Page 10 of Work and Play
REID: Fuck all of you.
REID: But let’s just say I was seeing Abby. How do I get her into this “book club”
JACKSON: I’ll get Mila to reach out.
FINN: So poker night…
Dinner with a Scottish father and a French mother means a lot of rich and hearty food. Make that dinner Christmas dinner and suddenly it’s a feast for the senses. Roast turkey with chestnut stuffing, potatoes, vegetables done in an au gratin style, and of course a cheese platter to round it all out pairs perfectly with the wines I stopped to buy at the specialty wine store I always go to in Vancouver. Just as she does every year, Mom has the house looking like it belongs in a magazine. Seriously, it’s as if Christmas threw up in here, but somehow in a beautifully elegant way. As I sip the cognac she poured for us all after we finished stuffing our faces with dessert, I wander through the living room, looking at all of the family photos she insists on displaying. My favourite will always be the one of me in my grandfather’s arms, holding a spray of grapes. The very same grapes I have been nurturing for the last several months, hoping and praying they’ll take root in the very different climate of Vancouver Island. This spring will be the real test, when we see just how strong the shoots are.
The very real pang of nerves, mixed with pride, mixed with sorrow, fills me as it does every time I see this photo. I have a copy hidden in a drawer at home, waiting for the day that La Lune Rouge is producing this wine that connects me to the man I admired and loved so much. The man I miss so much.
“Hello, mon cher. How did I know you would be here,” my mother says, coming to kiss my cheek affectionately. “He would be so proud of you.”
I turn to face her. “I can’t help but wish I had been able to show him what I’ve done with his grapes. If only I’d tried to come home sooner.”
“If you had not spent the time in California building your skills and gaining experience, Pierre would not have offered you this opportunity. You wouldn’t have your own winery, producing exquisite wines. You would be a slave to someone else, at their whim for what happens to the grapes. You would not have lived up to your dream.”
Her gentle slap to my arm underlies the indignant tone of her voice. Mom never shies away from saying what needs to be said, and in this instance, as in many others, she’s right.
“I know. I just hate that I’ll never be able to pour him a glass of wine that I have made.”
Her eyes soften and she draws me over to the sofa. “Sit, sit down and talk to me. You are very sentimental tonight, my darling son.”
I follow her and sink down into the plush, velvet-covered sofa that has lived in this house since I was a child. It’s worn in places, and I rub my hand absently over one such spot.
“Now talk to me. Is everything going well with Pierre?”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass for a moment, thinking of how to respond. I don’t want to say too much, because I know my parents will want to help and I’m determined not to take their money. But I’ve always had a close relationship with my parents, and not letting them in on my worries feels wrong.
“Everything is going well. We’re on schedule for a soft opening later this spring. We’re simply having a difference of opinions about the tasting room.”
My dad chooses that moment to walk in. He sits in a large armchair next to the stone fireplace and turns from me to my mother.
“What are we talking about that has such serious looks on your faces? It’s Christmas. Time for joy and happiness.”
Mom reaches over and pats his knee, and the loving look she gives him strikes a chord in me. Their fairy-tale marriage set the bar so high for me in terms of love, it almost seems unattainable. But deep inside, hidden in a part of me I don’t let show often, I want that. I want a partner, a lover, a wife. Someone by my side, pushing me to be better than I am, yet loving who I am, no matter what.
“Finnigan was just saying he and Pierre have a difference of opinion, mon amour.”
I sip my cognac as Dad lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it before turning to me. “About what, son?”
“The tasting room,” I admit. “He wants to hire the daughter of a friend of his to design it. She’s got some crazy ideas that he loves, but I’m not so sure about it.”
“Do you not like the design?”
“No, I do,” I answer reluctantly. “It’s just that the design seems…extravagant. More so than I had initially envisioned for the space.”
Mom quirks a small smile at me. “Is it the design you struggle with, or the cost of the design?”
I let out a wry chuckle. “A mother’s intuition never fails you, does it?”
“No mon cher, it does not.”
My dad leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, looking at me. “Son, I know you don’t want our help with the money, and I respect that. But that does not mean I won’t offer. We want you to feel as confident in your success as we do.”
Gratitude fills me. I know I’m damn lucky to have parents like this. “Thanks, Dad. It’ll be okay, though. Pierre and I just need to work out the details, and I just have to make sure Ashley doesn’t go too crazy with the budget. If I can get her on my side, understanding the need for some restraint, we’ll be fine.”
“Well, son. You’ll catch more bees with honey than with vinegar, if you know what I mean.”
