After a week of festivities, the Callahans are back in New York City.
My fiancée’s large and boisterous family made quite the impression on our small town. People will be talking about them for a long time to come.
The engagement and post-engagement celebrations forced me to delay today’s meeting.
My life is like a fucking rocket.
You know your notoriety has shot to the moon when industrialist Warren Blanchard requests to see you.
So here I am, sitting across from the wealthy magnate and his wife at one of Dallas’s prime restaurants.
The experience in itself is surreal, as mind-blowing as the outrageous prices on the menu. And this wine list…Ooh-Wee.I had to school my expression at the eye-popping prices, but I guess that’s how rich folks roll.
We’re nestled in a booth near the window. There isn’t a cloud spotting Texas’s blue sky. Since it’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday, it’s quiet.
Although the couple also lives in Summerville, Mr. Blanchard was in the mood for a good old American steak at his favorite eatery. My kind of man.
Mr. Blanchard suggested we wait to order. He prefers to savor a nice glass of wine before digging into the food. Since he’s footing the bill, I won’t say no.
After filling our glasses with a cabernet sauvignon from Napa Valley that received a nod of approval from Mrs. Blanchard, the waiter scurries off.
Mr. Blanchard lifts his glass. “Here’s to us finally meeting.”
“Yes,finally,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
My eyes shift from Mr. Blanchard’s to his wife’s.
Both are looking at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
I’m a bit puzzled by the wordfinally,and this strange vibe running between us, but I can only assume they were looking forward to this meeting.
“Here’s to meeting fellow Summervillians,” I say.
“I’m an honorary Summervillian,” Mrs. Blanchard says. “I’m a south Texas girl through and through. I still can’t handle winters up here.”
We all laugh.
With a collectiveCheers!we take a long sip of our red wine.
Wow.
I bring the glass to eye level, admiring it like it’s newly found treasure.
So, this is what a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine tastes like.
Noted.
Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard make an elegant couple, oozing with sophistication, both wearing clothing that probably cost as much as Emmylou would be worth at a vintage car auction.
Thank God I wore a suit jacket and a crisp white shirt with my jeans, and a pair of brand-new cowboy boots.
I drop my glass on the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard, it’s an honor to have lunch with you. To say the New York Times Magazine’s feature is still paying dividends would be an understatement.”
“Actually, I havePeoplemagazine to thank,” Mr. Blanchard says.
Man, that feature is still paying dividends.“I fell off my boots whenPeoplemagazine called.”
“I had never read the magazine before. Not my type of reading material,” Mr. Blanchard says. “I have to admit, I don’t attend that many rodeos, but like most people in Summerville, I had heard of the local rodeo king who tried to save his best friend from an out-of-control bull.” He shakes his head. “What a tragedy.”
