stack of letters in the woods one day, then run off crying. I still don’t know what papers she burned, but I leaped out of the tree and burned my hands and clothing, extinguishing the flames before they grew into a raging forest fire.
Surprisingly, Rocco doesn’t argue. “We were all so busy with keeping the farm afloat. And she was such a tough little girl.” He scowls down at the ground and scuffs the dirt with his boot. “She was very independent. She never seemed to need anything,” he says, with a touch of defensiveness.
Yes, because she learned not to. Because the two people she should have been able to turn to, she couldn’t depend on – her parents.
“Next you’ll tell me that she had a roof over her head and plenty to eat, so what did she have to complain about?” I say in a low, heated voice.
“She never complained,” he huffs indignantly.
I don’t even dignify that with a response. I just fix his face with a long, hard stare. His face slowly crumples and his gaze drops. For once, the big macho man has nothing to say.
He shakes his head and walks over to Sienna.
“We’ve got to go,” he says loudly, with his back to me. “Call us if you need anything at all. We’re always here for you.”
“I know that,” she says to him, patting his arm. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
He throws his big, brawny arms out and hugs her, hard. She looks surprised for a moment, then hugs him back. When she steps back, she gives him a reassuring smile.
“It’s fine,” she says soothingly. “Everything’s fine. I don’t mind doing this. It’ll be over in no time at all.”
Well, ouch. Like I’m a disease she can’t wait to purge from her system.
They turn to go, and the goats trail after them. Ducktape waddles after the goats, giving us a forlorn look back.
“You can come by any time!” she calls.
“She’s talking to the duck!” I yell after them.
She elbows me. “Say thanks for bringing the dinner.”
I’m still pissed off at Rocco’s attitude. “You say thank you.”
“Oh my God, what are you, twelve? I wonder if that’s grounds for an annulment. The fact that you’re emotionally underage.” She calls out to her family’s retreating backs, “Thank you very much for dinner!”
“We’ll get our own groceries tomorrow, thank you!” I bellow.
Cesare holds up his hand and gives me a middle-finger salute without looking back. Sara follows suit, then the two bump fists as they’re walking.
She elbows me in the ribs. “You Witlockes. You just have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Oh, like you Ribaldis are any different?”
“Well, yes, because we’re better at it and win more often.” She smirks.
“No you don’t,” I say, which isn’t true, but if I don’t answer her, then she’s getting the last word. Also, she’s probably being too generous when she estimates my emotional age at twelve.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I’ll be right back.” She heads for the house.
She returns a couple of minutes later with a bottle of Syrah, two glasses, and a wine key. I serve up the steaks and salad, and she expertly opens the bottle and pours us each a glass.
Good move on her part. Yes, she manipulated me into sleeping in a literal barn with no electricity or kitchen, but it’s hard to stay cranky when you’re sipping excellent wine. And her aunt’s wine is nothing short of a miracle. Drinking Ribaldi wine is treason for a Witlocke, but it’s not actually the first time. It’s just the first time I haven’t had to sneak it.
I hold up the bottle. “Vincent Van Goat?” I say, reading the label. “Where do you get your wine names from?”
“It’s named after the wine block where it was bottled.” Different areas of vineyards can have varying topography, sun exposure, and soil, so many vineyards are planted in sections called “blocks”. My family does it too, but ours are numbered.
“How many blocks does your aunt have?” You’d think I’d know all about the vineyard that’s located next door to my family’s, but the Witlockes are fiercely dedicated to pretending the Ribaldi’s winery is beneath their notice.
“Nine. Vincent Van Goat, may he rest in peace even though he was a real asshole, Billy the Kid, and Scapegoat, who are both old but still alive. Those are the Syrah blocks. Then there’s Quackerjack, Duck Norris, and Webster, named after cousin Rocco’s ducks, of course. Those are the Pinot Noir blocks. And the Riesling