chat box, then reconsider. “Et tu, Brute?” Yeah, that would be even better. Much more pointed—no pun intended. Or would it? After all, I’d still be sending a multi-word answer in response to a one-word text. And that would give him the W.
In the end, I leave the message on read, turn off my notifications and return my phone to my pocket. And to think, the week had started off so promising, too.
Over the next couple of days, Clay and I do talk. And text. And he apologizes—sort of—for putting a wrench in all my plans…
“Look, I hear you,” he says during one conversation, his frustration vibrating through the phone. “The WDO is fourteen pages of crap and nonsense. It’s ambiguous, it’s inconsistent, and don’t even get me started on all the places where it actually runs counter to the laws of the state! It’s a fucking shit show. I didn’t write the damn thing, and I sure as hell don’t agree with most of it. But, barring a court order, you still have to follow it, as best as you can. And it’s still my job to make sure you do that. Which I knew was going to be a problem for us, sooner or later. I told you going in that it would be.”
“It’s not a problem,” I answer stubbornly, and partially inaccurately. “I just didn’t appreciate being blindsided, that’s all. Oh, and then being tag teamed by you and Rosa? Not cool.”
“That was not my fault,” he insists. And of course, he’s right. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Rosa’s fault. Nope, once again the fault was all mine.
“If you could just try not to embarrass me anymore in front of my sisters, that would be great,” I tell him.
“I’ll try,” he promises, which I guess is all the assurance he can give me. It’s not enough, but I guess it will have to do.
Sunday, we have dinner with the Lambros. Bee and Rosa do most of the cooking, moving around Nonna’s kitchen in a complicated dance as they boil pasta and stir sauce and assemble the cheeses filling for the stuffed shells. I’m relegated to tearing lettuce for salad and grating a mountain of Parmigiano Reggiano.
It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, or don’t remember how to make Nonna’s classic dishes—of course, I do. But it’s been years since I’ve had a kitchen to call my own. So, at the very least, I’m sadly out of practice. “Did you do a lot of cooking in Argentina?” I ask Bee.
“I did, actually,” she answers, looking surprised. “Mostly for myself; I found it relaxing, after a long day. But I ate out a lot, too. The food there is amazing. They eat a lot of beef, of course. In fact, they say there’s more cattle there than people. You must have cooked, too,” she adds. “Didn’t you? I mean, Europe! The produce, the fish, the cheese—although I know Nonna always said you shouldn’t mix those last two.”
“Oh, no one cares about that anymore,” I say, happy to sidestep the question. “That’s considered a very old fashioned idea now.”
“Well, Nonna was old,” Rosa points out. “And she was born here, so I guess those rules must have been handed down years and years ago.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Probably.” And then we all fall silent. And I don’t know about my sisters, but I’m thinking about our grandmother, and wishing she was here—even if it was just to scold us when we let the pasta water boil over, or for swiping tastes of the cheese filling—yum.
“Raw egg,” Bee cautions me as I go back for a second taste.
“Don’t care,” I respond making a face. And I don’t. It tastes so good that at least I’ll die happy. “Hey, I could make some bruschetta,” I suggest, when a happy thought strikes me. “You know, for appetizers? We have tomatoes and basil, don’t we?”
“Yes. But don’t you need the oven for that?” Rosa asks. She points at the trays of shells. “These are about ready to go in.”
I shrug. “It was just a thought. How about I open some wine? We can have a toast.” But before they can answer, the back door opens and the cousins come pouring into the house—a loud and noisy, Italian American flood. And then Jake and Jansen, and Jansen’s dog return from testing the barrels, or whatever they were doing. Probably hiding out at Jansen’s place, watching the hockey game that I know was on today.
And then someone else starts opening bottles and pouring wine, and I’m once again shunted to the sidelines, but at least this time there’s a dog to play with. And I start to think that, when I do get my own place, I should get a pet.
Which, of course, leads me to thinking about Clay, and wondering how he feels about animals. Which leads me to wishing—once again—that I could have invited him. Or maybe not. In fact, I’m profoundly grateful for his absence when, over dinner, the discussion gets into legally gray winery practices. And, yet again, the fault is mine. Because I finally get to try the Carleo and…like Bee said, it’s not bad wine, but something is definitely off with it.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can do with these grapes,” Vitto tells Bianca—as he swirls and sniffs and sips and shakes his head. “I’m sure it will be amazing.”
“I do have ideas,” she says, smiling mysteriously.
I mostly listen while the others talk—eating and drinking and attempting to figure out what I don’t like about this wine. It’s dark, round, full-bodied. Maybe a little too round for a cabernet. And a little too off-dry, as well. A little too flabby. Of course, Geno might be blending it with something else—a merlot, perhaps (because Sideways isn’t entirely wrong about that) or even white zinfandel, although Vitto would have to know if it’s something like that. “Do you think Geno’s adding a concentrate?” I ask Leo, who’s seated beside me.
And maybe I said it a little louder than necessary, because conversation instantly stops and everyone stares at me.
“What?” I ask, glancing around the table. “It’s not that uncommon, is it? I thought a lot of wineries did that?”
“Are you looking to throw down, Legs?” Gianni asks—and I’m pretty sure he’s joking, although not entirely. “’Cause those are fighting words.”
“Unless she’s right,” Leo points out. “In which case…?”
And then we’re all looking at Vitto, who shrugs and says, “I mean, anything’s possible. But no winery that wants to keep their reputation intact would even think of doing something like that. Even to suggest it is not good. That kind of talk could ruin a winery. It’s only about one step above claiming that someone’s been adding wood chips to his chardonnay to give it more of an oaky flavor. Supermarket chains might do things like that but…”
“Unless she’s right,” Leo repeats.
Vito nods. “Yes. Fine. Unless she’s right. I hope she’s not but…I just don’t know. I’ll try and find out.”
“It was only an idea,” I say again, in a very small voice.
“You said what you thought,” Leo say kindly. “That’s not wrong. It’s just not something that’s occurred to us before.”
I nod, to show I understand, but it’s clear they’re having strong thoughts about it now. And not happy ones. And I guess this makes it official. I am the family buzzkill.
I feel that even more when Gianni asks Rosa if we’ve “given any more thought to the name change idea.” Which is the first time I’m hearing anything about it.
Rosa shrugs. “Not really. I think we’ve tabled that topic for now.”
Then she glances inquiringly at Bee who nods in agreement. “Yes. For now.” And the conversation moves on to other topics, and no one appears to realize that I’m just sitting here frozen, blindsided once again. Was there a question of a name change? Did I miss a memo? And why does it seem like everyone knows about it but me?
I’m relieved when dinner ends. I only wish the whole night was over with.
While the Lambros and I deal with cleanup, Rosa whips up a big batch of Nonna’s zeppoli, and Bee (with an assist from Jansen) puts together a row of boozy affogatos—the ingredients for which were the cousins’ contribution to dinner. Coffee, Amaretto, and toasted almond ice cream from a local creamery. It’s an adult upgrade on one of our childhood favorites.
When we were little, movie night at Nonna’s was a tradition. Whenever our parents were busy, or needed a break, she’d invite us all over. She’d line the living room floor with sleeping bags, and after dinner we’d all gather there. We’d eat zeppoli and ice cream sundaes and watch movies until we fell asleep.
At least, that’s how I remembered it. Being the youngest, I always got the best seat in the house—Nonna’s lap—albeit for the shortest period of time, since I always fell asleep first. If the others got up to more interesting activities after I fell out, I never heard about it.
Tonight’s movie is A Good Year. Russell Crowe—wearing eyeglasses! And speaking French! Not Keanu, but definitely doable. Although that was not something I thought about when I saw this as a kid. As a matter of fact, I found it boring and confusing. It’s hitting different now, in a lot of ways.
It starts off with a man—Crowe—returning to the winery in France where he went to live after his parents died. His Uncle Henry, the man who raised him, has died as well now—without making a will—and Crowe (or rather, his character—Max) is assumed to have inherited the entire estate, as his uncle’s only known relative.
Coming this soon after Nonna’s death, I suspect it’s hitting different for the others, too. A heavy silence falls over the room as we watch Max explore the now derelict estate.
During the flashback scene (in which a young Max is learning to play tennis. Or, learning to lose at tennis, from the looks of it) Gianni stirs suddenly and says, “Jesus. He’s just like dad.” And I’m not sure if he means the overbearing, tough-it-out uncle, or the whiny, tantrum throwing kid. Maybe it’s both? And I’m all at once caught up in a flashback of my own…
I remember Nonna talking to Jimmy about death—the ways in which it impacted people, vs the way it affected families. It might have been in conjunction with her will. Or maybe someone they knew had just died. I don’t really know. I was eavesdropping, as per usual, and couldn’t ask for details.
“We’re always affected by the death of someone close to us,” I remember her saying. “Little fractures of the soul. Some people heal quickly, others take a long time, but no one goes back to being exactly as they were before.”
Jimmy murmured something in response—I couldn’t hear what. And Nonna laughed sadly.
“No, because when the entire family is affected—when there are multiple fractures, and no one is whole—that’s when families shatter. There’s no one left to hold the pieces together. So they come apart like an old ceramic bowl when it hits the floor. The pieces fly in all directions, landing who knows where. Maybe one of them ends up under a bureau, where no one ever thinks to look for it. And the more pieces you have, the harder it is to fit them all back together.”
“So melodramatic,” Jimmy chided. “But that’s not inevitable, is it? Not all families react like that.”
“No, but I’m afraid mine will,” Nonna said, sounding so sad that my heart broke a little for her.
I got to my feet, ready to burst through the door and hug her tight and promise that I had her back, that I’d never let that happen. But before I could take a single step, Jimmy spoke again—this time in a tone I’d never heard him use before. “Cara.” Just one word, but that’s all it took. Because, in that moment I finally realized that ‘Cara’ was more than just a nickname. It wasn’t a shortened form of the name Carmel; it was an endearment . And the way his tongue caressed the word told me something else.
It told me that they weren’t just friends.
“Oh, I know, I know,” Nonna was saying—when I recovered from my shock. And I think I may have missed part of their conversation while I was grappling with my surprise. “I’m probably being silly. But I know my son. Geno does not handle change well. He never has. He closes in on himself. He focuses all his attention on what’s immediately in front of him and lets everything else go. And it’s my fault—I know that, too. Well, mine and Leo’s. Actually, mostly Leo’s, I think—not that I mean to speak ill of the dead. But we had our own pain, he and I; our own grief to deal with. The loss of our child, our firstborn—neither of us handled that well, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know how you would,” Jimmy replied. “Or how anyone would. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“Oh, I know,” Nonna agreed. “But we had other children—and they suffered, too. I think we lost sight of that for a while. Geno was saddled with too much responsibility, at too young an age. And then criticized for not being able to deal with everything as well as his brother had. I should have seen what was happening and put my foot down. But…”
Nonna’s voice trails off and Jimmy says something else I can’t hear. Then Nonna again, “But no! Don’t you see? That’s precisely the problem. I won’t be there to advise him. And I doubt there’s anyone else he’ll listen to. So, I have to do what I can—to protect my girls, mie tre sorelle. I have to make sure that they are not the ‘pieces’ that get lost when the bowl shatters.”
So, I guess, after all, she was talking about the will…
By the time we reach the point in the movie where Max is forging letters to ensure that his mysterious cousin (coincidentally, a girl from Napa) can inherit the winery, instead of him, I’m remembering why I’d found it so confusing.
There’s the inheritance angle. The love story sub-plot between Max and his childhood friend. The illegal vine sub-plot—because if you think Napa wine laws are convoluted and pointless, France is here to say, “hold my INAO glass!”
There’s a strangely contentious winemaker who clearly knows more about everything than he’s saying. A passive-aggressive dog— “See, Moose?” I whisper to the little dog whose head is resting on my leg. “That’s bad. Don’t be like that.” And, at the end of the day, Max has to give up the winery (and the life he built in London) in order to get the girl. Which, then and now, has always struck me as being massively unfair.
I mean, he’s the one with the memories of growing up there, isn’t he? He’s the person his uncle wanted the winery to go to. But that’s not how the movie ends, and that’s not how life works out either, most of the time.
As the end credits roll, we fall into a discussion about when we should do this again, and what movie we should watch next time. Since November is right around the corner, Gianni suggests that we aim for a Friendsgiving dinner. Which has an unfortunately quelling effect on all of us, driving home the point that, with Nonna gone, we probably won’t be celebrating Thanksgiving together as a family anymore.
It takes me a moment to rally from that, but my sisters bounce back quickly. “Yeah, for sure. The Sunday after should be good for us,” Rosa says. And “You’ll be back by then too, won’t you?” Bee asks Jansen.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jansen says, nodding gamely. Which makes him a keeper in my book.
In a desperate attempt to move the conversation along, I start tossing out suggestions for next month’s movie. I lean hard into the old musicals that I remember Nonna having loved, prompting Leo to marvel at my memory. “How do you remember so much?” he says. “You had to have slept through half those movies.”
“Sleep learning!” Gianni suggests. “She remembers more than the rest of us do because all those songs went straight into her subconscious mind.”
“ Grullo ,” Vitto murmurs dismissively—basically calling his brother gullible. “That doesn’t work.”
“How would you know?” Gianni replies, playfully shoving his brother. At least I think it’s supposed to be playful. “Show me your research, carciofo .” And I can’t tell if they’re about to start fighting or if calling your brother an artichoke is just something brothers do.
Either way, I switch instantly to deflection mode. “That’s not why,” I tell them. “It’s because I had mono in high school and was sick for weeks.” It was early in my junior year—while both my sisters were away at college. I was out for so long and fell so far behind that my school enrolled me in their independent study program, and I was basically homeschooled for the remainder of the year.
“Nonna and I spent a lot of that time watching movies together.” And re-writing song lyrics. And making grand plans for the future—this future. Now. A future that, by design, did not include her. Funny how I hadn’t really recognized that, at the time.
And now I’m blinking back tears and spiraling into depression again, largely unaware of the worried looks the others are casting at one another.
“Hey, you know what?” Rosa says. “We have weeks to decide, we don’t have to make up our minds tonight.”
“That’s true,” Leo agrees. “And we need to get going now, anyway. We can talk about that later.”
“Or we don’t even have to,” Vitto suggests. “Why don’t you three decide? You have good ideas. And, you know us, we’re easy to please.”
“Oh, sure,” Gianni says with a laugh—that’s cut short when Leo smacks him in the back of the head. “I mean, yes. We are. Total pushovers. Love those chick-flicks.”
After my cousins leave, I make an excuse and slip away to quickly text Clay?—
“Can I come over?”
He texts back after less than a minute?—
“Now? It’s kinda late,”
—a response that’s giving serious “Don’t Call Me” country music vibes, even after he adds a hopeful?—
“How about tomorrow?”
“Or not,” I mutter discontentedly. Curious, I glance at the time. I’m surprised to realize it’s already after eleven. Which is late, I guess, when you start work at six.
And even I’ll admit that that’s a strange thing to envy someone for. Still, I’m managing it. Because I’m trying to create a meaningful role for myself here, too. A reason why I’d need to roll out of bed every day at o-dark-thirty. And I’m being hamstrung at every turn. Most recently by him.
So maybe I am still feeling a little resentful. And maybe he suspects as much. Perhaps getting together tonight really isn’t a good idea.
“Yeah, maybe. Sorry to bother you.”
“Not a bother,”
—he texts back. Which is sweet. And which does put a teeny smile on my face. Still, I’m heading upstairs to sleep alone, in my childhood bedroom. And that’s so not where I want to be right now.