Page 55 of Whiskey Throttle
The selection is different, everything from shrimp cocktail to baba ghanoush. A smattering of paleo and Mediterranean food. I’m curious who this fare is for, given that he has a stocked fridge of custom-prepared food. Although he gave me the green light, I prefer to wait for him. He’s been a perfect host, but I’d like a little wine before food. Liquid courage, I suppose.
“Babs?”
He gestures again, more insistent as the cork pops from the bottle.
“Please. Eat.”
“I was waiting for the wine,” I say with a smile. He immediately pours us both a generous glass and slides one in front of me.
The first sip is crisp and floral, lingering on my tongue in a way that softens the edge of the day. My shoulders lower a little. The awkwardness from earlier hasn’t vanished completely, but the easy way he moves in and about his family home is comforting. Grounding.
“So, do you always have a buffet waiting in the wings?” I lean forward, snagging a piece of roasted artichoke.
“I have a big family. You know that.” He piles lamb skewers and marinated olives onto his plate. “And cousins. And random friends who pretend they’re family just to get fed. You stock up, or you starve around here.”
I doubt the Harrington family has ever been close to starving. I don’t think they’ve been deprived of anything in their lives.
I nod and eat my artichoke. It’s perfect.
“Still feels like I’m in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
He laughs at that. A real one. Full-body, head-tipped-back kind of laugh.
“I have no idea who that is.”
The generational gap between our ages is showing. Sitting like an unwanted reminder of why this probably won’t work beyond this weekend. But his overreaction surprises me.
“Lovely.”
My sarcasm bleeds through as I scoop a few dishes onto my plate. His eyes linger, watching my every move.
“But if it’s about a hot young guy convincing a stunning lady to be with him, then it sounds like an Oscar winner.”
“Not exactly.”
I glance down at my wrinkled dress and bare feet, feeling my hair growing into bigger curls.
“I’m not sure she’s won an Oscar.”
“Then I like our version better.”
He busies himself by spooning couscous onto both our plates. I catch the flicker of something across his expression. Regret, maybe, or tenderness. We eat in relative quiet for a few minutes. The kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward. The kind you only get with someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill every second with noise.
“How long has this house been in your family?”
I break the silence when he loads more food on his plate. To have that kind of metabolism. He stops, spoon hovering over a pasta salad.
“Not sure. But several generations now. There’s an old drawing room with the paintings of all the men in my family at our main estate.”
I hum, my gaze already roaming the expansive kitchen. The sofas and chairs are arranged across the room to provide guests with a more comfortable dining experience.
“This place is sort of a summer nucleus for the family.”
I hum my understanding, continuing to eat.
“Tell me about Barrettmoor.”
I choke on my food. Surprised that he’s bringing that estate up. He’s up and out of his chair, pounding on my back without thought. I cover my mouth with my napkin, coughing and clearing my throat before waving him off.
