Chapter 19
Allegra
“ A llegra! Well, this is a nice surprise,” my Aunt Janet greets me with a hug as I enter my uncle’s office at Belmonte, where apparently time never passes. If Nonna’s hammock was an office, it would look and feel like this. Well, not as stuffy and formal as this, but otherwise, samesies.
“You look like you got a little bit of a tan,” my aunt observes. “Did you have a nice vacation?” I have not seen the woman in five years, yet she’s speaking as though I’d only been gone a few weeks. “Is the jetlag very bad?” Or make that days.
“Che cosa,” my uncle (who clearly suffers from no such delusion) complains. “What jetlag? She’s fine. She’s been back for weeks.” The subtext—that this is the first time I’ve bothered to see him—is made clear in the discontented expression he’s wearing. Or maybe he’s still mad at me for the raisin remark I made during our phone call back in April? Hard to know.
“How’ve you been, Uncle Geno?” I ask as I plop myself into one of the chairs in front of his desk (while my aunt lowers herself gracefully into the other one). “It’s been a while, huh?” Because two can play the subtext game.
My uncle gives the kind of shrug that Italian infants begin practicing when they’re still sleeping in bassinettes. Vague and elaborate, it’s a gesture that can mean so many things—I’m fine. So what? Who’s asking? Go fuck yourself –Or nothing at all.
“We’ve been a little worried about your sisters, dear,” my aunt leans in to confide. “But hopefully, now that you’re back, you can convince them to do the right thing?”
Since she doesn’t spell out what ‘the right thing’ would be, I take the liberty of interpreting it as I please. “Oh, I will,” I say brightly. “I promise.”
Janet is pleased with my response. Geno…not so much. My uncle may be many things, slow-witted isn’t one of them. “They cannot run a winery all on their own,” he insists. “In Napa, of all places!”
“Is it unusually difficult here?” It’s Aunt Janet who asks the question. Yes, I’m surprised as well.
Geno fixes her with a look which, like the shrug, could have many meanings. Janet flushes. “Well, I don’t understand why it would be,” she protests. “It’s America. You don’t even have to speak Italian.”
“Or French,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Or Spanish. Or Portuguese. German…Hungarian…Greek, of course…I think that’s it.”
Geno’s nostrils flare. “No. That is not why. It is because it is so very small, a mere forty-five thousand acres. And the grapes grown here are the best in the world. To see even a fraction of them go to waste— Bah, it makes me furious.”
See what I mean about the raisin remark? Yeah, he’s still pissed.
“But they’re not going to waste,” I say, hope rising (phoenix-like) in my chest. Is he serious? Could it be this simple? Can I actually get through to him (and yes, ‘do what neither of my sisters could’)? “Bianca’s wines are already winning awards. And she was using Argentinean grapes. (Yes, all right? I know. ) Imagine what she’ll be able to do with Napa grapes! She’ll make you so proud, Uncle Geno.”
“Vitto is making wine now, too,” Aunt Janet says as her gaze flickers nervously between us. “I think his wines are very good.”
“I’ve heard that,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers and praying that I don’t say the wrong thing. “Everyone says he’s very talented.”
Aunt Janet beams proudly. Uncle Geno shrugs again. “All these things he wants to try. Everything new, new, new. New equipment, new methods, new varietals, new blends, new barrels. Even new corks,” He leans forward, really getting into it now, looking animated for the first time since I sat down. “Do you know what wine has won more awards, over the course of more seasons than any other?”
“The Carleo?” I ask, flashing my best customer service smile.
“The Carleo,” Geno affirms. “And who do you think makes the Carleo?”
“Oh, everyone knows that you do, Uncle Geno.”
“Sì. I make the Carleo.” Then he sits back in his chair, so fiercely proud of what he’s accomplished, and in that moment, epiphany slips its silken dagger under my ribs and into my heart.
And I see beyond the pride. I see fear and vulnerability and pain. I see an unloved child. I see myself. And I fucking hate it.
I was going to try and ferret out his secret—what is it that’s making the Carleo so blah. I was going to try to convince him to support Bianca and Vitto—the next generation of Lamberti/Martinelli winemakers. I even thought he might have some ideas for how we might be rid of Nico.
And maybe one of these days I’ll try again. But, for now, I’ve lost my taste for the game.
Shortly after, I take my leave of my aunt and uncle. I check the time when I get back to my car and consider breaking for lunch before my next stop. But eventually, I decide against it. Losing my lunch is a distinct possibility; and I’d rather not risk it.
“Allegra,” Jimmy sounds surprised when his assistant ushers me into his office. “This is unexpected. I assume this has to do with your grandmother’s um, bequest to you?” He stumbles over the last few words, his voice breaking ever so slightly. And in that moment his grief is so painfully obvious that it brings tears to my eyes. Or maybe that’s my own grief?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I-I should have called ahead.” The sound of my voice is unexpected too. It emerges as something soft and sad. I force it into something closer to its normal range as I finish with a jaunty, “But hey! You know me.”
His lips curved in a small, but unmistakable smile as he presses a button on the intercom that connects him with the outer office—I swear, it must be an antique. He’s probably been using the exact same one since the nineties… The eighties? Longer maybe? —and requests my grandmother’s file. Then he sits back and folds his hands and says, “Yes. I do know you. Quite well. Possibly better than you think.”
Which…really doesn’t help calm my nerves at all. Maybe not, Jimmy , I think to myself; maybe not .
I clear my throat and try again. “Actually, there were a couple of things I wanted to discuss with you.”
Jimmy nods, his expression serene, his voice admirably under control. “Oh, of course. And how thoughtless of me not to offer my congratulations. I did speak with your sister, yesterday. So, has this to do with your recent, er, marriage? Will we be drafting a will today, as well?”
“No!” This time I’m mortified to have almost shouted the word. “No, definitely not.” And then, of course, the whole wretched story comes tumbling out yet again—with only one small pause to allow Jimmy’s assistant to deliver the requested file. And apparently Clay was right about this, too. It does get easier with repetition.
“Well, this is all very troubling,” Jimmy says when I’m finally done.
“I know,” I say in a very small voice. “What can I do?”
And now it’s his turn to embark on a long, and convoluted—and painful! —dissertation on all the ways that the situation might conceivably play out, none of them good, and all of which, basically, come down to the same unpalatable conclusion.
I really have screwed the pooch on this one. It’s probable my sisters will pay the biggest price. And teams of lawyers and multiple judges will likely be picking at the remains of my grandmother’s estate, for a very long time. We’d have been better off letting Geno have it.
“Of course, there are always exceptions,” Jimmy says carefully. “Unexpected circumstances…”
“Miracles?” I joke.
Jimmy smiles. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“But, seriously. There must be something?”
“Yes, of course. The case is not entirely hopeless. If we can prove that the marriage was never valid, without exposing you to prosecution in the process, that is, and if your husband—” he breaks off, possibly due to my instinctive flinch, checks his notes, and then corrects himself, “I’m so sorry, if Mr. Carvahlo can be persuaded to be reasonable, to accept a settlement of some kind?—”
“What if I stayed married to him?” I ask, grasping at straws. “Would that be better? If so, I’m willing to take one for team, if you think it would help. Although obviously we’d have to get it in writing, because I wouldn’t trust him otherwise. Not that I trust him now. But perhaps the prospect of a green card and a small settlement... No?”
I break off when Jimmy begins to shake his head. “No. No. That would be…completely unacceptable. Under no circumstances should you put that, or anything remotely like it, into writing. That would almost certainly be perceived as proof of fraud or attempted fraud on your part.”
“Oh. Right,” I sigh. “Of course.” This is what I get for attempting to think on a mostly empty stomach. I really should have eaten more for breakfast. Or maybe not skipped lunch. I wonder what Jimmy would say if I suggested we order something in?
“Also,” Jimmy continues, unaware of the direction my thoughts have taken, “If I might remind you, according to what you’ve told me, you are not currently married to Mr. Carvahlo. Nor were you ever actually married to him. And nor does it appear that Mr. Carvahlo would wish to remain married to you—were he actually married to you; which he is not—for any longer than necessary. Was that not what you told me?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “I was forgetting about that, too.”
“Understandable. I’m sure this is all very distressing for you.”
And for you , I think, feeling a stab of guilt. God he must hate this. And me .
“Now, the first thing we need to do is to have you sign these papers and actually accept your grandmother’s bequest. Because, otherwise, there’s really nothing to talk about.”
Hmm. A thought has begun nudging at the back of my brain, causing me to zone out and miss some of what Jimmy is saying.
“…and while it’s true that I drafted them myself,” he continues. “I would still encourage you to read through the document before signing it.”
“Jimmy,” I say, slowly, still wrapping my brain around a new idea still taking shape within my brain. “What if I didn’t sign that?”
“What? Oh, no, no, no. As I explained, leaving the estate in limbo is not in you or your sisters’ best interests. I don’t wish to place blame, but this really should have been attended to last April.”
“Yeah, no. Sorry. That’s not what I meant. What I should have said is, what if I didn’t accept the bequest? Or, what if I transferred my share—or whatever it’s called—to someone else? My Uncle Geno, perhaps. Or maybe one of my cousins. Or perhaps all three of them? Would something like that be possible?”
“Well…ye-es. I see what you’re saying. There would be ramifications, to be sure. And I would want to be very clear about that. But theoretically, it would be possible, I suppose.”
“Great,” I sigh. “Let’s talk about it then. But first, would it be possible to get something to eat?”