Chapter 16
Allegra
N oah, the owner of Wheeling Through the Vines, is enthusiastic when we drop off the bikes the next morning—and excited to get the next Tour and Pour on the calendar. It seems most of the reviews that have been coming in have been positive, and he’s blithely unconcerned about the fact that I’d needed to call two separate ambulances. “That’s why we make ’em sign releases,” he says cheerfully.
Clay is quiet as we walk back to his SUV—and it’s a heavy, judgmental silence that rattles my nerves.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he navigates us in the direction of home. “You’ve been quiet ever since we left the bike shop.”
“Ah, it’s nothing.” He shrugs. “I just hate guys like that.”
“Who—Noah? Why? He seemed nice enough.”
“Why?” Clay shoots me an annoyed look. “Because he doesn’t care anything at all about his clients, that’s why. As long as they’ve signed releases and leave five-star reviews, it’s all good. So, what if they need an ambulance, or sustain injuries, or get saddled with astronomical medical bills. Let’s get the next tour on the books and rake in that guap.”
I stare at him, openmouthed. “Those were my clients, too, you know. I was the one in charge. Yet you told me I should leave the Rogeres behind; that I was overreacting to Gracie’s bee-sting. So, is that what you secretly think of me, too?”
Clay shakes his head. “No. I think you showed a normal amount of concern. And I did not say you were overreacting. I told you to stop catastrophizing about it. Either of those situations could have gone sideways; but the time to be aware of that is when you’re in the moment. Agonizing about something after the fact, when there’s nothing you can do about it? How does that help anyone?”
“Maybe,” I say, and then fall into a protracted silence until Clay breaks it by saying, “Okay, I guess now it’s your turn.”
“What?” I ask, frowning as I try to remember what we were talking about.
“Now you’re the one who’s gone quiet. I know you’re still upset about yesterday. And I know it’s about more than just the bee-sting. I wish you’d tell me. Maybe I could help?”
Talking about yesterday is the last thing I want to do. On the other hand, the closer we get to the winery, the more my tension mounts. And he does give good advice. “I don’t want you to judge me.”
Clay’s eyebrows rise. “When have I ever done that?”
“You mean other than the night you pulled me over for speeding? Don’t you dare pretend you weren’t judging me then!”
“Fair,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “But that’s when I didn’t know you. I don’t think I’d do that now.”
“Unless I started driving badly,” I suggest.
“Well sure,” he says, grinning playfully. “But it’s your driving that I’d be judging in that case. Not you.”
I nod and pretend to agree, but I’m not sure I do. Me, my driving, my choices, the mistakes I make. Isn’t it all the same thing?
“So…yesterday?” he prompts.
“Okay, I say. Then I nod again. It’s funny actually, but I meant to tell him all of this last night. It’s partly why I went there. But it’s embarrassing and I chickened out. I wanted just one night of fun. And yes, one night of not being judged. But we’ll be home soon, and my sisters will be there, and I feel like I have to unload on someone before I get there…
My bikers were in good spirits after we left Clay and the Rogeres at the side of the road. It was a little bit shocking, actually. I knew they were all strangers, but all the same, their lack of interest surprised me. We stopped at one more winery, almost directly across from Belmonte, and that was somewhat bittersweet. While the bikers enjoyed their wine—and the herbed almonds the winery had provided to go with—I contemplated the vineyards I’d played in as a child, trying to imagine it from Clay’s point of view, remembering what he had said about seeing the house from a distance, lit up for parties. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like knowing I did not belong or would not be welcome there. It occurred to me that that was probably part of the reason why I had not yet made time to visit my aunt and uncle. I couldn’t be certain of my welcome.
Soon, I promised my inner critic; I’ll stop by for a visit soon . But it continued to nag at me, even as I gathered my group back together and headed for the next winery on our route: Caparelli…
“But you don’t have any wine there,” Clay interrupts.
“I know that. That’s why I planned it as a rest and lunch spot. And no, before you ask, I did not sell any food. The bike company provided the lunches. Okay?”
“I know you think I’m a hard ass,” he replies. “But I’m just trying to protect us both.”
A stack of boxed lunches awaited us as we rolled up Caparelli’s drive. As we approached, I tried to do the same as I’d done with Belmonte, viewing it as an outsider would.
The house itself was looking a little bit dingy. The sign in front was faded and chipped, with gilt paint flaking off the letters. I knew that my sisters, Rosa in particular, had expended an enormous amount of time and energy (and as much money as Rosa’s frugal soul would allow) just getting it to this point.
That was not a criticism, by the way. I’d seen the books and the accounts. I was aware of the constant juggling act she maintained. I wouldn’t take on Rosa’s job for the world.
Well, I couldn’t anyway. I didn’t have the experience. I didn’t have the education. I probably didn’t even have the smarts for it.
I just wished there was some magic that would restore the whole property to the way that I remembered it. But at least the terrace looked great.
I had taken my sisters’ advice. I’d moved one of the tables (the sauvignon blanc; the one I’d painted a pale greenish cream color) down to where the lawn met the vineyard. I knew the field workers often ate their lunches there. They were embarrassingly grateful that I’d thought of them. I felt bad because I really hadn’t. I felt even worse when I remembered what Rosa had said about the lighter colors becoming stained.
There was no denying that the three remaining tables fit the space perfectly, however. And even I had to admit that the dark, pearlescent charcoal paint was a perfect choice. Classier, more elegant, more refined than my earlier choices.
As everyone ate, I told them about the winery, the awards we’d won in the past, the exciting new wines we’d soon be releasing, my sister’s skill. I’d posted a QRC on the wall, that people could scan if they wanted to be subscribed to our newsletter (still just a concept). And nearly everyone did. I encouraged people to wander around and thought nothing of it when two of the women stopped to admire one of Nonna’s rosebushes …
“Uh-oh,” Clay observes.
“Would you stop interrupting,” I snap. “I suppose you would have known better and warned them to keep their distance?” And he’d have been right , my inner critic points out. It’s not like you didn’t notice the bees when you were out here last week .
“No, I wouldn’t,” Clay replies. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me at all. I mean, maybe if it had been a school group, I might’ve thought of it. But a bunch of grown-ass adults? At some point you have to learn to take care of yourself.”
“So, you really don’t think it was my fault?”
Clay shakes his head. “Did you tell her to go stick her face in a flower? Are we about to get to the part of the story where you confess to having chased her around the vineyard, with a bee in your hand trying to get her stung?”
“No!” I cross my arms and glare at him. “You know I would never do any of that.”
“Then I can’t think of any reason to blame you.”
But I could still blame myself…
Gracie had shrieked when the bee flew up her nose—so loud, that I was surprised when I was the only one who came running. By the time I reached her—a handful of seconds, at best—her eyes were already swollen shut and she was having trouble breathing. Thank God her best friend had taken the tour with her, she’d seen this before. She knew where Gracie kept her Epi-pen, and how to administer it.
My biggest contribution was calling the ambulance.
No one complained (at least I didn’t hear it) while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Or while the EMTs were assessing Gracie’s condition. She was frightened enough that she opted to be transported to the hospital, rather than continue with the tour. Which…really wouldn’t have been an option at that point, anyway.
My heart sank a little when I checked the time and realized that we’d missed our time slots at the last two wineries.
It sank even more when I announced to the group.
And when I watched their faces fall, and heard the grumbling begin…I may have lost a little of my common sense.
At first, I suggested a tour of the grounds as compensation. But I guess the threat of encountering more bees was making people nervous. Then somebody asked about a barrel tasting, reminding everyone about the story I’d told them over lunch—all about the new, sparkling wine my sister was experimenting with. And about how she’d given us tastes, even though the juice (really, you couldn’t call it wine yet) was still in the early fermentation stages. And suddenly, everyone wants to see the wine cave, everyone wants to taste Bianca’s version of Champagne …
“Let me guess, you took them to see the barrel room, or whatever it’s called?”
“Ha. I wish.” I shake my head. “There’s almost always someone doing something there. I’m sure I could have found someone willing to give a mini-tour, point out some interesting features, or to talk everyone’s ears off explaining the pros and cons of oak vs stainless steel. That would have been the smart thing to do. So of course, I took them to the cave.”
“Wait—you have a cave?” Clay asks. “Your own cave?”
I have to laugh. “Omigod. The look on your face! Yes, of course, we do. Lots of wineries have them. Stags’ Leap, Pine Ridge. Did you know that the one at Palmaz extends for eighteen stories?
Ours isn’t anything like that, of course; it’s very small. And before Bianca reopened it this summer, it hadn’t been used in years. I remember playing in there when I was a kid. Which they probably wouldn’t have let us done if they were actively fermenting wine in there.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Carbon Dioxide. Did you know that most of the fatalities that occur at wineries are due to CO2 poisoning?”
“I did not,” Clay replies, looking amused. Probably more amused than he ought to, given the grim subject. But I guess maybe, when you’re in law enforcement, you get used to that kind of thing?
“So, what was the problem with the cave?” Clay asks. “I mean, I’m assuming that’s where something happened. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
The gate was locked, when we got to the cave, which I wasn’t expecting. But, because I’d been an especially sneaky kid, I knew where the spare key used to be kept, and—lucky for me—no one had ever moved it. Once inside, it took a little fumbling before I found the light switch, which gave me a moment to reflect on how dark and quiet a cave could be.
Last time I’d visited, just after harvest, it had been ablaze with light, and abuzz with activity. Now it was as silent and sunless as midnight in a crypt. And every bit as creepy as I remembered it feeling when I’d played here as a kid. I shivered involuntarily.
“It’s so cool in here, isn’t it?” I asked brightly to cover my reaction. I flipped on the lights, as quickly as possible. All the while talking too fast about insulation, and geothermal factors, and passive air flow, and on and on.
People were walking around, poking their noses into everything. I warned them about straying too far from the entrance, and I tried to keep my patter light and entertaining, but eventually people started asking when they were going to get to taste the wine.
“I’m sorry,” I told them. “But I did say it was only a possibility. I was hoping my sister would be here, but since she’s not, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen today. But be sure to come back in a few months and we’ll be delighted to introduce you to all our beautiful wines. And, don’t forget, if you sign up for our newsletter, you’ll get updates right in your inbox whenever there’s news.”
I’d just started to urge my troops back towards the exit, when the clatter of boots on brick reached our ears, and the next moment Jake appeared in the doorway, looking harried and annoyed and—when he caught sight of me—some weird mixture of horror and relief.
“Legs, what the hell? Are these the missing bikers?”
“Well, they’re bikers,” I replied. “But nobody’s missing.” At which point I remembered that I currently had four fewer clients than I started out with—which had to be what he meant, right? “I mean, no. Sorry, these are the ones who aren’t missing.”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. They need to get out.” To which I nearly responded: ‘what do you think I’m trying to do?’ except I didn’t get the chance.
Raising his voice, Jake announced, “All right folks, please start heading outside, right away. And if you are with the bike tour, there are a coupla vans waiting outside for you.”
“I could have done that,” I told him angrily. After all, I’d been herding this particular group of people all day.
“Let’s talk about it outside,” Jake said sternly.
Which, of course, pissed me off. But before I could respond, a voice towards the back of the cave (where I told everyone not to go) called out, “I think I found it! Hey, is this it?” Startled, Jake and I turned toward the sound, and gasped in tandem. One of the more annoying members of my band was draped over a barrel, with his head practically in the bung hole ? —
“Wait. Is that even possible?”
“Not the point. It’s hyperbole. But he had is whole nose in the hole—which is not something you want!
“Smells weird,” he complained. Just before he laid his head on the barrel, with his ear over the bung hole. “I can hear it bubbling!”
“ Sir!” Jake yelled, as loud as I’ve ever heard him. “Stop that! Get off that barrel and out of the cave—now!”
“Okay, okay,” the man replied, replacing the bung hold plug ? —”
“It’s really called that?”
“Clay!”
“Sorry. Go on…”
Jake was so mad he was vibrating. I was pretty angry as well, as the man (I’d thought his name was Dave, but at that point I wasn’t sure) sauntered towards us. “But she said she’d let us have a taste,” he said, pointing at me.
“You didn’t?” Jake growled, turning his anger on me.
“Of course, I didn’t,” I replied. Then I turned to Dave. “I said maybe, if my sister was here.”
“Why? I thought you were the owner? Can’t you make any decisions?”
“ One of the owners,” I said, holding up a finger (no, not that finger). “One!”
Which was when Jake lost it. “That’s it. Out. Both of you!” Then he grabbed each of us by an arm and walked us out.
Once we were out in the open, and he’d relocked the gate, Jake seemed a whole lot calmer. Which surprised me. He’d been one of the kids who’d played here with us. I didn’t recall he’d been nervous back then.
Jake pointed out where the vans were parked in the drive, and directed Dave (or whatever his name was) towards them. Then he turned to me.
“Jesus, Legs. What were you doing down there?”
“Uh…leading a tour?”
“Leading? That was your idea?”
“Well…”
“Did you not notice how quiet it was down there?”
“Bruh. With the way you were shouting? Uh, no!”
“This isn’t a joke! One of the CO2 fans is offline. I had to go all the way to Sacramento for a part; I just got back.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Do you know how dangerous that is?”
‘No, why?’ I wanted to reply. ‘Because CO2 loooves low places and can kill in minutes and we just had an idiot down there opening barrels—which is where the CO2 lives?’ But of course, I didn’t. What I said instead was, “How come nobody told me?”
“Why would they? The gate was supposed to be locked. And you don’t have any business in the cave, anyway.”
Which was—technically—all true, but after Dave’s jabs about me not being an owner, it hit badly. “The whole winery is my business, Jake!”
“I didn’t mean it that way. None of us have any business in there right now, other than—” He broke off on a groan. “Oh, shit.”
“What now?”
“Bianca’s going to pitch a fit.”
“Everything’s fine,” I insisted, yet again, trying to sound as soothing as I knew how. “I know it got a little chaotic, but nothing happened.”
“So, you’re saying my wine is not contaminated with some random bacteria?” Bianca’s sarcasm game was on point. “You didn’t all nearly die? That’s a relief.”
“You tell people they can’t get a barrel tasting. But then you bring them to the place where the barrels are,” Rosa said—not far behind. “How does that not seem like a bad idea?”
‘Maybe because that’s been the script for virtually every barrel room tour I ever led,’ I nearly said, which was God’s own truth:
‘No, I’m so sorry, you won’t be able to get a taste. Our winemaker is very particular, and these wines aren’t ready to drink yet. But let me tell you about the oak we use for our barrels…’
“Look,” I told her, still trying to stay calm. “I had everything under control. And if Jake hadn’t distracted me ? —
“Are you kidding?” Bianca asked. “If Jake hadn’t just happened to come in when he did ? —”
Which is when I began to lose my shit. “Oh, he ‘just happened’ to come in? Right. I’m so sure.”
Rosa frowned. “Okay, time out. What are you implying, Legs?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I feel like someone’s always looking over my shoulder, checking up on me, keeping track of everything I do.”
Bianca’s lips compressed, as though she were trying to hold onto her temper. But apparently it didn’t work because the next words out of her mouth are, “Has it ever occurred to you that, maybe that’s your fault?”
Rosa nodded. “We never know where you are. You rarely keep us informed. Take today, for example. If we’d known ahead of time that you were planning something special, maybe one of us could have been on hand to help out?”
That burned. For so many reasons. Not the least of which was the assumption that I wouldn’t (or maybe shouldn’t?) be making the Tour and Pour a regular event. Close on the heels of that was my fear that the tour company would feel the same way. I wanted to scream; ‘Today was an exception. I really can do this. I don’t need your help!” But even if I’d screamed it at the top of my lungs, would any of them listen?
“Reach out if you need help,” Rosa is saying when I tune back in to our conversation. “Or ask one of us if you’re unsure about something.”
“Tell me something,” I said, glaring daggers at my sisters. “When’s the last time either of you thought to run something by me? When have any of you asked me for help, or advice on anything?”
Two blank faces stared back at me. And, trust me, I knew those looks. They weren’t the abstracted, ‘when was that now?’ expression people get when they’re attempting to activate their really long-term memory (because they know that the memory in question was forever ago). No, these were hard-core, ‘why would we ever do something like that?’ looks.
“Oh, that’s right,” I purred sweetly. “Never.”
“Legs,” Rosa tried to interrupt, but I was on a roll.
“I bet you can’t even imagine a scenario like that, can you? When would you ever need help from me ? Well, guess what? That goes both ways. I can figure out how to do my own job, too. All. By. Myself. So, I don’t need you, or Jake, or anyone else, to babysit me.”
Which was when Rosa finally cracked. Honestly, I should have been expecting it. See, Bianca and I had always had hotter tempers. Or shorter fuses. Or whatever metaphor you care to use.
As kids, we’d battled a lot, but our fights were like microbursts; you know, those strong, sudden rainstorms that spring up out of nowhere and dissipate just as quickly?
Rosa was an entirely different animal when it came to her temper. If the three of us were rubber bands—yes, another metaphor—Rosa’s was the one that would have stretched the farthest. And then snap back the hardest. So, I really shouldn’t have been surprised when she responded to my babysitter dig with, “Well, good! Because none of us have the time to waste on that shit, anyway! So maybe you should stop making it necessary.”
Clay is silent as I finish my story—which is fine. My breath keeps catching and tears are leaking from my eyes and I’m not sure I’m ready for his reaction anyway. What if he agrees with my sisters? What if he’s disappointed in me, or starts pointing out all the mistakes I made? What if I’ve violated some stupidly obscure rule?
Oh, shit! What if opening the cave while the fan wasn’t on is the kind of violation that could get us shut down?
Just a few feet shy of Caparelli’s entrance, Clay pulls his vehicle off the road. The truck lurches a little, listing from side to side as we bounce over the grassy verge.
“I am so sorry,” he says as he puts the truck in park and turns to face me. “I thought talking about it would help. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”
“You didn’t,” I say blinking rapidly. But in the battle between me and my tears, the tears have won.
He undoes his seatbelt, and then mine, and then he opens his arms and says, “C’mere,” as he reaches for me.
It’s awkward hugging over the console, but it feels nice. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I know I fucked up.”
“No, you didn’t,” Clay says. “Sounds to me like you had a lot thrown at you, all at once. Plus you were operating with limited information. I thought you did pretty good.”
“Yeah?” I lift my head to look at him. “So, you’re not mad?”
“Well, I am a little bit,” he admits. “If I’d known all this last night, I’d’ve taken the whole day off. We could’ve gone up to Calistoga and spent a few hours soaking in the hot springs.”
“Ohhh, that sounds nice,” I reply.
Clay’s lips twist. “I know, but it’s too late. I already took the morning off; I can’t call in now.”
“It’s the thought that counts?” I suggest, hopefully.
“No,” he sighs reluctantly. “It’s really not.”
But he’s wrong. And I’m not even playing. Nice as the hot springs would have been, just knowing he cares enough to think of doing something like that for me? That’s all I need. “Raincheck?” I offer, before I think it through.
Clay smiles. His eyes light up as he nods. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Maybe sometime next week?”
“Oh, but wait. I’m forgetting. Aren’t you afraid that’ll blow our cover?”
“Nah, I don’t think so,” he says. “Most of the people I work with have families; there’s not a lot of spa days on their calendars. I think we’ll be okay. Besides, you know we’re not going to be able to hide this thing forever, right?” His brow furrows as he adds, “Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to figure out a way to tell people about us.”
“Like an official story?” I tease.
“Yeah. Like that.” Clay’s gaze flicks to the winery’s entrance, and then back to my face. “I still hate the idea of leaving you here. Are you gonna be all right?”
“Of course,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”
So, he puts the truck back in gear, and we refasten our seatbelts—because regulations. And we drive the dozen or so feet down the road, and maybe half that distance again up the drive. Then we park and unbuckle again.
“Uh-oh,” Clay mutters, glancing out through the windshield. “Want me to stick around for a minute?”
Rosa is pacing on the lawn in front of the house, with her phone at her ear. As soon as she sees us she ends the call and comes running up to meet us.
“Um…sure,” I say as I jump from the truck. “Good idea. Maybe she won’t yell as loud in front of company.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says.
Then Rosa is here, yelling, “Allegra, where have you been? We’ve been calling all night!” And I guess I have to give this point to Clay.
Clay
“I-I’m s-sorry!” Legs exclaims, stuttering in reaction to her sister’s distraught expression. “I didn’t have my charger; my phone died. Did something happen?”
“Uh, you tell me,” Rosa says, gazing pointedly at my truck. “What’re you doing?”
“What? Oh!” Allegra’s face clears. “No. Nothing. Clay was just nice enough to give me a ride back from the bike shop.” Then she catches herself, flashes me an apologetic look and corrects herself. “Sorry. I meant Deputy Romero.”
Rosa’s eyes narrow. “I’m sorry, where did you say you went last night?”
“Oh, let’s not worry about that,” Leg says. Her innocent smile wouldn’t fool a child. “What’s happening here? Everything okay?”
“Well, that depends.” Rosa’s gaze flickers once again in my direction as she says the last thing I’m expecting. “Your husband is here. Anything you want to tell me about what you did last summer?”
Husband ? I swallow the word with difficulty. But, if the old saying about how, ‘a wink is as good as a nod to a blind man,’ is valid, I figure the reverse is true, as well. And the strangled cough that emerges from my mouth is fucking damning.
“I don’t have a husband,” Allegra snaps. Then she looks at me and say, “I don’t!” And if her sister had suspicions about us before, I figure they’ve just been confirmed.
So, I lean my arms on the roof of my truck, prop one foot on the running board, and settle in—abandoning all pretense that I’m not hanging on their every word, or that I don’t have a vested interest in the outcome. It was a nice little cover story, while it lasted.
“What do you mean—no husband?” Rosa demands. “He showed us the license, and…and visa documents that the two of you had signed. And pictures of the two of you taken all over Europe. Are you saying they’re fake?”
I straighten up at that point, no longer amused. Legs shakes her head, as though to clear it. “No, wait. Are you saying Nico is here?”
Nico? And just like that, this non-existent husband has a name.
“Yes!” Rosa exclaims, as her hands fly wide, somehow managing to sound simultaneously validated and disappointed, which is a lot to pull off with a single gesture. But then her frown returns. “Well, of course, I mean Nico. Just how many husbands do you have?”
Which is a fucking great question.
“None!” Legs says, but her protest rings hollow. Then she turns to me and repeats it, “None!”
“Well, I don’t understand,” Rosa says. “Are you saying you’re divorced?”
“Of course not,” Legs replies. And then she nails that coffin all the way shut. “Do you know how long it takes to get divorced in Europe? Even in Romania it’s at least six months.”
Annnd I’ve heard enough. “Ladies.” I nod as I swing myself into my truck. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Clay, wait,” Legs begs.
I shake my head and allow myself a single sentence, “Late for work.”
But that, as Legs would say, is only the official story. If you want the truth, the real reason I’m leaving is because there’s nothing she can say right now that I want to hear. And I don’t really trust myself to speak.