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“Are you two here on a date?” Mom adds, pushing the envelope, hope spilling across her face like nighttime moisturizer. I can smell the jojoba and lavender from here.
Dad takes a seat as if we invited him, reaching to shake Will’s hand with two manly pumps and a grip competition. Roy Monahan is proving he can open more pickle jars than any other guy on the planet.
Mom stands there for a few awkward seconds until Will’s manners kick in and he jumps to his feet, pulling out the chair next to him.
I died once tonight already, back at Bailargo.
Too bad it didn’t take.
Will and my dad raise their hands at the exact same time, exact same head twist, exact same movement to get the server’s attention. It simultaneously thrills me and makes me a little sick to my stomach. Dad laughs and claps Will on the shoulder as he says to the woman, “A bottle of Rosso di Montalcino.” She nods and this time skitters away without flirting.
Funny how that works.
Mom resumes her topic. “So, you two kids are having a–”
“Business meeting,” I say firmly as the server returns with wine glasses and a green bottle, the label a blur in the dim light.
Will’s mouth twitches with amusement. Dad pours the wine, waving the server off. Mom shakes her head no. Three glasses appear before Dad, Will, and me. I drink it.
I’d suck it out of the bottle directly if I thought I could get away with that.
“Coffee and wine at the same time?” Mom asks, eyebrows up.
“Life is a merry-go-round of moods, Mom.”
I chug the coffee, then turn to my wine.
“We’re just so glad you don’t think poorly of Mallory after that whole incident at your house.” Mom’s eyes go shifty. “You know. The porn,” she whispers. Her voice goes back to normal. “Because the last thing my Mallory would ever do is have sex before marriage!”
Wine sprays in an admirable arc. Will looks down at himself, my mouthful all over his front.
“Jesus!” I shout.
“You’re close. You drew blood earlier. Now it’s wine. Just get some nails, thorns, and two thick beams and let’s recreate that scene from the Bible,” he quips as he blots himself with his napkin and stands. His eyes, amused as hell but full of a pained confusion that makes my heart squeeze, dart from Mom to Dad to me.
“This was nice, Mallory. Glad to get those work details hammered out. I’ve got a call in fifteen minutes with some investors from China, so if you’ll all excuse me,” Will says with a polished, smooth tone that has a finality to it. The lie comes out easily, a social nicety that gets a pass. It’s a tone you take when you’re in command.
Or when you’re just done.
A nod to Mom and Dad each, and Will walks away. I see him stop at the counter and take out his credit card, gesturing in our direction. Then he’s gone.
Taking my guts with him.
“That was abrupt,” Mom says, taking in the half-empty dessert plates, my coffee, Will’s half-finished wine glass, and his unfolded napkin like a little white mountain on the tabletop. Dad picks up the wine bottle and pours the rest of the bottle into his glass. He catches the server’s eye and gestures for the check, but she shakes her head and smiles, pointing to the door that Will just went through.
“He has a lot of ground to cover. With the Chinese investors, I mean,” I grind out, grabbing my purse and turning toward the door.
“We didn’t end your date, did we?” Mom asks, alarmed, as I walk in front of her and Dad, assuming they’re on my heels.
“It was just a business meeting.”
“Oh.”
We get outside and I realize I’m parked back near Bailargo.
“Sharon, you’re driving,” Dad declares, handing her the keys. They’re a well-oiled machine, aren’t they?
I feel like a rusted-out Yugo left at a nuclear accident site for the last twenty-eight years.
