Page 39 of Never the Best

Behind the bar, the bartender looked like he’d stepped straight out of central casting—effortlessly suave, with a neatly trimmed beard, and a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves.

As soon as he saw Pearl, he hugged her, and they chatted inFrench. Sure, we'd all taken French in high school, but I could barely say more thanouiandmerde. Pearl sounded fluent.

“This is my friend, Rhett,” Pearl introduced me, and I shook hands with Mathieu, who owned Garçon de Café and had known Pearl for many years. Stupid jealousy reared its head.

Mathieu handed us menus and poured water into crystal-clear glasses before stepping back to let us browse.

The wine list was as eclectic as the bar itself. Alongside the expected French selections, there were bottles from lesser-known regions like Jura, along with an intriguing mix of natural wines from Portugal and Spain, made with grapes I’d never even heard of. Scattered among the offerings were California wines from small, independent vineyards, the kind you rarely found on standard menus. It wasn’t a list designed to impress—it was curated to invite exploration, to make you want to linger over every sip.

I’d never been a wine guy—not like my father, who pretended he could taste notes of leather and tobacco in every glass—but this place made me want to lean into the aesthetic. When I told Pearl, she giggled.

“Mathieu, here, has enhanced my wine education,” she told me.

“She has specific tastes, so serving her the wine she likes is always a challenge,” Mathieu explained in a French accent.

We sat at the bar, and I watched Pearl and Mathieu chat about people they knew. Sara, the bartender who was doinga PhD in psychoanalysis, someone called Patti, who was a singer, and others.

“Well, what would you like?” Mathieu asked both of us.

“Ah….” I perused the menu.

“Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who orders Chardonnay just because it’s the only thing you recognize,” Pearl teased.

I smirked. “Do I look that uncultured?”

Mathieu raised a hand as if swearing in. “I have some excellent Chardonnays from Burgundy by the glass. Would you like to try?”

“Absolutely.” I set the menu away. As the bartender went to get our glasses and wine, I sighed. “I told you, my father is the wine aficionado in the family.”

“Your father is a wine snob,” she exclaimed. “Trust me, I’ve met the kind who think that because a bottle is expensive, it’s good.”

“I thought that was sort of the rule.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Absolutely not! I have found some amazing wines under fifty dollars. I’m assuming that’s not the kind of thing George Vanderbilt ever indulges in.”

There was strength in her voice when she spoke—a quiet confidence that was unmistakable. This was the new Pearl, the grown-up version. Since moving to Savannah, she’d kept her distance, only interacting with me when work required it. But now, for the first time, we were having a real conversation. She didn’t mince her words, and I could tell she had no intention of tiptoeing around anything to spare my feelings.

It was such a stark contrast to most of Savannah’s socialcircle, where conversations were full of polite half-truths and carefully veiled intentions. Pearl spoke her mind, plain and simple, and I liked that about her—I liked it a whole lot.

“I’ll have you know, I once shared a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with my father and his equally insufferable friends. I’m not saying I enjoyed it, but I survived.”

“That could be harrowing, depending on the vintage,” Pearl mocked.

“Now, who’s sounding like a wine snob?” I teased.

Pearl tilted her head and shrugged. “What can I say, it’s just who I am,” she said in a very bad French accent.

Mathieu guided us through a tasting of the wines he had by the glass. Pearl eventually settled on a Sancerre—crisp, refreshing, and apparently, exactly what she wanted. I chose a Pinot Noir from Oregon, which, according to Mathieu, was light enough for a sunny LA afternoon but carried enough depth and complexity to keep it interesting.

“See, I didn’t get a Chardonnay,” I showed off to Pearl.

We ordered a charcuterie board to share—prosciutto, brie, olives, the works—and I watched as she leaned back in her barstool, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass after Mathieu delivered our drinks.

It was easy with her, easier (and more fun) than it had been in a long time with any woman. The silences were simple without the need to be filled up with small talk.

Is this what life could have been for me if I’d had the courage to be in a relationship with Pearl or even be her friend? Instead of the constant chatter and gossip aboutothers,would I find myselflearningnewthings, like how an Oregon Pinot Noir could, apparently, be as good as one from Burgundy?

“You know a lot about wine. How did that come about?”

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