Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Frank is stretched luxuriously across Marin’s lap, tongue rolling out of his mouth, dark brown eyes turned up in pure adoration, clearly a dog who has claimed his person.
Marin sits cross-legged on the floor, one hand resting on his belly like she’s holding the world’s warmest therapy stone, staring back at him with the kind of devotion usually reserved for celebrity crushes and espresso martinis.
“I think I’m a dog person,” she whispers. “No one tell my cats.”
I stare at her and my traitorous dog from across the room, then take a sip of my lukewarm tea. “You own like a million cats and once told me dogs were ‘slobbery codependents with unresolved boundary issues.’”
Marin nods solemnly, not breaking eye contact with Frank. “Frank is different. Frank gets me.”
Frank snorts, stretches his back legs without opening his eyes, and lets out a tiny old-man fart.
I raise an eyebrow. “He snores and farts in his sleep.”
“I love him.” Marin’s grey eyes don’t leave Frank’s adoring brown ones.
“Alright.” Viv sips kombucha out of a wine glass like she’s starring in her own reality show.
“We are not spending our first night together like some sad, post-menopausal knitting circle.” She gives a pointed look to Marin’s half-finished knitted tea cozy that’s already taken up residence on my coffee table. “I found an event.”
I narrow my eyes. “An event? Like a book reading? It’s after eight. My bra is off. My face is washed. I was thinking popcorn, home makeover reruns, and flannel pajamas.”
Viv ignores this. “It’s called Rhythm & Booze.”
Marin’s head pops up from behind Frank like a meerkat. “Is that a band? It sounds like something people in their twenties go to.”
“It’s a monthly salsa night at a winery-slash-goat sanctuary. There’s music. There’s wine. There’s dancing between wine barrels. There are goats. Possibly in hats.”
I blink. “Goats?”
Viv grins. “It’s the winery’s thing. Their mascot is a goat named Kevin. He wears bowties.”
Marin looks down at Frank. “I mean. That does sound vaguely spiritual.”
“See?” Viv’s eyes sparkle with victory. “There will be movement. There will be sangria. There will be cheese boards and middle-aged men who use the word ‘divorcée’ like it’s sexy.”
I groan, setting my mug down with more force than necessary. “Do I look like I dance?”
Viv gives me the obvious up-down and opens her mouth, but before she can answer, I add, “I’m not dancing. And if there’s a drum circle, I will get in the car and drive into traffic.”
Viv shrugs. “You drive a Subaru. That’s what they’re built for. Come on. We’ll wear something flowy. You can be the moody one who sways in place and looks spiritually guarded.”
Marin lifts her head from Frank’s belly, either intrigued or resigned to the fact that Viv is making us do this. “Do they serve snacks?”
“From what I can see on their socials, there will be cheese boards as long as that holiday scarf you knitted for Zazzles.” Viv is now up off the chair, buzzing with excitement. “We can only hope that there’s a conga line, though.”
Marin fidgets with her tea cozy. “Would it be a good idea to join something like that?”
“You say that like it’s a choice.”
Harper wanders into the room in pajama pants and a hoodie, toothbrush in hand, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Wait, are you guys going out?”
Viv throws both arms in the air. “To a winery! With rhythm and drinks and eligible men and music so loud you’ll feel it vibrate through your booty. There will be goats and spiritual releases!”
Harper tilts her head. “So like, yoga for your soul with alcohol?”
“Exactly.” Viv beams.
“And dancing. Not everything is therapeutic.” I contribute my two cents from the corner.
Harper leans against the doorway. “Well, Mom’s only got one bra that’s less than five years old, and from where I’m standing, it looks like it’s already off. The last time she was out after 9 PM was to chaperone my senior prom. Good luck getting her out the door.”
“Rude,” I mutter. And accurate.
Marin gets to her feet, brushing dog hair from her corduroy pants. “What’s the dress code for a wine place with goats? I don’t even own a pair of overalls or a dress. Much less a red tango dress. Do you think plaid works?”
Viv gasps like Marin admitted she’s never heard of Beyoncé. “Marin! No dress? We need to fix that. In the meantime, plaid may work. Is it the cute kind or the ‘I got lost in a pumpkin patch and gave up’ kind?”
Marin scrunches up her face. “Both?”
“I think Mom has a few pieces with fringe in the back of her closet,” Harper adds, ever so helpful.
Viv points dramatically. “Yes. Fringe increases mobility and distracts from hip creaks.” Then she’s moving down the hall toward my bedroom and telling Marin to grab her suitcase and follow her.
It looks like we’re going out.
______________
The parking lot is packed with Priuses and a suspicious number of Meat is Murder bumper stickers. From inside the barn-style event space, a beat pulses. Latin music and laughter mix with the faint sound of bongo drums.
I freeze, one leg still in the safety of the Subaru. “Drum circle. Couldn’t we go to an art gallery? There’s this new artist whose pieces are quite controversial and very risque. Viewing art can have a similar ‘wild night’ effect.”
Viv stares at me. “No nude art can replace my vision for tonight. And just because you hear drumming doesn’t mean there’s a drum circle. It might be the sounds of a DJ dropping a beat. Drums are an integral part of any party.”
Traitor.
Linking arms with me, she adds, “Now get in there. Your energy is stiff, and your aura is faded.”
Inside, the winery glows like it’s been filtered through a “soft romance” photo filter preset.
String lights are draped across wooden beams, candles flicker in little glass jars, and a five-piece salsa band in the corner is far too enthusiastic for a Thursday night.
The crowd is a mix of spiritually-liberated empty-nesters, people on their third divorce and feeling flirty, and a few confused-looking couples who thought this was going to be a quiet tasting.
Viv surveys the room like she’s found her natural habitat. “Yes,” she breathes, grabbing my arm. “This is exactly the kind of spiritual chaos I was hoping for. Look at that man in the fedora. He’s vibrating on a higher frequency.”
“He’s definitely vibrating on something,” Harper murmurs behind me.
“Come,” Viv commands, already weaving her way through the crowd like a cruise director on tequila. “We must find the bar before the energy stagnates.”
I glance at Marin, who’s clutching her purse like it contains all her earthly belongings and possibly a weapon. “You okay?”
She gives me a weak smile. “I’m not really a bar person.”
“You’re in a winery.”
“That’s worse.”
Nonetheless, we follow Viv like ducklings. She stops only to greet a woman in a cape (actual cape). Then she’s doing a little shoulder shimmy in sync with the band, and muttering something about “ancestral wounds and Merlot.”
At the bar, Viv places both palms on the counter like she’s preparing to order something that will change the course of our lives—which, to be fair, she just might be. “Three sangrias. Heavy on the Merlot. We’re here to celebrate being alive and having dead husbands.”
The bartender doesn’t even blink, which makes me wonder, if this doesn’t faze him, what kind of crowd are we rubbing elbows with tonight?
Marin calls to the bartender’s retreating muscular frame, “I’ll have a Diet Coke!” But if the bartender hears her, he doesn’t answer.
Instead, Viv waves a hand. “Not tonight, kitten. It’s our first night together in the flesh and that demands fruit-forward undertones.”
I lean against the counter, watching a man in a Hawaiian shirt attempt to salsa-spin a woman in orthopedic sandals. They nearly take out the entire cheese table but somehow stick the landing. I blink. “Viv, is this a wine bar or a retirement home dance-off?”
Honestly, I can’t decide if I should feel youthful or deeply concerned, because they're both pulling off moves my knees haven't approved of in years.
“Both.” Viv accepts her sangria, takes a huge sip, and sighs. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Marin takes hers with the wary hesitation of someone accepting a questionable drink at a college frat party.
“I swear, if I get tipsy and start crying about my eighth-grade boyfriend, someone please cut me off.”
“No promises.” I take a big sip of mine.
Viv lifts her glass like she’s channeling a warrior queen on the eve of battle.
“To grief, to girlfriends, and to the men we loved and lost. To the heartbreaks that taught us, the therapy that healed us, and the wine that carried us through it all. We may be bruised, but we are not broken. We rise, we thrive, and damn it, we sparkle. We will not be shaken!”
Marin blinks, her glass poised in a half toast. “Okay, Joan of Arc.”
I nod solemnly. “Truly inspiring. I think the goats saluted.”
Viv grins, entirely unbothered. “Wait ‘till my closing statement at dessert.”
We clink glasses. At this point, resistance feels both futile and disrespectful to the moment we are trying to lose ourselves in.
Somewhere behind us, the band hits a salsa crescendo, and a woman in linen pants begins an interpretive dance involving what can only be described as jazz hands and hip circles.
I have to admit, it’s more entertainment than the home makeover channel was going to provide for us tonight.
Viv disappears for a suspiciously long six minutes, and just when I think she’s gone off to abandon Marin and me to the salsa gurus, the music shifts. Something with a bongo beat and an aggressive cowbell starts thumping through the speakers.
Then I see her.
Viv, arms in the air, hips swaying like she’s auditioning for Dancing with the Midlife Stars, parading around the dance stage in full formation.