Page 8 of Rock the Chardonnay

The scent of fried food makes me feel woozy. I walk away from the obscenely happy couple. There are distractions aplenty here, and I need one desperately. There are so many memories here, more than other places I’ve lived, like New York or Nashville. Even Los Angeles. Though I’ve been in California for years now, the city is so huge and sprawling, that it never really feels like I’m in the same place.

Still. St. Olaf has its small town charm. And it goes all out for festivals.

I pass lemonade stands, cream puffs that are larger than my head, and a stall selling Renaissance Faire-style flower garlands. The air smells like grilled meats and onions and sugar wafts in the air like sweet-scented smoke.

Closer to the lake, there is a white fence surrounding a series of tents, with white wooden benches and long tables set up inside the perimeter. Over the little gate, manned by an ancient white man with a serious farmer’s tan, is a sign in curlicue writing: Biergarten, over 21 only.

I’m not much of a drinker, but there is a sentimental pull to Wisconsin’s local breweries and cideries. Vineyards, too.

It was twelve years. Who am I kidding? The Fosters probably left town ages ago.

Although, in a weird spell after I broke up with my last boyfriend—we passed our three date termination mark—I looked up the Foster brothers on social media. Declan’s profile was private, but his mom’s is public. She had posted photos from a Mother’s Day celebration, complete with a little nine-year-old mini Ciaran. The brothers had both aged well, Declan especially. I’m surprised Ciaran has a kid. I would have pegged Declan as the paternal one of the two. He was definitely the Relationship Material brother.

Has Declan ever married?

A little kernel of want curls deep in my core but I push it aside. That’s ancient history and there’s no good bringing any of it back.

“ID, please?” The bouncer, who could not weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet—and may have been that old—holds out a hand to me.

“Sure.” My badge identifying me as a performer isn’t going to cut it in this setting. I dig through my ancient leather messenger bag until I find my wallet. “Here you go.” I hand him my driver’s license.

He peruses it with the same care a person might give to reading the Declaration of Independence for the first time. It’s oddly touching. “Hmph. All right, Ms. Sutcliffe. Drink responsibly, now.”

“I will.” What a wild place. I get carded everywhere in LA, too, but nobody seems to care there. It’s more of a perfunctory glance. I read his name badge and flash him my stage smile. “Thanks, Frank.”

He opens the gate for me and I walk into the Biergarten. I’ve been in a lot of these, too, throughout my childhood. If I have to pick a table, the one over by the craft beer tent would be my mom’s. Not because of its impressive selection of IPAs. It looks like it has the softest grass underneath to curl up for an impromptu drunk nap.

Tucking my performer badge beneath the collar of my navy blue ribbed tank top, I walk around reading the signs. Altenbosch Orchard Cider. Golden Rose Brewery. Sweet Valley Vines.

I don’t realize I’m looking for it until it’s right in front of me. Foster Family Vineyards.

Nobody is working the tent, thank heaven and hell and anyone else who’s listening. A dark, lush green runner lined the tasting table, and there is a chalkboard on either end listing the wines available to taste. Heart Stomp Chardonnay. Frozen Out Ice Wine.

Yeesh. Someone was going through something when they named these wines.

A tow-headed kid wearing neon blue eyeshadow pops up from beneath the table. He eyes me warily, blue eyes calculating. “My dad names the wines.”

Wow. This is such a mini Ciaran.

“Who broke your dad’s heart?” I ask.

“My dad is unbreakable.”

Respect. “Right on, kid. What’s your name?”

“Alex.” He stretches out his hand to me and I take it in mine. His palm is a little sticky but he gives my hand one good, firm shake. “What can I getcha?”

I lean on the table on my elbows. “Aren’t you a little young to be serving wine?”

“Please.” Alex rolls his eyes. “I live on a vineyard. I could tell you more than any sommelier in Napa.”

Somehow, I believe him. He projects confidence. “Okay. Wow me.”

Unimpressed. That describes Alex perfectly. He pulls a thin bottle of honey-colored liquid from underneath the table. “Try our ice wine. It’s my favorite.”

“Alex.” A dark-haired man enters the back of the tent, carrying a clanking box full of wine bottles. “You know you’re not supposed to be serving. I’m so sorry, I’ll be right—”

Whoa. It’s like all the air in the tent condenses and expands at once. When he starts speaking, that deep, rich tone sizzles down my spine. How it is possible for that one glimpse of him to make me shiver, I have no idea.

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