I wrap my arms around him, sharing in the mutual frustration for a moment before pulling away and taking his hand.
We enter the dining room to find the table pleasantly full. Charlie is there sipping a glass of wine, and Livvie and Marco sit side by side, smelling faintly of horse, but having one hell of a conversation considering the way she’s slapping him with her napkin while he tries to grab it from her. Before I knew Marco better, I might have worried at his teasing. But it’s clear he’s not serious, and I know Livvie’s not interested in him that way.
Smiling, I take my seat at the foot of the table, Dante at the head, Armani and Charlie to my left. The Livvie-Marco banter continues, and I tune in just in time to hear Livvie say, “Surprising, considering you’re a total man ho,” skewering Marco with a particularly well-placed barb.
I press my lips together, trying to suppress my laugh, but Marco takes it all in stride.
“Man ho I may be, but at least I go for what I want—unlike Armani, who collects interest but never cashes in.”
Marco wags his eyebrows at his brother.
Armani coolly folds his hands on the table in front of them. “That may be true, but at least my penis won’t fall off from some exotic STD.”
Livvie snorts a laugh, and Dante takes the opportunity to cut in.
“Armani,” he says reprovingly, “don’t say ‘penis.’ There are ladies present.”
Armani has the grace to look chastised. Marco sighs in annoyance at Dante’s scolding.
“Say ‘dick’ instead,” Dante continues. “I believe that’s what the kids call it these days.”
There’s a collective intake. Did Dante just make a fuckingjoke? A stunned silence fills the room, and then the whole table erupts in laughter. Even Dante allows himself a self-satisfied smile and gives me a wink.
Marco slaps a hand on the table as he laughs. “If this is what having a wife does for Dante, we should have married him off years ago!”
23
Frankie
“DidI tell you about the time my daughter brought home a pet duck and thought she could keep it hidden from me in the shed? For weeks I’d let the poor thing out when she went to school, and he would follow me around the garden all day. She only realized I knew her little secret when she got off the bus one day and couldn’t find him. She had acompletemeltdown. We spent hours searching, until I was sure he had to’ve been scooped up by a hawk we had on the property, but then just before it got dark, we finally found him—he was napping under the azaleas!”
Raucous laughter sounds from the lively table of grandma-age Southern women I’m hosting in the tasting room. They’ve been telling stories about when their children were little for over an hour, interspersing each bout of laughter with more wine. I’m enjoying their company far more than I should be, considering I’m on the clock.
I rise from my seat and start to excuse myself, but they insist that I stay and listen to just one more story. Since they’re technically the only group I’m scheduled to host today, I’m happy to oblige. The tasting room is full in general, giving the staff more than enough to do. It’s nice to hear so much laughter and conversation going on inside this building. Not to mention the obvious bonus of the profits we’re making while everyone has a good time.
The oldest of the women, Arlene, leans forward to chime in with her deep, melodic Georgia accent. “Let me tell you about the time Harper and Alden tried to build a boat out of old milk jugs and some scrap lumber they found stacked up behind the barn.”
“Oh no,” one of the others says. “I bet I know where this is going.”
“They worked on that thing for days, running in and out of the house asking for nails and rope and what have you. Problem was, none of the jugs had caps,” Arlene says, shaking her head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell ‘em it wasn’t gonna work, but they figured it out soon as they launched into the pond and tried to scramble on.
“Them jugs filled right up with water and they sank clear to the bottom. Maiden voyage didn’t last much more than a few seconds, if that. Alden came home crying and missing a shoe, and I had to pretend I hadn’t been watching ‘em through the window the whole time!”
I laugh along with them and swap out their wine glasses for a new vintage. Their stories give me a warm, homey feeling, even though my home life was a far cry from what they’re describing. I wonder what it would’ve been like to have a mom who’d been more like these women. Resilient, loving, good-humored. Just…there.
So far, I’ve heard about the baby blankets they knit for the neonatal ICU at the hospital, and how to make the best pie crust (you need to freeze the butter an hour beforehand, though a heated debate breaks out regarding whether shortening is superior). It’s not all domestic talk, though—Arlene is a retired flight mechanic, and Elizabeth spent years traveling abroad as an antiques buyer.
I also learn about their town’s biggest scandal this past year, which apparently involved their favorite hairdresser’s illicit relationship with a dancer from the gentlemen’s club. It has a happy ending, though—no pun intended—because after he put a ring on her finger, he paid for her to go to cosmetology school for her aesthetician’s license. Now they co-own a salon together.
It’s almost like I’ve stepped inside the world of a Hallmark movie. Everything about these women is wholesome, friendly, and family oriented. Well. Except for how shit-faced they’re getting.
“Oooh, Mabel. Better fix your hat. That sweet thing at the bar is looking your way!”
The women giggle, one of them lowering her voice to say, “Now that is one tight ass.”
Arlene leans toward Mabel. “Maybe you should go say hello, May. It’s not every day you get a handsome man checking you out from across the room!”
Mabel shrugs. “He’s probably just as drunk as the rest of us. I’ll bet he doesn’t know what he’s looking at!”
