by Mae Wood
We said our good-byes to Trip and Marisa and returned to our breakfasts.
“So, you’ve now gotten the Marisa experience. She’s a firecracker. And don’t let Trip fool you. He’s one, too.”
“Always the Fourth of July with them?”
“Not exactly. They don’t fight as much as spar.”
“How long have you two been friends?”
“With Trip? Since we were kids. He and Marisa met about a year ago and have been married about six months.”
“That’s cool. The only person I’ve been friends with my entire life is my cousin. We’re like sisters.”
“Don’t get me started on sisters. I have three of my own and I will never understand them.”
We settled into seats to learn about the status of the Gulf shrimping industry and Asian imports of shellfish. “Thanks for taking me back. If it’s too big a hassle, I can find someone else to take me.” Like Trip. He can drive his ass back down to Oxford and pick me up.
“No, it’s really not a big deal.”
The awkward silence I’d been expecting all morning finally arrived. As soon as the lecture wrapped up, Drennan peered at her phone and announced that she needed to get on the road. Yeah, sweetheart, I know you want this drive over like I do.
After grabbing our things from my room and doing a sweep to make sure I hadn’t missed anything from hers, I followed her to the parking lot. She popped the hatch to her maroon Cherokee and I tossed our things in. The silence continued until we made it to the interstate.
“Do you golf?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the road.
“No. I swim and bike.”
“I don’t golf either.” She exhaled. “How about a mulligan anyway?”
Well that answers my question about how last night went—she wants to forget it. “That’s cool,” I said, trying not to fidget in my seat. Where do I put my hands?
Her right hand shot out across the console and she flipped her gaze to me before returning it to the road. “Hi. I’m Drennan Sarah McCutcheon. I’m from outside of Yountville. My family owns a winery. I’m in Memphis working as a sales rep for a little while in order to better understand that aspect of the business.”
Now I knew what to do with at least one of my hands. We shook in a firm, business-like fashion. Her gray-blue eyes bounced back and forth between my face and the traffic. “I’m Albert Tynes Forsythe the fourth,” I said, releasing her soft hand from my grip. “Everyone calls me Bert. I own Pig and Barley.”
“Nice to meet you. Mind if I put some music on?”
“Not at all.” Better than silence. We still had an hour until we were back in Memphis.
“Reggae good?” she asked.
That’s out of left field. I was expecting pop from her. Something upbeat and smiley and from a heavily styled boy band. “Sure.”
“Yeah, it’s the only option. I bought this car secondhand, or maybe third hand, I’m not sure, when I moved down here. A CD got stuck in the stereo and the mode won’t change, so it’s the best of Bob Marley and the Wailers or nothing.”
She punched a few buttons and “Redemption Song” filled the car.
“I’m sure I can find someone to fix it for you.”
“Thanks, but it’s not worth the hassle. I’ll be going home in a few months, I drive a company car for my sales calls, and I’m not taking this with me.”
We chatted off and on mostly about food—her fear of cephalopods, regardless of preparation, and my utter rejection of sea urchins. Both of us following Bob’s mellow lead and letting him fill in the gaps for us. By the time we turned into my neighborhood around lunchtime, our post-romp awkwardness was pretty much gone. When we pulled up to my house, I was surprised not only to see Grady’s car in the driveway, but him awake and shooting baskets. “Miracles do happen. Teenage son functioning before two in the afternoon. Thanks for the ride back.”
“No problem.”
Before I could think, the words fell out. “Dinner this week?”
“Sure.” Her non-committal monosyllabic reply surprised me as much as my asking her out. Sure as in I don’t have anything better to do or sure as in that sounds great? But I’d offered and she said yes. And I don’t go back on my word.
I stored her number in my phone and said I’d call with details. I hauled myself and my bag out of the car and waved as she backed down my drive.
“Is that your girlfriend?” Grady asked.
“No.”
“So, just some random blonde who you’ve obviously spent the night with. Good to know,” he said, popping up for a jump shot that danced around the rim before falling in the hoop.
“Let’s go inside,” I said.
Grady tucked the ball under his arm and followed me into the kitchen through the garage. I shook my head and felt my lips purse in anticipation of my third awkward conversation of the day. The thought of a liquid lunch crossed my mind before my parenting reflex kicked in and I poured myself a glass of iced tea.
“You had lunch yet?” I couldn’t help but baby my son.
“Yeah, I picked up a couple sandwiches from Bogie’s on my way in from Mom’s last night.”
“You stayed here by yourself? Does your mom know? Why didn’t you text? I would have come home.”
He shrugged. “You and Mom need to get your schedules figured out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She thought I was at your place. When I got home at curfew, I kinda interrupted her date.”
“Ohh.” I exhaled. How am I supposed to respond to this? “I’m so sorry, Grady.” His mom isn’t exactly quiet in the sack.
“Yeah, so, your place was the better option.”
No doubt.
“So you going to tell me about the blond lady?”
Christ. What is he going to ask? What am I going to say?
Parenting 101 popped into my head and I turned the question back on him. “What do you want to know?”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No, she’s a wine rep that calls on the restaurant. I was down at the Southern Foodways conference in Oxford. I rode down with Trip and his wife, but they had to leave unexpectedly, so Drennan drove me home.”
“Oh.” His face fell slightly as he dug out a PowerAde from the fridge. His reaction surprised me. But I guess if Amy had some guy over last night, he’s wondering what I’m up to. Fair enough.
“So you wanted her to be my girlfriend?” I asked. He shrugged and began chugging the blue drink. I reached in the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. “Would it be better to know that we’re going out for dinner later this week?”
Grady’s green eyes shot to mine, his curly light brown hair still sticking up at weird angles. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“Not sure.”
“You need a good plan.”
“Oh, now you’re the dating expert?”
“If you and Mom talked more or you asked about something other than school, soccer, or my scouting project.”
Grady has a girlfriend I don’t know about it? Of course he’s dating. Who am I kidding? He’s seventeen and he’s a good-looking kid. Hell, at seventeen I wasn’t exactly a stranger to the girls at Hutchinson when I was in high school at Memphis University School.
“So, let me guess, a girl from Hutchinson?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded, rummaging through the fridge, pretending to make a sandwich while hoping my feigned nonchalance kept him talking. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s nice. She comes to my soccer games.”
How bad a dad am I? He has a girlfriend who comes to his soccer games and I didn’t know and he didn’t introduce me?
“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he said, tossing his empty plastic bottle into the recycling bin.
“Who is she?”
He rolled his eyes and turned to walk out of the kitchen. “Julia Peyton. She’s a junior. On their socce
r team. Pretty good forward. Her mom’s a pharmacist and her dad does something at FedEx. Good enough?”
“Good enough.” And with that, the tiny baby who made my eyes overflow with tears when I first held him, left the kitchen.
Chapter Fourteen
Drennan
As soon as I wound my way out of Bert’s 1950s neighborhood, I called Kenzie.
“Morning! What’s up?”
“Well, I did it. So I can come home, I guess.”
“Wait. You slept with Lickable Man?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You want details?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I was at a food convention—”
“Not those kind of details. Please, I’ve got a three year old and I’ve been married for eight years. Gimme what I want.”
“Spank bank material?”
“Straight up Penthouse letter. Go.”
“I’ll give you a blurb: very solid performance with staying power and surprisingly cuddly.”
“Cuddly? Rewind. You’ve been chasing after him for months. He has tattoos. And he ignores you. It’s common knowledge that tatted oblivious lickable men spank. They do not cuddle.”
“I know, right? Totally shocked,” I said.
“So now that’s out of your system, when are you coming home?”
I laughed. “That plan hasn’t changed. As soon as the fiscal year closes. So, first of December.”
“So who’s next on your tour of men to melt you in the sweet heat of their Southern accents?”
“No one. And he asked me to dinner.”
“No shit. A date. I totally envisioned this wrong.”
“I’m not going to ask how you envisioned it.”
“Well, let’s just say that Ryan doesn’t have a single tattoo and his exercise regime is twelve ounce curls as soon as Leo goes to bed, so the idea of a hard inked body may have crossed my mind a time or two.”
“Okay, now you’re approaching a line. Talking about whether a vibrating cock ring is an appropriate anniversary gift is one thing, but I don’t think I can look at him if I know what you’re thinking about while he’s got his tongue in you.”
“Whatever. And just so there is no doubt, it will always be Brad Pitt from A River Runs Through It. Me, splayed out on that huge rock in the middle of the river—”
“Still?”
“Did you ever wonder why I took up fly fishing for a bit? Just envisioning Brad teaching me to cast was a religious experience. Plus, that guy I dated sophomore year liked it outdoors as much as I did.”
“Okay, that explains the camping thing and why you stopped.”
“Who said I stopped? Ever wonder why I had hedges installed around the fence line in the backyard?”
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“No, but I’m slaphappy. Leo had a stomach bug, so that means I haven’t slept in nearly three weeks because after he got better, I got it, and then Ryan got it and it won’t leave our damn house! Leo’s been saying his tummy hurts again.”
“You’re slaphappy.”
“Damn skippy. And a little sex-starved. Something about Ryan taking care of Leo is such a turn on. As soon as Leo gets to daycare tomorrow, and God willing this bug is out of our lives forever, Ryan and I are crawling back into bed.”
“Back to the point of my call. One. Lickable Man is very talented. Two. I’m thinking we need a blend that retails in the forty- to fifty-dollar range. Different label. Not estate grown, obviously. It won’t be mass market, but it will be special occasion wine for the aspirational crowd or weeknight stuff for the Drachenfutter folks.”
“Want me to set up a call for you with Ryan?”
“Sure. I also think I’m going to sign up for an Executive MBA thingy when I get back. If you’re going to handle the production side and I’m supposed to handle the sales and business side, then I think I’m going to need more firepower.”
“No doubt you’re smart enough.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. I think it will give me some confidence when dealing with finance types like Ryan.”
“My Ryan intimidates you?”
“Definitely not,” I scoffed. “Not when I know he likes you to massage his prostate when you’re blowing him. Any time I start feeling out of my depth with him, I just think of our little chats. It’s like envisioning your co-workers nude, but even better. No one is scary when they’re on the cusp of orgasm.”
“Speaking of that, I’ve been trying to get him to let me put a bullet back there, but—”
“Okay, you win this round,” I said cutting her off. Ryan and toys was a bridge too far. “I’m hanging up. But I’ll be back with new material from Lickable Man.”
“That sounds like a promise and not a threat.”
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
“Perfect,” she said and I ended the call.
Back at my sterile corporate apartment, I emailed Ryan about an appointment to talk in more detail about bringing a new bottle to market and ran through the rest of my in-box, including an email from the lawyers about the FBI investigation. No big breaks there, but they did find a case during a raid at a Ft. Lauderdale art gallery that was selling pre-Columbian sculptures. Some fake wine to go with your national treasures. Guess the thieves wanted something that paired nicely with stolen goods.
The next day Bert texted me: “Hey. Dinner on Wednesday?”
Wednesday—the night for restaurant folks to eat at other restaurants. Business is typically slow at independent places and no one dares leave their place unattended on a weekend. Tuesday, you’ve got to be there to help get both sides of the house back in the groove from their Sundays and Mondays off.
“Wednesday is good. I’ll be in Little Rock making sales calls Monday and Tuesday.”
We set details, and I sent him my address so he could pick me up—maybe I had been missing something without Southern men in my life besides seersucker and drawls. Dinner date where he picks me up. I honestly don’t think I’d been on one of these since high school.
By the time Wednesday night rolled around, I was beat. My sales calls in Arkansas went fine, but the phone call about financing a new label with Ryan knocked the wind from my sails. The start-up costs were insanely high. And the talk about financing strategies was making my head spin. I knew there would be a significant initial investment, but the capital he was talking about was well in the seven-figure range when he added in a marketing launch.
We’d have to take on some not insignificant debt obligations and no matter how many times I tried to imagine Ryan’s orgasm face, I felt like a kindergartener in a calculus class.
A knock on my apartment door pulled me from my funk as I slipped my tobacco colored leather moto jacket on top of a deep blue camisole. I grabbed my small bag and opened the door to find my mirror image.
“Oh, Jinx! Or Twinkies! Or whatever you call it down here,” I said.
Bert cocked his head at me with his eyebrows furrowed. I gestured between us in explanation. “We match.” And fuck if we didn’t, down to the dark wash of our jeans and the red Chucks on our feet.
He said nothing, but continued to take me in before laughing. “Gorgeous.”
“I’ll go change,” I offered.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. Let’s go.”
We settled into his white Yukon. “Nice car.”
He resettled his grip on the wheel, “Fits like half of my son’s soccer team and is slightly cooler than a minivan.”
“So because I’m from California you think I’m going to judge you for not having a hybrid?”
“No, I’ve ridden in your gas-guzzler, but a minivan isn’t exactly a girl magnet.”
“I don’t know. Air mattress in back and I’m sure the ladies would love it. You could even get a sign to hang on it—Minivan’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’,” I said, doing a little dance in my seat.
“So, reggae, right?” He reache
d for the radio, ignoring my silliness.
“Oh, please no reggae. I spent hours in my car this week because the Prius was getting serviced and I’d cop to shooting the deputy if I never had to hear that song again.”
“Like Stax?”
“Stax?”
“Okay, so Memphis 101. Historically there are two big record labels in town. Sun most folks know from Elvis, but I’m a Stax fan, so how about some Otis Redding?”
“‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ guy?”
“And so much more.”
“Where are we going?”
“You been to the Woodruff-Fontaine House?”
“No.” We’re going to a house?
“Then you’re in for a treat. It’s a great old haunted house and there is an amazing gastro-lounge across the street named for the ghost, Mollie.”
“Oh! I like. Do they do ghost tours?” I grinned at him. I loved a good ghost tour. Silly and spooky and a little scary—right up my alley.
“Probably, but you’re on your own for ghost tours.”
“Oh,” I replied, a little bummed, “Do I need to protect you from things that go bump in the night?”
“Not in the least. You’re a great bump in the night.”
This definitely isn’t an outing between friends.
“So tell me about the lounge.”
Bert plunged into an explanation about the place and its focus on eclectic bar food and vintage cocktails with some 1800s punch recipes thrown in for good measure, but when we drove down a residential street lined with Victorian mansions, I wasn’t prepared.
“Oh, wow. The neighborhood is like the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.”
“You know, that’s not a bad way to describe this place. It’s called Victorian Village.”
We parked on the street and made our way into the dimly lit house. Sleek modern furnishings filled the room and staid antique portraits hung on the walls next to large abstract paintings. “So ghost tours are out, but creepy houses turned into bars are in?”
“Just wait.”
He took my hand and led me through the house to the ornately carved stairwell. The steps squeaked under our feet and we found a quiet spot in an old parlor. Bert gestured to a velvet chaise lounge and he selected a mid-century modern wingback next to me.