Que Será, Syrah, page 18
part #1 of POUR DECISIONS Series
The shaking of her shoulders finally registers. Fuck me, for an insensitive asshole. She’s crying. So, I hug her even tighter, murmuring, “Shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s like with you said about your party; at least something good came of it, right? It helped me decide what I wanted to do with my life. So, that’s good, right?”
She pulls back to look at me. “Really? So, you didn’t always want to be a deputy?”
I shoot her a disbelieving look. “What, are you kidding? You thought the seventeen-year-old who ‘put your life in the toilet’ and was ready to fuck you without even telling you his name was a law-abiding kind of guy?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” She smiles, shakily. “But honestly? Yeah. He didn’t seem so bad; he was kinda sweet.”
“Sweet?” I ask in mock outrage. “Who the hell’re you talking about?” I mean…it’s mostly mock, and I’m pleased when she giggles in response. “Not me?”
“God save me from men’s fragile egos,” she murmurs as she rolls her eyes. “And also hot, okay? Hot and sweet. And, as I recall, he was also very concerned about my little wine theft. So, what does that tell you?”
I open my mouth to point out that a case of wine is not a ‘little’ theft. But then I stop and reconsider. “Okay,” I tell her. “You may have a point. But, to answer your question, no. Even after the fires, deputy was not a no-brainer.” I snuggle her against me once more. “I knew I wanted to give back to the community that had saved my life, to maybe someday be a hero to someone else. But becoming a firefighter was flat out never going to happen. I’d’ve been suicidal within a week. There was no fucking way I could do that on the reg.” Just thinking about it makes me shudder. And I have to pause, remind myself to breathe, and shove the memories to the back of my mind once again before I can continue. “Like you, I wasn’t the best student, so I figured a career as an EMT was out. I just didn’t have the science or math background, you know? And…well, Napa College had a Criminal Justice certificate program, and I liked how that sounded. You know—Justice? It was…”
“Quixotic?” she suggests, teasingly. But she’s not wrong.
“Kind of.”
“And how’s that working out?”
I huff out a laugh. “Well…it’s touch and go. I don’t like everything I have to do, but up until this Summer, I’d’ve said it was going pretty good.”
“Oh?”
“No offense, but your family kind of sucks.”
“Hey. Not all of them,” she replies immediately. “Some of us are just trying to make great wine and make our grandmother proud.”
I sigh and shake my head, reminded again of the gap between us—and all the reasons why we’re just so totally fucked. “Maybe,” I say. “But I thought I was signing up to protect the helpless and serve the community. And lately, I feel more like a hall monitor at a middle school. A snooty, private middle-school full of assholes.”
“Wow,” she says, shaking her head and staring wide-eyed at me. “Don’t hold back, Deputy. Tell me how you really feel about me.”
“Not you,” I quickly assure her. “Just your family.”
“Uh-huh. And did you ever actually go to a school like that?” she asks.
“No,” I admit. “But I’ve met plenty of people who did.”
“Well, I did go to one of those schools—for all the good it did me. And I don’t even speak to those people anymore. Those are not my family.”
“Okay. If you say so,” I say, just to end this discussion which, anyone can tell, isn’t going to lead to anything good. And, somehow, we’ve both agreed that spending her the night again this soon isn’t the best way to conduct a clandestine relationship. So as soon as her clothes are dry, and the rain has stopped, I’m walking her to her car, we’re kissing each other goodbye, I’m watching her drive away. And it’s still on of the best weeks I’ve had in a really long time.
* * *
But then it’s Thursday afternoon, and all it takes is one glance at the evil grin on my dispatcher’s face. Just one single glance and my spirits start to sink, and my hopes start to dim. Because, sure enough, a new complaint has just been lodged against Caparelli. And, from the moment I read it, I know in my heart of hearts that this one is probably valid.
Chapter 13
Allegra
There 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 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, are they? 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?”
