and my house in Michigan and promptly said, “Now, where is this Hallie who lives in the flower house?” right before throwing herself into my arms.
“So unfair, Hallie. He is always telling me this.” She says it loudly enough so that I can hear her and Sam yanks the phone away from his ear to soften the blow. “Now, put Hallie back on the phone, love.”
Sam reluctantly hands the phone back to me . I hear Marie trying to stifle a yawn.
“Is it finished? The deal? They will finally leave you alone?”
“More or less.”
“And they gave you money? Which studio? Someone Sam knows?”
I sigh. “FFG.”
She clucks her tongue before releasing a very slight sigh. “Well, since I am well aware of who owns FFG, I can tell you now that this sounds like the beginning of a very long story, Hallie. And long stories and red wine go together like, how do you say, peanut butter and jelly?” She sounds decidedly French at the end of her sentence, and I laugh at her. “Bordeaux, I think. A very nice Bordeaux. You and Sam can raid my wine cellar. Tell him that for you, there is always an exception.”
“ Fair enough. But only for the first bottle. Then, we can dig into the cheap stuff.”
“And this is why you a re my favorite. No, go, and drink lots of wine with my husband and laugh and try to be merry. There is a tomorrow waiting around the corner.”
Sam must have heard her, because both of us grin at the same time. Marie’s always scattering her grandmother’s slightly ridiculous expressions in all the wrong places. Still, I can’t deny that the sentiment is appealing.
“Love you, Marie.”
“I love you, too, Hallie. Call me when you get home and we can talk and giggle into the phone all night like teenagers. And tell my dear husband that if he drinks another one of my good bottles without you there, there will be hell to pay when I get home.”
“Yes, ma’am. Get some sleep.”
I hang up the phone and glance at Sam, who’s rolling his eyes in exasperation.
“ Let me guess. She recommended Bordeaux?”
“Yep. Sure did.”
“ Bordeaux sounds like a grown up drink, and I am most certainly not a grown up. Not yet,” he says, tousling my hair affectionately. “I say we go straight for the tequila shots.”
I laugh. “Maybe later, Sam. Maybe later.”
“Well, we need to dig in to the wine, at the very least. I know you’re a total lightweight, but I would hate to risk Marie’s wrath when she returned home to find all of her bottles of Bordeaux lined neatly in a row. I know it’s a sacrifice, but we should at least drink one bottle.”
“You get the wine, I’ll get the glasses.”
“You’re a guest!” He’s mock-horrified.
“I think I stopped being a guest a long time ago , even if I never make it to New York.”
He holds his hands up in surrender and disappears into the room behind the kitchen as I reach into the cabinet and pull out two long-stemmed glasses. When he comes out, he opens the bottle in one deft movement and pours the thick red liquid into the bottom of my glass. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I swirl it around and around.
“What the hell are you doing, Ellison?”
“Um…” I’m desperately trying to remember the right words for it, from that terrible road-trip movie about wine snobs. “Letting it breathe?”
He gives me a long sideways look. “Seriously?”
“Screw you! I might be a secret wine aficionado.”
I take a long gulp of the sticky liquid and almost spit it out. So, maybe not quite an aficionado. Sam merely laughs and beckons me back into the living room. There’s an old plaid chair in the corner, Marie’s only concession to Sam’s decorating prowess, and I plop onto it and throw my feet on the ottoman. The glass rests, heavy in my hand. I take another sip and there’s an immediate lightness in my head. I’ve never been a big drinker, but it’s been a hell of a day, and I can’t begrudge myself the little indulgence. I take another
“So unfair, Hallie. He is always telling me this.” She says it loudly enough so that I can hear her and Sam yanks the phone away from his ear to soften the blow. “Now, put Hallie back on the phone, love.”
Sam reluctantly hands the phone back to me . I hear Marie trying to stifle a yawn.
“Is it finished? The deal? They will finally leave you alone?”
“More or less.”
“And they gave you money? Which studio? Someone Sam knows?”
I sigh. “FFG.”
She clucks her tongue before releasing a very slight sigh. “Well, since I am well aware of who owns FFG, I can tell you now that this sounds like the beginning of a very long story, Hallie. And long stories and red wine go together like, how do you say, peanut butter and jelly?” She sounds decidedly French at the end of her sentence, and I laugh at her. “Bordeaux, I think. A very nice Bordeaux. You and Sam can raid my wine cellar. Tell him that for you, there is always an exception.”
“ Fair enough. But only for the first bottle. Then, we can dig into the cheap stuff.”
“And this is why you a re my favorite. No, go, and drink lots of wine with my husband and laugh and try to be merry. There is a tomorrow waiting around the corner.”
Sam must have heard her, because both of us grin at the same time. Marie’s always scattering her grandmother’s slightly ridiculous expressions in all the wrong places. Still, I can’t deny that the sentiment is appealing.
“Love you, Marie.”
“I love you, too, Hallie. Call me when you get home and we can talk and giggle into the phone all night like teenagers. And tell my dear husband that if he drinks another one of my good bottles without you there, there will be hell to pay when I get home.”
“Yes, ma’am. Get some sleep.”
I hang up the phone and glance at Sam, who’s rolling his eyes in exasperation.
“ Let me guess. She recommended Bordeaux?”
“Yep. Sure did.”
“ Bordeaux sounds like a grown up drink, and I am most certainly not a grown up. Not yet,” he says, tousling my hair affectionately. “I say we go straight for the tequila shots.”
I laugh. “Maybe later, Sam. Maybe later.”
“Well, we need to dig in to the wine, at the very least. I know you’re a total lightweight, but I would hate to risk Marie’s wrath when she returned home to find all of her bottles of Bordeaux lined neatly in a row. I know it’s a sacrifice, but we should at least drink one bottle.”
“You get the wine, I’ll get the glasses.”
“You’re a guest!” He’s mock-horrified.
“I think I stopped being a guest a long time ago , even if I never make it to New York.”
He holds his hands up in surrender and disappears into the room behind the kitchen as I reach into the cabinet and pull out two long-stemmed glasses. When he comes out, he opens the bottle in one deft movement and pours the thick red liquid into the bottom of my glass. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I swirl it around and around.
“What the hell are you doing, Ellison?”
“Um…” I’m desperately trying to remember the right words for it, from that terrible road-trip movie about wine snobs. “Letting it breathe?”
He gives me a long sideways look. “Seriously?”
“Screw you! I might be a secret wine aficionado.”
I take a long gulp of the sticky liquid and almost spit it out. So, maybe not quite an aficionado. Sam merely laughs and beckons me back into the living room. There’s an old plaid chair in the corner, Marie’s only concession to Sam’s decorating prowess, and I plop onto it and throw my feet on the ottoman. The glass rests, heavy in my hand. I take another sip and there’s an immediate lightness in my head. I’ve never been a big drinker, but it’s been a hell of a day, and I can’t begrudge myself the little indulgence. I take another
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