Plus One (Pig & Barley Book 3)

by Mae Wood

  “Gotcha. It’s stupid and totally 1950s, but I get it. You’re hot. You can be my playdate anytime.”

  He laughed, his eyes dancing. “What? You are.” I offered with a shrug. “Okay, so now back to tales of Ancient Greece.”

  He shrugged and clicked on the blinker to turn the car. “Yeah, so I thought I wanted to be a classics professor. I was set to start in the grad program at Georgetown, but that changed when Grady came along, so I did the dad thing, learned to cook, and here I am.”

  “I wanted to be a food writer.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well, I was with the wine blog. It was an amazing opportunity, but then my mom died unexpectedly, and so I’m taking a more active role in the winery.”

  Hmm. That’s one way to put it. More active role being Chief Operating Officer as soon as I set foot on California soil again.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “Thanks.” We lapsed into silence as we wound through the night, finally stopping in front of a large ranch house on the outskirts of the city.

  “We’re here. Achille has his truck at a house party of sorts. He said we were welcome. I’m going to warn you. He’s a real Cajun. He can be damn hard to understand, but he’s friendly and loves food. And he’s a supplier for the restaurant.”

  “I thought Pig and Barley was low country?”

  “It is low country style, but we’ve got some Mississippi Delta influence, and the cuisines overlap more than you might think. I don’t think I have to warn you, but I will. Be nice. Eat whatever he gives you with a smile. You wine vendors are a dime a dozen, but someone who can get me fresh rabbit and frog, and hopefully some good gator—that’s special.”

  Bert pushed the car door open and music burst into our world.

  “Is that zydeco?” I asked, amazed by the boisterous accordion and guitars.

  “Listen, you’re wide-eyed right now.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, and you can be excited all you want, but be chill, Drennan.”

  “I can do chill.”

  He smirked at me, suppressing a dubious laugh. “Let’s go, then.”

  We wound through the cars littering the street and arrived at the house. With a quick rap on the door, it opened and a thin man about Bert’s age stood there with a smile. His purple LSU ball cap pushed back on his head to reveal his happy and tipsy eyes.

  “Albert, welcome!” Bert was now Albert, complete with the unsaid French T. “I’m Achille, welcome, Mrs. Albert.”

  Fuckity fuck fuck. I’d never been mistaken for anyone’s wife before. Girlfriend, yes, but wife. Never. And I was flat footed.

  “Ah, not quite. This is Drennan. She’s my plus one,” said Bert, trying to cover my awkward reaction.

  “Well, welcome whoever you are. We baptized my daughter Marcelle today and are celebrating.”

  “Oh, man, you should have said it was a family thing. We’ll go.”

  “Alohrs pas.” He gestured us into the house, and we followed him and the sounds of the music into the backyard, which was strung with lights and lit with candles and filled with laughter and more music.

  “Truly, thanks for letting us come. Drennan’s from California and had heard about your food truck.”

  “A California girl. You look like one, Miss Drennan,” the S buzzing like a Z. “Let me introduce you to my wife so that Albert here can see that there are much worse things in life than having a beautiful wife.” With a wink, we were introduced around, and set down at a picnic table draped in white linen covered with heaping plates.

  Bert tucked in, chatting with Achille and his cousin, who actually was responsible for the frog legs and gator. I looked at my plate, full of things I couldn’t quite identify, but the smell. Oh my goodness. Spices. And rich creams. And smoke.

  “He has the best boudin,” Bert said, gesturing with his knife to a fried ball on my plate. “Sucker won’t give me the recipe, though.”

  “Talk to my mawmaw when you get to heaven about that, Albert. She barely gave it to me.”

  I cut off a piece of what looked like a meatball and placed it in my mouth. The slightly chunky texture, the crisp richness of the fried outside. Spice and herbs and pork. Nothing like a meatball. Nothing.

  I swallowed, knowing my eyes were probably once again large with excitement and completely ignoring my earlier promise to be chill. “Achille! That is amazing!”

  I began cutting off another piece, but Achille placed his hand over mine. “Cher, oh, there is more.”

  He toured me through my plate. Gator tail that was steak-like. How to rip the heads off of the crawfish and suck down their guts. Even squirrel. Honest to God, squirrel. It was small and stringy and this time mindful of Bert’s request, I smiled and quickly grabbed my Abita to wash it down.

  “Just be glad it isn’t nutria,” said Bert.

  “Nutria?” I asked.

  “Yeah. These giant swamp rats,” said Bert.

  “Oh, we’ve got nutria all right. My cousin is now making nutria jerky,” said Achille.

  “Why are you holding back on me?” asked Bert.

  I had no clue what time it was when we left Achille and Dauphine’s house. My phone had died, my blogger habit of photographing food draining every bit of my battery. But we were wished well on our way out with a gallon sized bag of nutria jerky tucked under Bert’s arm.

  “You rock, you know that, don’t you?” asked Bert, pulling me to his side as we walked back to his car.

  “Ah, you sweet on me, Mr. Albert?” I asked coyly, adopting the French pronunciation.

  “Probably too much for my own good, Mizz Drennan.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bert

  “Marisa wants you and Wine Girl to come over for dinner,” said Trip on a Sunday morning bike ride. Our pack was cruising down blue highways through some Mississippi cotton fields dotted with white and ready for harvest.

  “Do you want me and Drennan to come over for dinner or is that just Marisa’s idea?”

  “You know what I mean, man. What she says is law. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Of that there is no doubt.”

  “Plus, I’d like to meet her. You’ve been a fucking ghost recently and there is no way that it doesn’t have anything to do with the girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah. Whatever you say about that. So dinner at our place?”

  “The question is whether you’re going to expect me to cook.”

  “No. I’m not that bad of a host. Again, that’s an I don’t want to cook, not an I can’t. I can cook.”

  “Really? Name the last time you made food that didn’t involve a microwave.”

  Trip paused his pedaling and looked over his shoulder at me. “Food for eating? I really don’t know, but you’re not being invited over to cook. I’m the messenger here. You guys in?”

  “Sure. I’ll ask Drennan. You have to stop calling her Wine Girl though.”

  “Got a better suggestion?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Before I could tell him to call her Drennan, he spoke. “Oh, sweet nothings from Bert. Be still my heart.”

  “Asshole. Fine. I won’t tell you.”

  “So, Wine Girl it is. And I’ll have food brought in or I’ll grill. Just please say it doesn’t have to be Paleo or gluten-free or any other new age-y restriction.”

  “No, she’s cool. It’s been nice to hang out with someone who likes to go exploring for food. Did you know about this Mexican place in West Memphis? You’ve got to go. Real Mexican. Not Tex-Mex or any Americanized crap. It’s in the back of a gas station and only open like three nights a week, but it’s fucking amazing. Family owned place. The wife is from Oaxaca and just kills it. Mainly street food and there are like two card tables. We went last week and sat on the curb outside. Brush up on your Spanish though because Drennan had to order for us.”

  “Do you like her or the way she eats?”
>
  “‘The way she eats’? If you want to know, slightly sweet and salty.”

  “Yeah, didn’t ask for that. And, you make her sound like kettle corn. So, dinner, yes? I’ll let Runner Girl know and we can set up a day.”

  “I can’t believe she lets you call her that.”

  He shrugged and picked up speed. “She thinks it’s charming.”

  I slowed a bit, lagging to the back of the pack. Was Drennan my girlfriend? I hadn’t a clue what that means—what is the division between dating and girlfriend-boyfriend status. There were girls I’d definitely dated before Amy, then Amy, and then girls I dated since the divorce, but “girlfriend” sounds like something. Going on dates is a precursor to fucking. That’s not really something. Really something is being married for a dozen years.

  Maybe she was though. August. September. October. Coming up on November. Well, that is as long as I’ve ever seen anyone. And I’m not planning on ditching her. And I don’t think she’s thinking about ditching me. And I’m not seeing anyone else. And I don’t think she’s seeing anyone else. Oh fuck.

  I pulled my bike off the road, signaling that I was going to take a piss and I’d catch up. As soon as the guys were over the next rise, instead of my dick, I whipped out my phone. Two bars. Okay. Not bad. I pulled up Google and, knowing full well I looked like a fool, typed dating v boyfriend girlfriend. Cold comfort in seeing how many hits returned. A quick scan of the results confirmed it: length of time and exclusivity. No magic formula. No special step I was missing. I tucked my phone away, took the piss I now needed, and hopped back on my bike, focusing on catching the guys rather than mulling over the fact that at age thirty-nine, I had my first girlfriend.

  ***

  After some coaxing—accompanied by a nice Chablis and some time spent downtown—Drennan agreed that the couple she’d met at the awkward morning-after breakfast was actually quite cool and she’d eat dinner with them. Especially once I explained to her that Trip was like a brother to me.

  A few weeks later we pulled up in the driveway, parking behind the tank-like SUV Trip was insisting that Marisa drive around in. For someone who’d spent years working hard not to knock anyone up, with me being an object lesson in that mistake, he was taking the expectant dad role to the extreme.

  “Shouldn’t we knock?” Drennan asked, as I pushed through the back door into the kitchen.

  “Nah. It’s fine. I’ve had keys for years and a clicker for the garage. I borrow a lot of bike stuff from him.” Drennan’s head spun around, taking in the sea of bike parts strewn on the walls and hung from the ceiling.

  “Would he even know?”

  “He doesn’t care. His casa es mi casa.”

  As promised I was not presented with an apron upon arrival, as had happened a few years ago when we took the girls we were seeing to his big beach place, but instead a glass of something red. Trip and Marisa had their charm offensive going and Drennan was their unwitting prey. After less embarrassing greetings than the first time they’d met, Drennan handed Marisa a bottle of wine.

  “Thanks. I’m down to just a sip, so I’ll have to leave this to y’all to enjoy,” said Marisa, passing the bottle to Trip. He briefly inspected the label and his eyebrows rose.

  “You’ll want a half glass of this one, beautiful. Far Niente Cab. Very nice. Thank you.”

  “Well, I’ve got to live up to my name of Wine Girl.”

  Trip slightly recoiled.

  “Yeah, I told her,” I said with a proud smile. “My girl did good. What’s this swill you’re serving?”

  I picked up the decanter from the large marble island and poured two hearty glasses. Whatever Trip was serving, it was definitely going to be more than simply fine.

  “Oh, let’s see if Wine Girl can live up to her name. Give you a hint. I stopped in my favorite wine shop in Chicago earlier in the week and had a few cases shipped home. This is a gem.”

  “She’s not a sommelier, man.”

  “No, but I’ll bet I’ve tasted more wines than the rest of you added together. Let’s see how I can do.” A competitive spark I hadn’t previously seen outside of the bedroom arose from my easygoing Drennan.

  Her posture shifted slightly and she swirled the glass, holding it to the light. While she examined its legs, I examined hers. The short cream skirt hugged her thighs and bottom. Maybe we should have had a quickie before we left her place. Then I caught Trip’s eyes taking the same course as mine and mouthed at him “fuck off.” A simple nod was his only response and he went back to caressing Marisa’s barely visible baby belly.

  A thoughtful sip later and Drennan spoke. “Well, it’s a blend—a Bordeaux style that’s Cab Franc weighted. Chateau Ausone? But I really hope it isn’t because—”

  Trip waved her off from finishing her thought. “Nope, not a French wine. It’s a California blend, actually.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Drennan

  “No way that’s Californian,” I spat. My brain spun through the wineries that might produce a bottle like this. I couldn’t come up with any. My family’s came close, but it’s not right. This just feels French. Like a textbook classic Bordeaux.

  “But it is. One of the oldest wineries in Napa.” Trip pulled an empty bottle from beside the sink and passed it to me.

  I snatched the bottle from his hands, not caring a bit about my manners. What the hell? Is this a joke? I took another small sip from my glass and examined the label, running my fingers across the typeface that is as familiar as my own signature. Registering, but not caring that the room had lapsed into a hard silence.

  “I thought you’d like it. It’s very collectible,” Trip offered.

  “I’m sure she likes it,” said his wife, stroking his arm.

  I shook my head. “No, no. The wine is great. It’s just not the right bottle you handed me.” I spun around the kitchen, searching for another open bottle. Any other open bottle.

  “Drennan? You okay?”

  “Um—” How do I say this?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m great. Thank you so much for the amazing wine, you guys.”

  “But—Just tell me,” said Trip. “Need to let it breathe more? Is it corked?”

  “It’s not Drachenfutter. It’s a really nice Bordeaux and I’m pretty sure it’s an honest to God Bordeaux, but it isn’t the right wine.”

  The Brannons looked at me like I had a few screws loose while I continued to obsessively examine the bottle in detail while taking more tastes from my glass. Aspirating it and closing my eyes to focus on the flavors, on the mouthfeel.

  “Is she like the Sherlock Holmes of wine?” I heard Marisa whisper to her husband.

  “Man, Trip. That’s a very nice bottle. Drennan is—”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry,” I said, cutting Bert off. “It’s a really nice bottle. Thank you.”

  My eyes began to burn and my cheeks heat. Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like? Bert took the bottle and glass from my trembling hands and wrapped his arms around me, soothing me with gentle shushes.

  The tight squeeze of emotion slowly loosened its grip. “Breathe, breathe,” Bert whispered in my ear. Until this moment, the fakes hadn’t been real. I hadn’t held one, tasted one. They existed, but as part of an alternative universe, not as part of any reality.

  I pulled my eyes up to find Bert’s filled with concern. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I sheepishly apologized to everyone, tucking my hair behind my ears, then twisting it into a rough braid over one shoulder. Busying my hands held still my mind. I puffed out a thick breath. “Okay and now I’ve got some explaining.”

  I launched into a Joycean explanation of how the wine is a counterfeit, but a really great wine that we should enjoy, that Trip had tried to buy my family’s wine and I was really flattered that he liked the wine and hadn’t bought it to try to make me happy.

  Marisa walked over and hugged me, startling me and putting an end to my feverish ramblings. I’m a h
ugger, but didn’t get that read from her. She seemed too polished to let anyone touch her.

  Trip nodded in understanding. “I get it. I really get it. Someone tried to fuck with my family’s business a while ago and I’m still pissed off about it. I’ll call my wine guy in the morning and chew him out.”

  “No, don’t do that,” said his wife. “Who’s handling this for you?”

  “Our lawyer is working with the FBI.”

  She nodded, taking control of the situation. “We’ll call your lawyer Monday morning. Trip, put the bottle and cork in a bag so we can turn it over if we need to. We’re going to take a little girl trip to the wine closet and will be back with a treat.”

  Linking our arms, Marisa led us out of the kitchen and through the house. “We don’t have a cellar, but Mr. Fancy Pants does have a wine closet. If that’s gauche, I’m sorry. I’m not a huge wine person.”

  “Don’t be silly. So are you having a boy, a girl, or a surprise?” I asked, wanting to turn the topic away from the scene in the kitchen so I could find my balance and not fall to pieces in front of virtual strangers.

  “We find out in a couple of weeks. The doctor has known for a while. I’m old,” she said, making a mock pout, “so we did some genetic screening, but my lovely husband hasn’t been in town long enough to come to an appointment with me, so unless something blows up with his work, we’ll find out soon.”

  “Any feelings? My cousin was certain she was having a girl because of the amount of orange juice she craved and there is some old wives tale about that, but then Leo joined us.”

  Marisa laughed, as she opened the closet in the exercise room. “No, other than nausea, no feelings.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Bert

  “What was that about?”

  “Her mom died a couple of years ago.”

  I let the words fall into silence before continuing, knowing Trip was still hurting even if he didn’t show it. “She and her cousin, who is like a sister to her, are now in charge of the family business. From what I can tell, she’s been hiding out a bit in New York and now here before going back to her life.”