Page 9 of Kiss My Glass
She enjoyed my humiliation last night and she’s enjoying this. But as I said, no Durant walks away from a challenge, even if we risk losing all our fingers. I pick out a carrot because it’s the longest, lean over the pen railing and gingerly dangle it in front of?—
“That’s Ham Solo,” Frankie informs me.
“How can youtell?”
“Ham’s got the lighter skunk stripe above his snout.”
She really digs these pigs. Ham takes the carrot, and demolishes it, grunting and crunching. My fingers remain intact. I offer a carrot to the other pig, who grunts and crunches with an enthusiasm that’s actually kind of endearing.
“And who’s this guy?” I ask. “Or gal?”
“Guy,” says Frankie. “Luke Skyporker. My brothers named them.”
I know just enough about farming to know that most animals are expected to earn their keep … and that most of them don’t get named. These guys are definitely freeloaders.
“Why do you have pigs as pets?”
I can only see Frankie’s profile, but her jaw muscle gives a telltale twitch. Interesting.
“One of Mom’s rescue missions.”
Her tone is casual, but I’m not fooled. Something more is going on here.
“Morons buy potbellied pigs when they’re super cute babies,” she says. “But they don’t bother to even google what they might look like when they’re fully grown.”
I find Ham and Luke more appealing now that they’ve shown a preference for food scraps over body parts. But it’s true. They’re about as soft and cuddly as a saguaro cactus.
“These two were found wandering on a hill trail by one of our vineyard workers. He managed to entice them up a ramp and onto his truck, and brought them here,” Frankie continues. “Mom decided to keep them. Soon after, both my brothers left home, and Shelby was busy with Dad learning the wine trade. Fell to me to be mistress of the pigsty.”
Again, the jaw twitch. And the words hanging in the air, unsaid. I know what it’s like to have a complicated relationship with a parent. In my case, my dad. I’ve only met Frankie and Shelby’s mom a couple of times, and we never got beyond small talk. Lee Armstrong’s the same age as my mom, late fifties, and if it’s not weird to say this, they’re both very beautiful women. Lee’s a willowy redhead, an artist, serene, and with a strong streak of woo-woo. Come to think of it, she couldn’t be more different from Frankie…
… who says, “Okay, we’re done here.” Grabs the bowl out of my hand and tosses the rest of the scraps into the pen. Ham and Luke set upon the pile and start chowing down exuberantly. I admire them. They love their life. They have no inhibitions. We could all benefit from being more pig-like.
“Coffee?” Frankie’s expression is neutral, her tone now coolly polite.
“Hell, yes.” Be enthusiastic. Be more pig. “My emotional support beverage. Bring it on.”
ChapterSeven
FRANKIE
Pretty sure Danny wouldn’t be so gung-ho for coffee if he’d tried my sister’s brew before. We sent a sample to the poisons control center for testing – purely out of scientific curiosity, you understand – and apparently, itisfit for human consumption. It just happens to look and smell like it crawled out of the La Brea tar pits after 50,000 years of being entombed in pitch. Those who know call it The Black Death. Those who don’t better have a defibrillator handy.
Nate stands well back while he fills Danny’s cup.
“Bro, don’t be stingy,” says Danny. “Fill it to the brim!”
“This is Shelby’s coffee,” says Nate. “Not Starbucks.”
“Hey!” Shelby protests.
She’s at the stove making pancakes, bless her. I offered to, but she refused, saying she had to do somethingproductive, even if it was only whisking milk into original fluffy texture pancake and waffle mix.
Danny’s puzzled. “What’s wrong with Shelby’s coffee?”
“Nothing!” Shelby brandishes the whisk, scattering milky drops.
“Technically nothing,” agrees Nate. “And yet…”
