Page 8 of Kiss My Glass
Speculation, Ms Armstrong! Stick to the facts. Of course, he smiles a lot; he’s in love with his own boorish, sexist wit. And don’t call it a smile – it’s asmirk!
The quip about the cork comedies wasn’t bad, though. He was quick, I’ll give him that. And he did apologize. Reluctantly, true, but I’ve grown to be skilled at judging body language, because it’s super useful in court, and I can tell the difference between someone squirming because they’ve been caught out, and someone feeling genuine shame. Danny was in between, but definitely leaning towards the side of shame.
And I was watching him when Shelby said she loved us, loved having her family around. He flinched – actually flinched. Just for a second but I caught it. I’m not sure what it means, yet. He’s allergic to expressions of affection? I can identify with that. Maybe he feels like he doesn’t deserve love? That’s getting into deeper psychological territory than I care to tread, but it’s not out of the bounds of possibility. Some people are born with an iron-clad sense of self-worth – my dad was one of them. Most of us have to fight a little harder to feel like we matter.
Danny’s staying in the tiny house attached to the workshop, built by our Flora Valley Wines handyman and barrel-maker, Cam Hollander. Cam’s another who’s had a hard road to self-respect. Dad and Mom rescued him over a decade ago, when Cam was a homeless army-vet hanging on to life by a thread. Now, Cam’s shacked up with yet another Durant sibling, Ava, in a cute bungalow, surrounded by fruit trees. They took the cantankerous winery goose, Dylan, with them. Mrs Dylan died, and seeing as geese mate for life, Cam and Ava are the only family Dylan’s got. Nate was relieved; he was convinced, accurately, that Dylan hated him. Shelby was a little sad, but her house and yard are full of cats and dogs. So many, I’ve long since given up trying to count or identify them. There are also two Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs, Ham Solo and Luke Skyporker, but they’re kept in a pen. Ham and Luke were the only pets I really bonded with. I’ll go visit them tomorrow morning, take some food scraps, see if they recognize me.
I start thinking about Danny again. A natural segue from pigs, obviously. The workshop and tiny house are about twenty minutes’ walk cross country, through vines and trees. Four minutes’ drive by road, but I didn’t see a vehicle except the pick-up, so I assume Danny got settled in, then came over on foot. I know he trades in classic cars, and I’d be interested to see what he drove up from L.A in. I wonder if he’ll give my baby blue Karmann Ghia the seal of approval or dismiss it as a faddish piece of crap? Maybe Iwanthim to hate it, so I can keep on hatinghim?
DoI hate him, though? Or do I hate what he represents? The privilege that good looks and good breeding automatically unlocks. The Durants are wealthy, like super rich. Shelby says they live in a mansion with five hundred rooms. Okay, she might have been exaggerating in her usual feverish fashion, but unlike us, the Durant kids grew up with money. They went to the best private schools, the best colleges. The youngest two, twins Izzy and Max, are at MIT and Juilliard School of Music, for crying out loud! I got my law degree through a community college, and I had to work my ass off to get my foot in the door of a decent legal firm. Danny Durant has had everything handed to him on a plate, and he may as well have a badge of entitlement embroidered on his preppy shirt instead of that stupid dude on a polo pony.
Right, job done. I’ve worked myself up to a low boil of loathing. Not so much that I’ll lie awake churning with rage. Just enough to ensure any thoughts I have of Danny Durant stay up in my brain and don’t slide downwards to parts that are easily swayed by soft blue eyes and a kissable mouth.
Of course, I can’t guarantee what might happen in my dreams.
ChapterSix
DANNY
This accommodation is getting a bad review on Tripadvisor. For one, it’s so small, I keep banging into things. And all those things are made of wood, so I’m amassing a sweet collection of bruises. It’s two floors, bedroom up, but bathroom down, and the stairs are narrow, so you want to reduce your liquid intake well before hitting the hay or risk a broken femur from a nighttime fall. There’s no closet at all, only drawers built into the bed base. I’ve had to hang my jackets and shirts on the only two hooks available, which are downstairs, naturally, on the inside of the front door. The kitchen at least has been stocked with granola, milk, fresh fruit, and a bag of coffee grounds –but there’s no goddam coffee maker!
Okay, I found the coffee maker. Next door in the workshop. It’s no Wega, but it does the job. I’ve had my espresso now. Hulk Danny has retreated, and sane, calm Danny is back in charge, and very grateful to my brother and sister-in-law for the supplies, and for letting me stay here and not at my parents’ place. I take a (wooden) chair out front and sit, listening to the birds, watching a few clouds scud across the patch of sky that’s visible through the trees. It’s barely seven o’clock and the sun is already warming my skin. It gets hot round here, but not like an L.A. summer, where it can feel like you’re breathing through a greasy washcloth. The air here will stay fresh and dry, and the sky will stay blue. I grew up an hour’s drive away and spent many a summer’s day sweating on a soccer field, wishing I was fruit picking, or corn pollinating, or fighting off rabid sugar-hyped children while dressed as a Chuck E. Cheese mascot. Anything except running up and down scorched turf in a pair of tight nylon sport shorts.
I wasn’t the only Durant kid suffering. Nate and Ava competed in track, and Ava, because she’s the major overachiever of our family, also did a horsey thing. Eventing! (Thank you for recharging my brain, espresso.) The twins, Izzy and Max, played tennis because they could do it together. I chose soccer mainly because it was the one sport Dad knew nothing about. He was more interested in individual achievement than team sports, anyway. I got my driver’s license soon as I turned sixteen and didn’t need my folks to take me to matches. Soon as I turned eighteen, I left home. I can happily say I’ve never again worn tight nylon sport shorts.
Nate and Shelby asked me over for breakfast. I’ll walk. I’m getting the hang of the path, though last night, I was grateful when Shelby handed me a torch. I could have driven, but I knew I’d have a few drinks and the cops round here are vigilant and pitiless. If I lose my license because of a DUI, I lose my business. And I’m hardly qualified to do anything else. Not even being a mascot at Chuck E. Cheese.
As I come out of the trees at the end of the path, I spy Frankie Armstrong exiting the house. She’s in a fitted short-sleeved pink shirt and faded rolled up jeans, and a tingle of appreciation for her sensational figure zings straight to my guy down south. But any primal instincts are swiftly stifled by my conscience. Last night, I admit, I indulged in some hand-held hijinks, but it doesn’t seem right to have sexy thoughts about a woman who’s real and less than twenty feet away. All right, so we’ve established that I can be a meat-brained chauvinist with a couple too many strong cocktails in me, but on the whole, I do try to be respectful. I didn’t sleep with my online date after I’d confirmed she was spoken for. I thought about it but that’s not the same thing.
Now that my brain is in charge again, it becomes curious about where Frankie is headed. I realize the only way to find out is to follow her. So, that’s what I do.
I haven’t spent much time exploring the Flora Valley Wines property. Nate and Shelby’s wedding was in the big barn, but there are a lot of other outbuildings, some filled with what I assume is wine-making equipment, some with barrels, and others with sacks of … stuff. There’s a garden with herbs, vegetables, and flowers planted between the spokes of an old wagon wheel. There’s a rustic bench on which a scarecrow in a flannel shirt is seated. I feel like I should be wearing overalls and chewing on a stalk of hay. And I’ve lost sight of Frankie.
Spotted her. Over by… Are thosepigs? I always thought pigs were pinkish white and cute, like inBabe, but these two look like VW Beetles covered in black bristly hair.
I hesitate. Frankie’s talking to the pigs. The tone of her voice sounds gentle, affectionate, and I’m not sure she’d want me to know she has another side to her than her usual full frontal attack mode.
Too late. She turns her head and sees me. Lurking. Spying. I see her mouth rise in that ominous half-smile and brace myself for the above attack.
“Do you want to help me feed them?” she calls over.
No, I absolutely do not. They look like they should have muzzles on, like pit bulls or Hannibal Lecter. But I know a challenge when I hear one and a Durant never shies away from a challenge. Us kids, especially me, Nate and Ava, would enter into mortal combat over anything: comparative size of meal portions, who gets the last banana, who deals the cards out for a wholesome game ofGo Fish. I know most people thinkMonopolycan be a homewrecker, but you’ve not seen the Durant family playGo Fish.
“Sure,” I respond, and casually saunter over.
Jesus, the pigs are even more intimidating close up. Must weigh a hundred-fifty pounds, easy. And they’ve got tusks the size of rhino horns sticking out from their bottom jaws. They’re both staring at me with itty bitty black eyes sunk deep among the bristles. Sizing me up as a potential snack, no doubt. I hear pigs can eat every part of a human body.
“Except teeth.”
Frankie has read my mind.
“They’ll crunch up bones, no problem, but can’t digest teeth.”
“Good to know for when I next need to dispose of an enemy.”
Frankie hands me a plastic bowl. In it are a stump of lettuce, four wrinkled carrots and an indeterminate number of cabbage leaves.
“They’ll take the food from your hand,” she says. “Just don’t let them eat the actual flesh.”
