Chapter 29 Coco #2
The cellar door is already open. Cold air drifts out. I step inside and run my fingers along the racks, stopping at the first bottle. I know the lineup by heart, but I check anyway.
Labels forward, vintages correct, and I verify the temperature is on point. This is the part that calms me, the quiet inventory of things that can be known.
The waitstaff filters in one by one, crisp tuxedos and eyes alert. They gather near the service station when I motion them over.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice carries without effort.
“Tonight is paced, not rushed. I’ll introduce each wine before the course hits the table.
You pour immediately after, and then the food should be served within two minutes.
If anyone asks you a question you’re not sure about, you bring me in. Do not guess.”
A few nods. Pens come out, and someone asks about the second pairing. I answer without looking at my notes.
“The acidity cuts the fat. Let it do the work,” I say. “We’re not trying to impress them with volume, we're showing them why it belongs there.”
They listen attentively, eager to understand the importance of every single thing we curated, right down to the spices. I can see it in the way they stand a little straighter, the way they stop fidgeting once the plan is clear.
“I’ll circulate,” I add. “If I’m at a table, you wait until I step away before clearing. If a guest wants another pour before I move on, you check with me first.”
“Yes, ma’am,” someone says, and I almost smile.
The meeting breaks. The kitchen doors swing open and shut as plates are lined up, inspected, and adjusted. I change jackets, smooth my hair back, and check my reflection once in the mirrored panel near the bar. I look like myself. That matters.
Guests start arriving just before seven. Coats are taken as voices echo softly against the high ceilings. The room fills in layers, energy building without tipping into chaos.
I greet people by name, shake hands, accept compliments about the space and the concept, and invite everyone to find their name on place cards. I keep my attention moving, never lingering too long.
I notice the empty seat at the end of the long table and register it without concern. Substitutions happen. Someone will slide into it.
When the room is full, I step to the center and wait as the noise settles gradually. Conversations taper off until everyone's eyes are on me.
“Good evening,” I say. “Thank you for being here. Tonight is a guided tasting, which means you’ll hear from me before each course. If you have questions, please ask. That’s why I’m here.”
I introduce the first wine, introducing the region, the soil, the year. I keep it tight, making sure to avoid it sounding like a speech. I watch faces as I speak, adjusting my tone when I see attention drift, leaning into detail when someone looks intrigued.
The staff moves smoothly once I finish. Glasses are filled. Plates arrive. The room exhales.
I make my first round, stopping at each table, answering questions, explaining choices. Someone asks about decanting time, while another wants to know why this producer over another. I answer them all, my hands steady, my mind focused.
I am halfway through the room when there's a recognizable shift.
It is not dramatic, no one points or reacts. It is just the awareness that comes when something familiar enters a space and changes its shape.
I look up and see him.
He stands near the long table, jacket dark, posture easy but contained. He's not speaking, yet, but I can tell he's listening to the man beside him, head slightly inclined. His hands rest loosely at his sides.
Ridge.
My pulse kicks into high gear, then settles into something controlled. I don't stop walking or let my face change. I finish my sentence, nod to the guest in front of me, and move on.
He is not on my list. I studied every name, and I know every seat.
When I reach the long table, I stop at the head and introduce myself to the group, like I have not already been doing this all night.
“I’m Coco,” I say. “If you have any questions about the pairing, I’m happy to answer them.”
A few smiles. A nod. Someone thanks me for the evening.
My gaze lands on him last.
He meets it without surprise. Without apology or claim.
“Good evening, Ms. Boudreaux,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, and my voice does not waver.
I talk them through the second course, pointing out what to notice as they taste. I keep my focus on the table as a whole, not on him. I step away once they start eating and move on to the next group.
I don't avoid him, but I definitely don't seek him out. I let the rhythm of the room dictate my movement.
By the time I circle back, plates are being cleared, and glasses are empty. The noise level has risen. I stop beside his seat.
“You weren’t on my list,” I say quietly, but with genuine interest.
“I stepped in someone else’s place at the last minute,” he answers. His tone is even. “I didn't realize this was your event. I wouldn't have come if I had known—”
I move away before either of us says something that does not belong in this room.
The tasting continues. Plates are cleared.
Glasses are reset. I introduce the final wine and watch the room soften into that particular quiet that comes when people realize they are being given something rare.
I answer questions. I explain choices. I correct one assumption gently and let another stand.
When it ends, it ends cleanly.
Some guests leave right away, a few stragglers linger, as they always do. Compliments are offered, hands are shaken, and slowly but surely, coats are retrieved.
The room empties in stages, sound receding until there is only the low murmur of the staff breaking down tables and the faint clink of glassware being collected.
I finish a quiet exchange with the chef and step back into the dining room.
Ridge is waiting near the edge of it, no longer seated, his jacket already on. He doesn't block my path, but he stands like a man who knows how to occupy space without claiming it.
“Coco,” he says.
I stop a few feet away.
“I wanted to tell you that you did well tonight,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, and I let it be true without apology.
He nods once, like that answer tells him what he needs to know.
“I didn’t come here to interrupt your work,” he says. “And I won’t keep you now.”
I wait. If he has something to say, he will say it. If he doesn’t, this ends here. I don't try to soften if for him either way.
“There’s something I owe you,” he says. “An answer.”
I don't react or move. I don't know what he's talking about, but I'm open to what he has to say.
“When you asked me about the fentanyl,” he says, “I didn’t deny it. Not because it was true, but because I didn’t know.”
My pulse ramps up again. Suddenly, my mouth is dry, and my chest is tight.
“I don’t move drugs,” he continues. “I never have. My father didn’t either.” His voice stays even, factual.
I still say nothing. At this point, I don't trust my voice to come out clearly.
“I don't want to bog you down with details, but there was no fentanyl that came into this city on my watch, and it won't ever.”
The room stills around us. I shift my stance, leaning against the table behind me.
“I’m telling you now so you know,” he finishes. “Not to persuade you, or to undo anything. It was just important to me that you know the truth.”
I take a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The answer settles into place, not like relief, but like something finally aligned.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
He inclines his head. Just once.
“I won’t take more of your time,” he says. “If you ever want to talk, or if you have any questions about that or anything else, you know how to find me.”
It isn’t an invitation or a plea. But it’s a door left unlocked, nothing more.
He steps back, giving me room to move or not move, and turns toward the exit.
I watch him go, the quiet control of his stride, the way he doesn’t look back.