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“No, you met the sweet, Southern Belle version of her. You have no idea how strict my mother can be and brutal if the situation calls for it.”
“So, you haven’t learned to manipulate your mother as I have mine, then?” I joked.
“You mentioned you’re the baby of your family. Well, I’m the oldest, and I think everyone knows that the oldest will forever try to prove their worth while the baby is born with it. They can commit murder and still find favor with the harshest of all parents.”
I grinned, “You sound like my oldest brother, Sebastian.”
“Like I said,” she sipped her beer. “Oldest sibling problems.”
“Either way,” I smiled, loving that it seemed we could talk about anything, and it always went in a fun direction. “So, my mother is extremely strict,” I stopped myself. “Wait, what the fuck was I talking about? I didn’t start this conversation by talking about my mother.”
I never had difficulty staying on track talking about anything, but I was tonight.
“Your family’s vineyard and estate in Normandy,” she said.
At least one of us was paying attention.
“Right, so the estate—Antoinette Vineyards. Many centuries ago, my ancestor, Jean-Luc Aster, named his vineyards after his lovely bride, a stamp on the Aster’s net worth that would trickle down through time, growing and multiplying for generations, branching out into more investments and successful business ventures than I can recount, continuing to this day.”
“A story of hard work, wealth, and love,” she said cutely.
I arched an eyebrow, “While there was hard work, wealth, and love between Antoinette and Jean-Luc, it was the foundation my family built on. Their hard work was a catalyst for familial greatness, one which every family member was and is expected to revere and contribute to, never sullying the reputation or impeding growth.”
“Shit,” she said, gulping this last drink of beer she took a sip from, “that’s quite a family history lesson.”
“That’s not even bullet points, and it’s only on my father’s side,” I chuckled, opening another beer for her and me. “I could go on?”
“I’m intrigued,” she answered, taking the beer I offered her. “I’ve never heard of anything like this before, much less met someone part of such a legacy.”
“A far cry from having a dad as a coach in Tennessee, right?” Fuck! I didn’t realize how that would sound until after that arrogant insult came out. “Jesus,” I outwardly reprimanded myself, “I did not mean it like that.”
She laughed in response. “Definitely not the average Smith family legacy, where two girls were raised in a small Tennessee town that proudly offered us all four seasons, a mother as the high school principal, and their dad an amazing coach.”
“Fuck,” I said again. “You see?” I lowered my voice to match how stupid I felt. “This is why I despise discussing my personal shit with anyone.”
“Why?”
She seemed perplexed by my embarrassment.
“Because it makes me sound like a pretentious, spoiled rich boy, which I can assure you I am not.”
“Oh, you’re a spoiled rich boy for sure, John Aster, but that doesn’t define who I believe you are,” she playfully yet masterfully said.
“And who do you believe I am?” Here we go again, with me chasing rabbits while in conversation.
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” she answered, “but I’m working on it.”
Time to talk about Mom, I thought.
“Well, giving you the family history on my mom will help you conclude that.”
“We shall see,” she chuckled, most likely seeing my sudden discomfort. “So, if your dad’s family built the Aster fortune from France, I’m going to guess your mother comes from the American family that owned—” she paused. I could tell she was enjoying this little game of family charades, “A cattle ranching business in Montana?”
“Huh?” I laughed at that wild guess, knowing that my maternal and paternal family did not come from America and most definitely not from the cattle industry. “Where the hell did you come up with that one?”
“Wild guess,” she chuckled. “My ex was hooked on that Yellowstone show. He forced me to watch some episodes with him, and I liked it.”
“That’s a great show,” I said. “My dad is much like John Dalton, if we’re comparing.”
