"Ugh," I groaned. "I’m so mad I could spit nails."
Sara sympathized with me as she absentmindedly dug her keys out of her bag. "Do you really have to go to all of it? Can't you just show up late?"
"HA! No, my mother made it very clear that everyone was so looking forward to seeing me since I haven't been home in a while. It wouldn’t look good for the ‘family name’ for me not to be there."
"How do you deal with that?"
Sara asked the question honestly, and I didn't fault her for it. Sometimes even I didn't know how I dealt with my mother.
"Look - I gotta run,” Sara said. “Don't let it get to you. We’ll figure it all out."
Shutting the door behind Sara, I took my coffee and sat with my legs crossed on the couch, thinking about my upbringing. Somehow the uptight and privileged demeanor of my mother never really rubbed off on me.
My father’s family was the one with all the money. Somewhere along the line with my great, great, great grandfather…old Grandpa Guthry had perfected whiskey and became a household name.
Dad took over the company almost right out of college when his father suffered a fatal heart attack. My uncle graduated two years after that, and went straight to work at Guthry Whiskey too. Although they grew up with all the comforts you could imagine, it was a testament to the Guthry name that everyone was required to work hard for their part of the family company.
I was proud of my father for jumping into the business at such a young age, and for being such an integral part of helping it prosper and grow to where it was today. Sometimes I felt bad for both my dad and uncle, because they’d both been blessed with daughters and very demanding wives.
My Aunt Charlene came from old money herself. She grew up with my dad and uncle and went to the same private schools and functions with them. Whereas Uncle Grant was fun and playful, Charlene was rigid and self absorbed. While I was growing up, her calendar revolved around being pampered, and she was obsessed with maintaining her girlish figure and an even more girlish face. Thank goodness for money because you got what you paid for, and in her case, she was getting some good stuff.
I knew relatively little of my mother’s upbringing. Her parents both passed away before I was born, and she’d never talked about her life growing up much. But she’d always been a stickler for propriety. From my earliest days I could remember having to sit at a table in a frilly dress, crossing my legs at the ankles and draping a napkin over my lap. I was groomed to perfection.
My mother used to tease me, "You never know when the Prince will come looking for his Princess, my darling."
I was allowed to play tennis and tennis alone, because that was a country club sport. I took voice lessons, piano and art, all because that was what a refined young woman would do. I remembered feeling as if I was a stifled character in a Jane Austen novel half of my life.
My mother was the cloying Mrs. Bennett who couldn't wait for me to meet the perfect eligible gentleman so that I could secure my own perfect life.
School was an important endeavor to complete, but she fully expected me to utilize my degree for philanthropy. I was absolutely expected to come home and marry someone well known in Charleston society; someone who could help take over and run Guthry Whiskey when my father was ready to step down.
Guthry Whiskey had been passed down between fathers and sons since it first began. Recently it had been weighing on me that Mary Anne and I would be the sole heirs to the company. I knew that Mary Anne didn't care about the business, except for the amount of money it brought in, so I assumed her future spouse would be the one to run her portion. That would be Daniel.
A wave of disgust ran through me at the thought of someone outside my family being able to make decisions for Guthry someday, and for that person to be Daniel was downright unthinkable. But what could I do about it? I was just an Art History major with a mother who had groomed me to be the perfect, happy little wife.
Or had she?
Since leaving Charleston I'd come into my own. During my freshman year I’d sunk deeper and deeper into self-regret, over both my foolish actions the summer before I left, as well as my defunct relationship with Daniel. It was only after going home at Easter break and hitting rock bottom that I’d finally been able to break free from the depression that had been holding me back.
When I returned to school, I finally began to see myself for what I was: a timid little southern belle who wouldn't speak out for herself. I immediately stopped allowing my mother to dictate my life from afar, and started making my own decisions.
Unbeknownst to my parents, I also began taking business courses along with my art classes in order to secure a double major. Art was my love and passion, but it most likely wasn't going to get me very far on my own. I wanted to be qualified enough to secure myself a spot at Guthry Whiskey on my own someday, if needed. I wasn't about to let some man walk into my life and start making decisions for me - husband or not.
At some point this summer I planned on talking with my dad and letting him know about the major in business, and I was excited to tell him that I could come work for him if he wanted me to.
Although I did actually want some time after graduation to travel and see some of the art and museums that I'd learned about through the years. I just needed one solitary summer of freedom before I headed back home to Charleston and started trying to convince my mother that I could still be a perfect society woman while single and working. Sometimes I thought I was crazy for wanting to go back home and settle down, but there was no way in hell I was going to let my father down. If it meant dealing with the skeletons in my closet, then so be it.
Thursday - April 25, 2013
Date #1 - Mark
When I entered The Garage I took a moment to scan the crowd and scope out the fellas. The bar area was crowded tonight, but there didn't seem to be any men standing to the side "looking single."
I took a seat at the one empty stool by the far end of the mahogany bar with an uninterrupted view of the entrance so I could see Mark walk in. I set my little clutch in front of me, crossed my legs and tried to look like I belonged. The bartender closest to me looked up and smiled politely, calling out, "I'll be right with you."
Nodding back, I decided to peruse the wine menu while I waited. The dance floor was empty at this early hour of the evening, and I noted that the small stage up front was set up for an open mic night, which I knew typically started around seven. Some of the tables set up on the edge of the floor were occupied, but it was the bar area that was full of people.
A notorious people watcher, I looked around to check out the other patrons. As my eyes drifted past the faces, I was surprised to see the black haired cougar from last Friday night. She was dressed in a spaghetti-strapped little black number, nonchalantly sipping a martini. Her predatory gaze, and I do mean predatory - I could see it from where I sat - was set upon the other bartender waiting on customers. I couldn't see him, as he was turned toward the liquor bottles along the back wall, but Ms. Cougar definitely had him in her sights.
"Good evening, what can I get for you tonight?" Pulling me from gawking at the scene down the bar, the bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of me and waited expectantly for my order.
"Oh." I jumped, startled. "Sorry. A Tom Collins, please."
"Sure thing. I'll need to see your ID."
I complied, pulling out my license and offering it to him. He handed it back after a quick glance and set about preparing my drink.
My gaze returned to the other bartender and his adoring fan while I waited for my drink. At a glance, I noted that the seats immediately around the predator were all taken by other fabulously dressed women "of a certain age." The man in question was now leaning forward over the bar, allowing a blond to speak into his ear. Loud guffaws filled the bar after a moment.
What the hell? I thought, and couldn’t help but watch the way the cougars were monopolizing bartender number two with their flirting. My own bartender placed
my cocktail in front of me, and then stepped away after making sure I knew to holler at him if I needed anything. I thanked him and took a sip of the Tom Collins. A shiver ran through me. The drink was somewhat tart for my taste, but still drinkable.
A quick check of the time showed it was six fifty-five. Five minutes to go. I told Mark I would meet him at seven o'clock so technically he wasn’t late, but I guess he didn’t believe in early, either. After a few more minutes of sipping, my attention was drawn to the door where a handsome, dark haired gentleman was standing alone; turning his head and looking around.
Mark?
His eyes searched the area and then zeroed in on me. A smile crossed his face as he made his way over. That must be him, I thought, and I straightened up a bit to take him in.
His hair was worn long and he had a bit of the Justin Bieber helmet head-thing going on. Deduct a point. However, his face was nice enough. His good looks were accentuated by his striking dark eyebrows and straight nose. Add a point. He wore a crisply ironed white oxford dress shirt and tan slacks. More points for dressing up.
"Savannah?" he asked politely, as he came up to my chair; his smile showing off perfectly straight teeth.
"Yes. Mark, I assume?" I smiled back. He took my outstretched hand and held it for a moment longer than necessary.
"Wow. You're prettier than your profile picture alluded to," he remarked. "Do you want to sit here at the bar, or would you rather grab a table?"
"Why don't we stay here for now? Maybe we can round you up a stool."
Excusing himself, Mark grabbed an empty stool from one of the nearby bar tables and pulled it over to sit beside me. With his knee touching my thigh it was a bit crowded, but I thought we could make it work.
"So tell me about yourself," Mark asked as he glanced around the bar, a bit preoccupied.
Really? Tell me about yourself? How original, I thought, swallowing another sip of my sour Tom Collins. I’d just started to dig into my story when Mark waved his hand up to get the bartender’s attention.
"Well, I'm in my senior year, majoring in Art History…"
"Hold on," he interrupted when the bartender walked over to take his drink order. "What do you have on tap?" he asked. Swallowing back the rest of my life story, I listened patiently as the bartender rattled off their beer choices. While they chatted about the "latest" brew the restaurant was serving for the season, I took the opportunity to study my surroundings again. The bar had quieted down some, and I noted that the cougars were no longer there. They must have headed to dinner upstairs. My eyes flicked over to the other bartender, who was finally free of his harem, and caught him checking me out.
He was wiping up the bar in front of him but his eyes were fixed on me, and I quickly pulled my gaze away; feeling a blush creeping up my face.
Holy wow. The thought raced through my head at the stolen glimpse I’d gotten of Mr. Sexy. Obviously this was the new hot bartender the girls were talking about the other night.
"So, you were saying?" Mark asked, after finally making a beer decision.
Feeling bad about my wandering eye, I focused back on my blind date and began to tell him about myself again.
"So are you an artist yourself, or do you just study it?"
I thought for a moment before I answered diplomatically, "I like to sketch, but no, I'm not really an artist myself. I wish I were as talented as Seurat or Van Gogh, but paint is not particularly a medium I excel at."
"I don't think I've drawn anything since elementary school art class. I was never very good at making a symmetrical circle." Mark smiled at his own joke.
"It's a stress reliever for me, really. I don't plan to make a career out of it or anything," I admitted.
"What about you?" I prodded. "What are your plans?"
"I took a job as a staff accountant at the start of this year to get some experience. I plan to be in corporate finance eventually. I think I’ll most likely move to Atlanta or Charlotte after graduation and look for a good finance job."
"Oh? Do you have family there?" I asked, trying to get some back story on his life.
Shaking his head Mark answered, "No, my family is all here. That's part of the appeal of the East coast," he laughed.
Not a family guy. Noted.
"My goal is to work somewhere where I can do financial planning and analysis for a fortune 500 company. I'm especially adept at forecasting and projecting for the future…" He babbled on and on and I found myself daydreaming.
So far this is a pretty basic first date, I thought. Nothing unusual, but no sparks. We hadn't really talked much about our personal interests, but the girls had recommended that I let him run the conversation. That meant a lot of awkward silences and talk about senior year and his accounting job. Riveting.
Twenty minutes later the conversation stalled again. Mark ordered a second beer while he proceeded to tell me about his love for working out. I shook my head as he talked about lifting weights and how he was thinking about entering an all-natural lifter contest.
"You look like you spend some time at the gym yourself. You don't have a lot of muscle, but I can see some good tone," he observed while his eyes scanned my body.
Oh creeptastic, that was a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. I was spared the need to answer when he stood up.
"Would you excuse me for a moment?" he asked politely. I agreed and smiled, watching as he headed for the restroom.
Ugh. This was torture. What were you supposed to talk about with someone you didn’t know? I took the last sip of my drink and glanced up to ask for a glass of ice water. My original bartender was nowhere to be seen, however bartender #2 was looking at me again. His eyebrow lifted in a silent question, and I mouthed my request. Nodding, he pulled a glass, filled it with water and garnished it with a slice of lemon. I admired the easy grace of his movements behind the bar. On his way to bring me my glass, he grabbed two beer bottles with one hand and popped the tops; handing them over to two men sitting a few seats down from me.
"Water," he confirmed when he was in front of me. His voice held a slight accent I couldn't place. "Can I get you another drink?"
"I'm good," I answered, a polite smile on my face. "Thanks, though."
"Let me know if you need anything at all," he drawled as he straightened up; his gaze switching to something behind me.
A moment later a hand touched my shoulder, causing me to jump at the contact. I knew it was Mark's by the smell of the overpowering cologne that suddenly wafted around me. Even so, I kept my sights on the bartender with the extremely becoming accent as I thanked him for the offer.
"Another beer, mate?" he asked Mark, keeping his eyes on mine. There was something compelling about his warm brown eyes, not to mention his seductive Australian accent.
Mark gave me a less than gentle squeeze on my shoulder and maintained his position behind me. Worried by the feeling, I glanced over my shoulder and was surprised to see Mark glaring at the bartender. A jealous streak might impress me if I'd known the man for more than an hour, but after the less-than-stimulating conversation Mark and I had carried on, I wasn’t going to get all weak in the knees over the less-than-subtle pissing contest he seemed to be having with Mr. Aussie.
Mr. Aussie's eyes squinted a bit as they rested on my shoulder and Mark’s solid grip there, then he straightened up and stepped back. Turning, he called over his shoulder, "John will take care of you if you need anything else."
'John' as it turned out was our original bartender, and was returning to the bar as Mr. Aussie walked away. Mark started pulling up his chair again when I decided to end the date.
"You know what? I totally forgot about an early appointment I have for tomorrow. I should really be going," I fabricated as I pulled out a few dollars for my drink.
"Are you sure? It's not even eight o'clock, yet."
"Yeah, I'm really sorry. It was nice to meet you though." I set my cash down on the bar and offered my hand to Mark for a friendly shake. When his
grip tightened on mine and he began to pull me forward, presumably for a kiss, I turned my head and feigned a cough.
As I walked past the bar, I could have sworn that I heard a low chuckle follow me. However, when I turned my glance slightly towards the bar, Mr. Aussie was busy making conversation with two new patrons in skin tight minis and plunging necklines.
I found the house empty when I walked in from my abbreviated date with Mark. Part of me felt bad for ending it so quickly, but if the chemistry wasn't there, it wasn't there. I’d promised Candace I would shoot her a text when I was home so she would know I was alright. Washing up and climbing into bed with a new book, I quickly pulled out my phone and sent a group text to both Sara and Candace.
Me: Mark = caveman dud. in other news i'm pretty sure i saw that new bartender you two were raving over last week. yes, please with a side of butter ;) <3 you two (even if my first date sucked!)
A quick reply from Sara read:
Sara: the fun is just beginning! jack is tomorrow ;)
Friday - April 26, 2013
Seven Weeks until "The Wedding"
Date #2 - Jack
Here goes date number two, I sighed to myself as I strolled into The Garage, rocking my LBD and kick ass red high heels. It was Friday night, seven p.m. and the bar was hopping.
"Savannah!" a voice yelled out, followed by a whistle I totally recognized as Riley's. I looked towards his DJ booth and found him giving me an emphatic thumbs up. I returned his smile with a jaunty wink and he returned to setting up his equipment for the night. I was tempted to walk over and chat, until I spotted a casually dressed cutie fitting Jack's description sitting alone at the bar. He was talking to one of the female bartenders and nursing a beer.
Mouthing over to Riley that I had a date, I blew him a kiss instead. He made me crack up at his antics when he grabbed my air kiss, ate it and then dramatically clutched his heart. He then made an hour glass figure with his hands, which made me blush fifteen shades of red and yank down my ultra-tight skirt.
Last Call Page 4