by Mae Wood
“Ah, he lives,” said my veterinarian friend from last night, stepping off the porch and pocketing his phone.
“Hey, man.”
“Coffee’s on. Breakfast is being brought over in a few. Where’d you escape to last night?”
I shook my head, trying to reconcile the past twelve hours. “My ex-girlfriend, or girlfriend, or hell, I don’t know. Girlfriend. Let’s go with that. Anyway, she’s here for the Food & Wine thing. I stayed with her.”
“Ex or not, gotta have been better than the inflatable mattress I shared with Scott, that’s the guy from Tallahassee. Dude drunk slobbered all over the place.”
I huffed out a brief laugh. “Yeah, no drunk slobber from her. But she does slightly snore. It’s like this little nearly silent whistling thing her nose does.”
“And I bet you didn’t get kneed in the nuts at six a.m. So, I’ve been awake and drinking coffee, reading the news, and waiting for these lugs to get up so we can get on the road once the frost clears up.”
“Yum . . .” I dodged him and wound my way through the flotsam and jetsam of twenty grown men shoved into a house that reeked of stale beer with a top note of pot. “You said there’s coffee? Hook me up.”
Footfalls sounded, as Trip, Frank, and two other guys barreled down the stairs, all barefoot and a strange amalgam of sweats and exercise gear.
“Bert!” Trip called.
“Hey, how were the accommodations last night?” asked Frank.
“I’m sure they were very accommodating,” joked Trip. “The question is how the sound insulation is.”
“Nah,” I demurred, shooting my friend warning looks. I excused myself to the bathroom. Trip and I don’t do serious well. Seconds at a time maybe, but nothing longer before going back to giving each other shovelfuls of shit.
But I didn’t want shit for last night. I didn’t want Drennan trotted out as morning amusement. She’s mine. And even if she isn’t, she isn’t fair game. But she’s mine. Or at least I’m hers. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but after last night all I know is that I needed it to continue.
I emerged to find other guys who showed their faces, cramming pancakes and Benton’s bacon and local sausages into their mouths. Real maple syrup. I fixed a big plate. Even if I wasn’t riding today, I needed some calories on board. As the salty and sweet and smoky mingled on my tongue, I sank into a down-filled leather club chair and threw my sneakered feet on the matching ottoman.
With a tall stack of pancakes on his plate, Trip plopped down on the ottoman, sending my feet bouncing into the air.
“So, Drennan’s here?” he asked.
I looked around the room, protective of my secret. Protective of her. Protective of our . . . love?
“Yeah, she is. So that bed is yours again.”
“You weren’t getting it back anyway. No backsies.”
“Fine. Enjoy your purple butterfly room.”
“Eh, it’s not so bad. It’s a preview.”
“Preview?”
“Yeah, we’re having a girl. Didn’t I tell you a couple of weeks ago? I thought I had. I’ve kinda been busy and you haven’t exactly been chatty.”
“No worries. That’s awesome. Now we’ll find out if Karma really exists and is as big of a bitch as everyone claims. Dude, when baby girl turns thirteen, you are in for it.”
“She’s not dating until after college,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t recall you actually dating until way after college either.”
“Touché,” he said with a tilt of his head. “So, what’s the deal with Drennan being here? Did you know it?”
“Not a clue. Happy accident, I guess,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“It really is a small world. You didn’t say anything before and you don’t have any poker face when it comes to her.”
I shrugged off his comment.
“You riding bikes today or something else?”
“The latter.” I pushed up from the depths of the chair to take my plate to the bussing tub by the front door. “But I do want my bike,” I called over my shoulder. “My mountain bike.”
I found Frank. “Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask.” I put it out there without reservation.
“A favor having to do with a certain guest?”
I nodded. Fewer words used means less chance for conversation.
“Does your wife have a bike I could borrow?” I asked.
He laughed. “For our guest? Of course. Road, mountain, or hybrid?” He motioned for me to follow and led me into the garage, packed deep with bikes. Worse than Trip’s pre-Marisa.
Bikes and wheels everywhere accented with fly rods, waders, and a table with a half-finished duck decoy carving. I laughed to myself. Duck decoy carving. I wondered if Frank tied flies, too. Clearly a serial hobbyist like Fischer.
I was thankful that I’d fallen into food and drink. Stay at home dad turned restauranteur. Rosemary was lucky she stumbled into flowers and Molly was safely categorized as a mom. Fischer was floundering still. She didn’t need any more duck decoy carving. She needed a floral design studio. A family. Something to give her structure. One of those bright yellow canvas kid trailers caught my eye and I bookmarked my brain to order one for Trip. Enough about Fischer or Grady or anyone but Drennan. Even if we only ended up having today, it was a lagniappe, a blessing, a present that I wasn’t going to squander.
Frank and I settled on a maroon aluminum mountain bike for Drennan to use and he threw some of his wife’s cycling gear at me, swearing that Maddy wouldn’t care in the least. “I don’t even know what size clothes Drennan wears,” I said.
“Eh, worth a shot. Make sure to go out to the orchard and take one of the dogs. It’s just the start of truffle season. I’ll call and get a picnic pulled together for you. Orchard, bikes, truffles and charcuterie. Man, if she’s here for Wine Geek weekend, she should dig it.”
“Do you think I could get a bottle of a von Eck? Drachenfutter or anything would be amazing.”
“Yeah, talk with Joey. He’ll hook you up. Even a tour of the cellar.”
“Wow, man, thanks,” I said, blown away by how he’d dove in completely to help me out.
“Yeah, but it’s like the champagne room, okay? No sex in the wine cellar.”
I shook my head. With that line, no wonder he had been Trip’s roommate.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Drennan
I sat on the inn’s wide porch, enjoying the autumnal foliage that still clung to the trees as they rolled across the hills and mountains into the distance. Apple cider filled my thoughts and I swore I could smell it. Laced with a bit of star anise like my mom made it at the holidays.
Though Napa never got an East Coast fall, this was my mom’s favorite season. The harvest was over. The grapes crushed. And the number of visitors to the vineyard slowly began to decline. I hugged my legs to my body and rested my chin on top of my knees. Happy, sad, wistful.
“Hey,” Bert called, pulling me from my melancholy reverie. He was awkwardly walking two bikes across the lawn, leaves crackling under their wheels.
“Hey, what you got there?”
“Rustled up a bike for you. Are you sure that it’s okay to skip today’s meetings?”
“Yes. Just like how it was okay for you to leave the bar mid-shift that night.”
“Okay, then.” He reached into a saddlebag and pulled out some clothes and shoes, which he offered to me. “See if any of this works. You look gorgeous, but it’s not exactly truffle hunting clothes.”
I snapped out of my temporary melancholy. “Really? Are they in season?”
“Frank said it’s just the start of the season, so we might not get lucky, but it’s truffle hunting, not truffle farming.”
“Oh, we’re getting lucky. We’re here, aren’t we?”
I pushed to stand and the skirt on my red patterned maxi dress gently swooshed around my ankles.
“We are.”
A kiss graced my cheek. “Now, go put on some truffle-hunting, bike-riding clothes while I find Joey the wine guy.”
“That’s easy. Reddish hair. Horn-rimmed glasses. Definitely a pocket square.”
“Back here. Twenty minutes. Farm appropriate.”
“Yes, chef!” With a snapped salute, I spun on my heel and retreated back into the inn on my mission. I pulled out my phone and texted Kenzie and my dad that I might be back a few days later than expected.
Tucking my phone between my shoulder and my ear, while wiggling into the one pair of jeans I’d packed, I called reception to see if I could get the room extended.
“Hi, Charity, this is Drennan McCutcheon. I’m hoping I can get my room extended for a few days.”
“It already has been, Miss McCutcheon. We’ve got you and your guest here through Wednesday.”
“I’m sorry. My guest? You already extended my stay?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s all sorted. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, not right now. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone and began to boil. Not at the fact that Bert had made plans for me, plans for us, but at his presumptuousness in booking a thousand dollar a night room for three more days. I knew Blackberry was a sought-after treat and I was damn lucky to get to visit as part of my job, but even if I could expense this, it was still coming out of company revenues.
The revenues of mine and Kenzie’s company. My company.
Was this all about the food and wine for him? With a heaping side of sex? Wouldn’t be the first time a guy had expected me to pick up a tab because of a wrongful perception that I was loaded. That simply because we’d had wine with dinner, it was related to my business, and I’d take care of it.
But I’d never had someone be so brazen. I tallied it up in my head, while I yanked my jeans off and put back on my dress. If he thought I was going bike riding with him, he was dead wrong. With tax and tips, dude had just signed me up for a costly business trip, not counting whatever wine he clearly expected to drink.
I stomped back down the stairs, tapping my foot on the porch and waiting for him to return.
He casually strolled up and I fought with myself. I needed to be straight with him, and I had every intention of doing so, but my heart caught in my throat at seeing him.
“What’s up? You don’t want to ride bikes? I’m sure we can take one of the golf carts.”
“No, I want to talk about you extending my stay,” I said, mindful to keep my tone even.
“Yeah, so you found out about that?”
“Uh, yeah, I did,” I answered plainly.
“You free to hang out here a few more days with me?” he asked, his hand scrubbing through his dark hair.
“Yes, but that’s not what you should be asking.” My right foot continuing its tight patter on the porch’s wooden boards.
“Okay, so I like to think I’m good at riddles, but you’ve got me. I have zero clue what you’re getting at. Just tell me, Drennan.”
“You expect me or von Eck to pick up your vacation at this swanky resort!”
“Okay, that was not what I expected. And that’s not happening.”
“Well, when I called and asked about extending my stay in order to surprise you, I find out that you’ve beaten me to the punch. Do you even know how much this place costs a night?”
“Yes, I do know because it’s charged to me.”
I gulped back. “Um, I’m sorry,” I squeaked.
“Okay, yeah, so I know I’m a co-owner of a small restaurant in flyover country, but I do well for myself.”
And I knew that was a shit explanation. I knew enough about the restaurant industry to guess what his income was. And multi-thousand dollar a night vacations weren’t in the picture.
“So, yeah, really? Because I can totally expense it.”
“Nope. Now, let’s find one of the golf carts. We need to talk.” He walked off, leaving the bikes leaning on the porch railing, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.
“Bert,” I began, trailing after him, my skirt catching around my ankles as I ran toward him. “I’m sorry.”
“What has ever given you the impression that I’d use you? You’re sorry? I’m sorry. I thought I was doing something nice for you, something nice for us.”
“It is nice.”
“So, what did I do? Is it because I let you buy wine that night at Loftin Yard? I didn’t want to, but you just were so happy and didn’t seem to mind and I didn’t think it would become this thing where you think I’m somehow using you? I don’t get that, Drennan.”
“It’s not about the wine. But you didn’t pay an ounce of attention to me until you found out about the winery. Admit it, you like dating me because of the wine. You keep calling me Miss von Eck.”
“To be funny. Come on, let’s get in the golf cart. If we’re going end up yelling at each other, I don’t think you want to cause a scene. Let’s go find someplace where we can fight in peace.”
I sat next to him on the bench seat. The electric motor turned to life and we puttered our way around the farm’s pond in silence, which was mine to break.
“So, it’s not reasonable, and I’m not a socialite or anything, but, you know the industry is tight. And I’ve been out with a few guys who seem to care more about the fact that they’ve dated me than about me. I’m not famous, but I know I become this amusing cocktail party aside.”
“Oh, come on Drennan. You’re smart, and funny, and you know you aren’t exactly off putting. But I doubt dating you is cocktail party-worthy.”
“After you find out someone has asked you out to dinner at Le Bernadin, but named dropped your family’s company to get reservations. When your intro oenology class takes a field trip to your family’s vineyard for a case study and then all the guys are jockeying with each other to sit next to you for the rest of the semester. And when you overhear a guy you were dating talking about how you lack all of the subtly and nuance of Drachenfutter. Let me know how that feels. Because it feels like you’re nothing but your family. So, tell me, Bert. Be honest. Why did you ignore me when I was just your wine rep and only become interested after you found out about my family?”
“You honestly expect me to answer that?” he said.
“I do.” I crossed both my arms and legs, looking away from him as we wove around the farm.
“Okay, well, I’ll be honest. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, Drennan. You’re younger than me. You are so damn young and chipper that I didn’t think you could handle casual. And while I’ve dated plenty since my divorce, I haven’t gotten involved with a woman in the food scene. It’s too easy to become the asshole.”
“So why the exception?”
He banged his hands on the steering wheel. “Christ! I don’t know. What do you want me to say? That you’re hot? That as soon as I found out that you were going back to California, I wanted in? Because that’s honesty, Drennan.”
“You wanted a quick fuck?”
“Yeah,” he said unabashedly. “A quick fuck. Jesus fucking Christ only knows how I ended up here.”
We drove in silence, following the signs to the orchard where, with any luck, truffles grew on the roots of the hickory trees. Bert let his foot off the pedal, and the cart whirred to a stop, but not before he jumped out and stalked away.
“You still want to truffle hunt?” I called after him.
His strides stopped and he turned toward me. “No, but this place isn’t that big and yelling here seems better than in front of my friends or yours,” he replied calmly.
“Okay,” I said, matching his restrained tone and sweeping my skirt up in my hands before walking toward him. “You want some honesty from me?”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, I think I deserve it.”
“That you do.” The cool fall wind whipped through the trees, sending my hair flying, as I tried to pin it back from my face with my hands. “You were supposed to be a trophy fuck for me.”
>
“A what?”
“A trophy fuck.”
“I heard that, but I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do. I told my cousin you were hot and I wanted to fuck you, and so I did.”
“You bragged to your cousin about sleeping with me?”
“No, I bragged to her about fucking you. The sleeping was an unexpected bonus.”
A snort escaped from him. “Truly, you are one of a kind. Something else. And I have no clue how we ended up here.”
“You said it before. Something to do with Flannery O’Connor and bourbon. And since we were both out for an easy lay, we’re even okay. And to be clear, since you were fucking me because you found me fuckable, I’m thrilled. Goddamnit, I’m thrilled by that.”
My laughter sounded up into the clear blue sky. And the angry heat that had built between us dissipated. No, it shifted. Becoming the heat we knew. The proverbial sparks—with a warmth underneath.
“You are so fuckable. Seriously, best lay of my life.” He took a slow step toward me.
“Thank you.” And I danced the same predatory step to him.
“And I have my own money. Truly, I’m not a fucking gold digger. Or wine digger or whatever you thought I was,” he said.
“I’m not trying to emasculate you. And I can expense it. You’ve got a house and a kid and college coming up.”
“No, really. I’m fine. It’s fine. And it’s my treat. I have some family money. You’d asked how I ended up in cooking school. The whole truth is that my trust would pay for our living expenses if I were in school. But if I worked, I only got a match of my income. With my classics degree, even doubling an income as a barista or, if I got lucky, and taught Latin at a private school, it wouldn’t go far. So, cooking classes were a good way for me to be in school but also take care of Grady while Amy was in dental school.”
“So you weren’t really a stay at home dad?” I asked.
“I was on breaks from school and then up until a few years ago.”
“Too bad.”
“You sound disappointed,” he said.