The formal dining room to the left yawns emptily as I pass. The French dining room set that was gifted to my grandfather from a winemaker friend in Beaujolais, who beautifully colored the wood with stain made from his own grapes, is gone. I skid to a stop and do a double take. My heart stutters as I rush to the living room. There, a cheap coffee table and chairs replace the rich leather ensemble that once comfortably filled the room. The Turkish hallway runner leading to the staircase is missing, too.
Evidence of my father’s debts.
I run to his den, not bothering to knock as I yell, “Dad!” and throw open the door.
He’s stretched out on the sofa, his feet propped up on the armrest. There’s a beer in one hand, and the other is pumping the air as he yells at a baseball game on the small flatscreen in the corner.
“Dad.” I hurry to him, my heart pounding. He shakes his head at the TV and takes a swig of his beer, not bothering to look at me. My brow furrows. “What is going on around here?”
“The A’s are screwing the whole season, that’s what’s going on,” he says, not even bothering to stand up and greet the daughter he hasn’t seen in three years.
Anger surges through me. This isn’t exactly the welcome I expected. My father isn’t a warm, loving man by any stretch, but this cold brushoff is stringent, even for him.
“Excuse me,” I say, crossing the room to stand in front of the TV. “But where is the furniture? And where are all the guests? The winery looks like it’s closed—”
“It is closed.” He takes another swig of beer as my stomach twists in knots.
“W-why?”
“It’s temporary, girl. Settle down. And please don’t block the tube. It’s the last inning.”
Stepping aside, I run a hand through my hair and grapple to get my emotions under control. My sisters had hinted that things were falling apart around here, but I’d thought they were being a little dramatic. This vineyard is our legacy. Dad wouldn’t let it just fall apart.
“Dad, please. The vines are a mess. How can you close the doors on the one thing that makes us money?”
That at least gets him sitting up and looking my way. “You watch yourself, Frankie.”
“This is our legacy,” I protest. “Don’t you care even a little bit what happens to this place?”
The corner of his hard mouth pulls up and I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a smirk. “Of course I care. But I got it all figured out. So quit your worrying.”
He turns his attention back to the game, and suddenly I feel a chill.
“What do you mean yougot it all figured out?” I ask.
Without even glancing over, he says, “I sold the vineyard to the Bellantis.”
He says it so casually that I fear I’m hallucinating it, but as I process his words, my heart drops. My lips part, but I struggle to speak. I can’t comprehend this.
“You can’t do that to us. Why did I even go to Italy to learn if you’re just going to sell the winery out from under us?”
“Like I said, you can quit your worrying.” He turns the volume up higher. “All that hard learning you did will be put to good use after all. You’re part of the package.”
I’m struggling to keep up. “What does that mean?”
“Contract’s already signed. You’re gonna marry the heir.”
2
Frankie
You’regonna marry the heir.
Just like that? I’ve been…sold? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
My body buzzes with nervous energy, pent up and vicious, and I act by rote as I storm over and grab the remote from him. Then I turn off the TV and throw the remote across the room, where it hits the floor and spits batteries. He doesn’t have the grace to look a bit phased.
