Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CORMAC
After our performance, we pack up our instruments. Mick and I help Travis carry his kit and the sound equipment out to his truck.
My dad’s always been a stickler about everyone cleaning up after themselves, and I’ll bet it’s giving him acid reflux to see the little messes scattered across the tasting room. At least the stage is something I can easily help get “tight and tidy,” as he’d say.
When we finish and get back to the reception, Travis takes off in search of Hannah, and Mick taps my arm as he surveys the thinning crowd. The DJ that took over after our set is playing Barry Manilow. “Want to get shit-faced? That’s the only rational response to having to listen to this crap.”
I laugh, but his expression doesn’t change. Oh, he means it. “You can leave, you know. We’re finished playing.”
He huffs. “And miss the free booze? You in?”
“No, man, I have to go talk to a lady.”
He nods, grinning at me and revealing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “Well, all right. Which one? It’s the hot bridesmaid, isn’t it?”
“Nora?” Damn. My cheeks are probably flushing, aren’t they? “No. That would probably be awkward.”
He gives me an odd look. “No, man, I’m talking about the other one. The little brunette with the nice ass. You know the one.”
“Nora has a nice ass.”
Good God, why can’t I stop talking?
He tucks his lips in and nods slowly. “Yeah. Well. I’m going to get a drink. You talk to Nora, or whoever.”
I find myself wanting to defend my fake relationship, which no one is supposed to know about other than two people who seem to have already left the wedding. So I do the smart thing for once and shut up.
“See you later,” I say with an unnecessary wave.
He’s smiling as he walks away, probably convinced there is something horribly wrong with me. That makes two of us.
“I need a drink,” I murmur under my breath.
But I did promise to go talk to a lady.
A very specific not-so-little-and-old lady.
So I wander further into the still-bustling tasting room. My eyes find Nora first, not that I’d lost her. She’s sitting at a table with her friends. She’s in the center, and they’re all gathered around her, as if she’s their nexus. Or maybe that’s just my perception—the table is round, after all.
They were sitting there for most of the set, although at one point Nora’s friends dragged her onto the dance floor to dance the “Macarena.” They were pretty good, but no one got down like Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles.
Nora’s gaze meets mine, and her lips tip up into a sly smile as she lifts her hand and gives me one of those Queen of England waves.
I lift an eyebrow and return the wave, like for like, and her smile broadens.
Her severe eyebrows are softened by it, and her dark eyes look warm, like the center of a chocolate lava cake.
She’s radiant, and…
Yeah, I’ve got to look away. Immediately. Today is doing weird, unwelcome things to me.
I snap my gaze from hers to continue my search for the little old lady, and spot her sitting at one of the round tables.
She’s seated next to another not-so-little-and-old lady, this one with mahogany skin and rainbow-framed glasses.
A white teapot sits in front of them, along with one single teacup, face down on a saucer.
They’re chatting up a storm, but as soon as I approach the table, the conversation stutters to a stop.
Nothing I’m not accustomed to.
“I was told to report for tea leaf reading?” I say to jog Dottie’s memory. For all I know, she may be deep enough in her silver years to need such promptings.
“And you did,” she says, beaming. “You’re a man of your word, just like your father.” She nods to the woman seated beside her. “This is my good friend, Ann. She’s going to help us.”
Two people are needed for a tea leaf reading? That seems implausible, but it would no doubt be impolite to say so, so I settle for introducing myself.
“Is this the one in the secret relationship?” Ann practically shouts, right at the point when Barry Manilow’s crooning cuts off.
Several people swivel to ogle at us, including my father, who’s seated two tables away next to the new Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles.
I should probably say something—no would be an excellent choice. But my cheeks are flaming, which probably suggests yes. I lower into the chair next to Dottie with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“Well?” Ann asks as if I’m the one who’s hard of hearing. “Are you—”
“No,” I finally manage to say.
I may not like lying, but my answer is factually true. I am not in a secret relationship, or a relationship of any variety. The only woman in my life right now is Cookie.
I glance back, hoping my father heard my denial, but he’s no longer paying us any attention. His eyes are fixed on his wife.
Some of the stress eases from my shoulders. He mustn’t have noticed after all.
“That’s a pity,” Ann says as Dottie pours tea into my cup, acting completely innocent, even though she clearly spilled the “secret” about my supposed relationship. “I’m in a secret relationship too.”
Dottie pinches her lips together. “Dear, you are not in a secret relationship with George Cronin. The man you’ve been conversing with is one of those fishermen.”
I know who George Cronin is. He was one of the biggest action movie stars in the 1970s and 1980s.
He’s slipped from the spotlight almost entirely, but my grandfather used to watch his movies from his burgundy-upholstered armchair and make comments like, “You got this, George,” and “Watch out, he’s going to hit you with that hair dryer.
” They weren’t very good movies, but a lot of people liked them, and if he managed his finances with any degree of competency, no doubt he is very wealthy and probably not looking for love on the same apps as Ann.
Still, I don’t see what fishermen have to do with the situation.
“Fishermen?” I repeat, my brow furrowed. “Are you talking about ‘catfishing’?”
“You have your story, and I have mine,” Ann says. “George hasn’t once asked me for a dime, and even if he is catfishing me, I’m not going to complain about having photos of silver foxes blowing up my phone all day long. Now, drink your tea down, son. Nearly every drop.”
I do as I’m told, if for no other reason than that I can’t be expected to speak while drinking. After I take a few sips, both women staring at me with anticipation, I can’t take it anymore, and I gulp the rest.
“Oh, he can’t wait to see what’s in those leaves,” Ann says with a grin.
Indeed.
Dottie claims my cup and turns it over on the saucer, rotating it a few times before turning it right side up.
She looks up at Ann. “It’s exactly as I suspected.”
They peer into the cup together, so intently that I feel an uptick in my own interest. What are they seeing in there?
Against my better judgment, I lean in between them and peer into the cup. But all I see is a clump of wet leaves, about as appetizing as dinner was.
“We’re meant to help you with your secret relationship,” Dottie tells me, pushing the teacup away.
“You saw all of that in a clump of leaves?” I ask in disbelief.
“So you are in a secret relationship,” Ann exclaims, just as the song cuts off again.
I don’t even bother to look around and see who’s staring. I feel more on display than I did when I was standing on that stage, tucked between my friends.
I’m struck with the powerful need to be anywhere else. While I can’t leave my father’s reception until it’s officially over, I can leave this room.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, getting to my feet, “but I don’t need any help. I know you think something is going on between Nora and me, and I suppose something is, but you’re under the wrong impression. Nora doesn’t like me. She never has.”
My mouth suddenly feels parched.
“I’m not her type. She goes for…” Assholes, I think, remembering Justin Fucking Greene. “Confident guys who know how to dress and don’t say stupid stuff all the time. Musicians who don’t always have to puke before they perform onstage.”
“That’s very specific,” Ann observes.
Dottie captures my hand before I can escape them. “I doubt that, my dear. She was looking at you with the utmost of affection earlier.”
“We were…” I glance around. “We were pretending to be in a relationship to fool her friend José and his fiancée. It’s complicated, but I don’t need help. She’d never be interested in me, and I’m not sure I’d want her to be.”
Dottie doesn’t release me. “You may not need any help, but we do, my dear.”
I look at her in surprise. “Are you in a secret fake relationship?”
She laughs, her hand lifting to cover her heart. “No, I’m very happy with my man, and Ann met plenty of men on her app before she started talking to the catfish fellow.”
“But it’s George who has my heart,” Ann says with a gusty sigh.
“Uhh…” I hesitate, mostly because I can imagine what Nora would say about me abandoning the not-so-little-and-old ladies.
Dottie glances around before saying in an undertone, “So we have no need for romantic help. But we do have a surprise in store for your father. One that requires us to have access to the marital home.”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
I do have their house key, and strict instructions on when to water their various plants, and how much, but I doubt they’d thank me for letting other people into their home.
Especially Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles, since it was her house right up until my dad moved in three weeks ago after selling his sad bachelor condo.
“My father is not a fan of surprises,” I continue, “and Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles doesn’t seem like she would be either.”
“I understand your position, of course,” Dottie says, but then she holds a folded piece of paper out to me.
I look down and see a number written on it. She must have done this before I even came over, which suggests a suspicious level of preparation.