Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
DANNY
I thought I’d have time to prepare for the first family visit, but no. Mitch rang Nate at the crack of dawn and insisted we both present ourselves mid-morning for parental inspection. As Nate said to me when he roused me out of sleep, might as well get it over and done with.
I’m not hung-over, but I’d like to be. Having dropped her bombshell, Chiara set a limit on cocktail consumption because I need to be on my best form to impress Frankie. A wasted effort, because now I might not see Frankie at all today. I’ll be interrogated and disparaged by my father instead. If I were hungover, I’d have an excuse to imbibe hair of the dog. Being slightly drunk would at least cushion me against the worst of it.
“You were at Bartons last night,” says Nate.
Luckily, he’s driving, otherwise I might have veered into the other lane in surprise.
“Does everyone know my business?” I’m pissed, and I think I have a right to be.
“It was a guess!” protests Nate. “Bartons has this unique aroma, and I thought I could smell it on you.”
“Aroma?” I sniff my shirt, even though it’s clean on today. “Of what? Money?”
“I think it’s more likely to be the bouquet of a thousand and one bonkers cocktail ingredients quietly mutating in the Bartons cellar.”
“My drink had acorns in it,” I say. “And some kind of tincture. I’m not even sure what a tincture is.”
“Meet anyone?” Nate asks, all casual-like.
“No,” I reply, curtly. “Had two cocktails. Avoided the gaze of the international arms dealers. Went home.”
“Good call,” says Mister Play-By-The-Rules Nate. “Three cocktails and I might be bailing you out of a Turkish jail.”
“Turkish jail could be more fun than what we’re about to do,” I point out.
“Well, there’s one bright side.” Nate turns off the road and starts up our long driveway.
“What’s that?”
“They’re short-staffed at the riding center,” says Nate, as he parks outside the house. “Ava was too busy to come.”
Our mom, Ginny, is outside on the front steps, waiting for us. Dad Mitch will be inside because God forbid that he should show enthusiasm about meeting his two oldest sons. To be fair, he has mellowed a lot since his heart scare. But that’s like saying there’s been a little erosion on Mount Rushmore. He’s fundamentally the same rigid disciplinarian.
As I get out of the pick-up, I wonder what Frankie is up to today. Admitting to Chiara that I find Frankie attractive was strangely liberating. Like it removed a blockage and now I can access a bunch of other feelings I didn’t know I had. How much I admire Frankie’s strength, for example. Her determination. The way she takes no shit at all. I wish she was here now because I could use a dose of that myself. With Frankie as my wingman (though no doubt she’d correct it to wingperson), I feel like I’d have the confidence to meet Dad head on. Say what I really mean, instead of biting my tongue, so as not to upset Mom.
Ava was never afraid to go toe-to-toe with Dad, and he respected her for it. Even gave her a nickname, Little Missy, which wasn’t exactly complimentary, but it was more than he gave any of us other kids. Again, I wish Frankie was here. I get the feeling she had to battle to be recognized by her parents, too. It’d be good to have someone to be honest with about this stuff. Despite our competitiveness, Ava and Nate would both stand up for me if I asked them to. But they’ve got their own issues with Dad. I don’t need to burden them with mine.
“Nate! Danny!”
Mom kisses and hugs us both. She and I are the most alike in the family, with our fair hair and eyes the same shade of blue. Nate and Ava are Dad clones, but if it weren’t for the fact they both have the Durant cheekbones, Izzy and Max might be changelings. The twins have dark red curly hair like Irish Setters, and a far more secure sense of self than their older siblings. I guess there’s a certain safety in numbers being a twin, and maybe also in being the youngest. By that time, there are fewer parental faults to inherit.
“Come inside.” Mom hooks her arms in ours. “I’ve made cookies.”
Other people meditate or take St John’s wort. Mom bakes cookies.
“Mitchell!” she calls upstairs, soon as we’re in the house. “The boys are here!”
She ushers us into the kitchen because Dad will take his sweet time to come down. Mom sits us at the kitchen table and doles out the cookies (and side plates and folded cloth napkins, because we’re that kind of family).
“Coffee?” she offers.
“Yes, please,” we chorus.
Not that long ago it would have been glasses of milk. Okay, no, that was a long time ago. It’s just that whenever I’m back here, I feel like a little kid again.
“My cookie has more chocolate chips than yours,” says Nate, quietly.
“Yeah, but I’ll get to take the leftovers home because I’m Mom’s favorite.”
“Great to be home, isn’t it?” Nate says.
“It’s where the heart is,” I agree. “I can hear it beating behind the walls.”
“Nate. Danny.”
Dad has entered the kitchen. And though the words of his greeting are identical to Mom’s, he sounds more like he’s about to disclose that he’s cutting us out of his will.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “How are you keeping?”
“Very well,” he replies. “I take no sugar, alcohol, wheat, dairy, or caffeine. If we all avoided those, most debilitating health conditions would be permanently eradicated.”
The cookies on our plates emit a radioactive glow, and the steam from our coffee turns toxic green. But it will take more than Dad’s lectures to stop Mom baking.
“Tea, Mitchell?” she offers him. “It’s organic and herbal, with filtered water.”
“Thank you, Ginny.”
Dad sits down at the table. Fixes his gaze on me.
“Nate tells us you’re helping him at the winery, Danny. Is your business in trouble?”
Straight into it. Cool, cool, cool.
“No, Dad. My business is growing. I can run it from wherever I am, and I’m quite capable of multi-tasking.”
“But you’re still a one-man band?”
“It’s how I like it. I don’t want to be weighed down by overheads. I want to be nimble and agile.”
“That means you have no exit plan,” says Dad. “No one will buy a sole trader business.”
“I can sell cars until I die, Dad.” My voice sounds even but I might be crushing a cookie between my fingers. “I don’t need an exit plan.”
Nate steps in. “Dad, you don’t give me a hard time and the winery is barely solvent.”
“It won’t be for long,” says Dad. “ You have the skills to significantly grow that business.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Mitchell.” Oh great, now Mom has to defend me. “Danny loves his work, and he’s very busy with it. He’s doing Nate and Shelby a big favor by coming all this way to help out.”
“But don’t let that throw you off, Dad,” I say. “I’m sure you haven’t finished pointing out my shortcomings.”
On Dad the Durant cheekbones are like flint arrowheads. It seems impossible for his lean face to tighten any further, but it does.
“It’s important for you all to think about your future,” he says. “I know you’re young and retirement seems a long way off, but the years will pass in a blink, and if you’re not well set up, your golden years will be a struggle.”
Is that supposed to mean he’s fault-finding because he cares about me? Sure. Yeah. I’ll buy that.
“Noted, Dad,” says Nate, with a warning glance at me. End of discussion. For now.
“Nate, dear, how is Shelby?” says Mom, relieved to be able to change the subject.
“She’s doing fine,” says Nate. “Having regular check-ups and taking it very easy. And now we have Danny and Frankie here to help, she won’t have to do anything but look after herself. And the baby.”
He says “baby” like an afterthought, as if he can’t quite believe it’s real. It does seem weird to think of Nate as a father. He’s not even thirty yet.
Holy shit. And Dad and Mom will be grandparents.
“Mom, what do you want your grandma name to be?” I ask, with a grin. “Grammy? Meemaw? G-Madre?”
Mom is taken aback. “Oh! I haven’t thought?—”
“We will be Nana and Grandad,” Dad announces. “That’s what I called my grandparents.”
“Both sets?” Nate frowns. “How did they know which of them you were talking to?”
Dad briefly, and incredibly, blushes. “I called my father’s parents Sir and Ma’am,” he says. “But I feel that could be a little too formal.”
Nate catches my eye, and we nearly burst a blood vessel trying not to laugh. I really wish Frankie was here. She needs to witness this shit first-hand, because it will sound too unbelievable if she hears it from me.
Maybe I’ll tell her tonight. Maybe I’ll ask her out for a drink. To anywhere other than Bartons.
“Dad, you’re welcome to join us for lunch,” says Nate.
He’s being polite because he knows Dad will refuse. Least, he’d better refuse. I’d walk back to Flora Valley before I’d spend another couple of hours with the old grouch.
“No, thank you,” says Dad. “I’m not entirely convinced by the provenance they claim for some of their produce.”
“Okay, Mom, it’s you and us boys,” I say. As a parting shot, I add, “And lunch is on me.”
It won’t change Dad’s opinion one iota, but it feels like a small victory, nonetheless.