Page 83 of A Taste of Chardonnay

“It’s going to take months, but Laurent, myself, and Franc are all in. I have called into a lot of places, and I’m just waiting to hear back. Don’t worry about me. I love a challenge.”

“It’s not too much?”

“If it ever is, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

He nodded.

“But the same goes for you. If we’re going to do this, no more trying to carry everything on your shoulders. You don’t have to anymore.”

“It might take time to get used to, but okay.”

“Good.”

“You ready?” His hand lingered on the doorknob. He was stalling.

“Open the damn door, Brady.”

He pushed it open, the warm air of the fireplace meeting with the cold of the early December night. Ron sat on the couch, Fanny on his lap. The open door or the cold blast of air had both of them looking toward us. Fanny jumped up, and Brady slammed the door before the cat could take off.

She came to me, rubbing her head into my leg and dragging her body along my pants.

“Ron, this is—”

“You’re the Grasso kid.”

“I am.” I stepped forward. “But I prefer to go by Chardonnay. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Is it?”

“A couple of decades ago I’d want to wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze, but word on the street is you’re not all that bad.”

“I was.”

“People change,” I said.

Jack ran past us and into the kitchen, returning with his metal bowl in his mouth. He dropped it at Brady’s boots.

“Go,” I said to Brady.

“Are you sure?” He stared at the bowl, then at Ron, before looking at me.

I squeezed his arm. “I’m good. Go take care of Jack before he learns how to pour his own food.”

He kissed the top of my head, and I could practically feel the glare he gave Ron before patting his leg for Jack to follow him into the kitchen.

I sat on the couch beside Ron.

He leaned back and smirked. “That boy has always had a soft spot where you were concerned.”

“He merely tolerated me,” I said, thinking of my conversation with Mom and all the years we were at each other’s throats.

“That boy loved you.”

“Excuse me?”

Brady admitted to it himself, but no one knew. Not even me. Maybe Mom. But how did a man who spent most of Brady’s life drunk know?

“The way he used to defend you. He would have cut down an entire army if they misspoke about you. My mind might be going to shit, but I remember that much.”

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