“I am.”
“All right.” I hold out my hand. “Then lemme at ’em.”
“Perhaps we might use that podium,” he suggests.
We straggle across the stage, the whole group of us, and Jimmy begins laying out papers on the polished faux walnut. He eyes the microphone dubiously and asks, “That’s not on, is it?”
Jake taps it to check, then gives a thumbs up. “It’s off. You’re all clear.”
Then I’m staring at the papers that will make me part of le tre sorelles once again. My sisters’ signatures are already in place, their names printed neatly under each line. And there at the bottom, an empty line awaits my signature. My name is there, too. All of it. In tiny little letters.
“The whole thing, huh?” I ask as I uncap the pen. “Damn, my hand’s already starting to cramp.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Rosa scolds teasingly.
Clay leans over my shoulder. “What whole thing?” His eyes widen. I swear to God his face pales. “Holy shit.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, side-eyeing him. “Tell me again how much you hate your one syllable, four letter name?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “No complaints.”
“That’s what I thought.” Then I put pen to paper and write my name and tie myself to this vineyard, this legacy, this sisterhood. One letter at a time. Allegra Francesca Catarina Viviana Martinelli.
* * *
I’ve heard it said that grandmothers are angels in disguise. And I don’t know if that’s true, but if there is a heaven I know my Nonna is smiling down at us all right now and whispering, “Complimenti, le mie bellissime tre sorelle; brava, brava, brava. Tua nonna vi ama così tanto.”
