Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  He smiles as he takes another sip of his martini. “You seem pretty sure of yourself. What are the facts you used to come up with your hypothesis?”

  “Well, first of all, we didn’t arrive together. You were waiting for me,” I tell him. “Therefore, we’re not on a romantic together. Second, you kissed me hello when I arrived, thereby indicating that you were relaxed around me: hence, it’s not a first date. However, the kiss was brief, not lingering. It was on the cheek, not on the lips. And there was no tongue involved. Ergo, you’re not dying to get me into bed, and therefore, it’s not a third date. The only one left was second.”

  “I see,” said Liam. “Well, I’m afraid, my dear, that I have to disagree with you. This wouldn’t be the second date, it would be the third. This would be the seduction date.”

  “I see,” I say jokingly. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “And what are the facts you’ve used to come up with your hypothesis?”

  Liam smiles wickedly. “Well, for one thing, you’ve shaved your legs.”

  The fact that he has noticed this makes me want to hide under the table in embarrassment. Or, drag him under the table to have my way with him.

  But I try to deflect how I’m really feeling by giving him a shrug as I say, “Women shave their legs for a first date.”

  “One would hope,” Liam says, almost smirking. “However, women do not normally dress for a first date the way you have chosen to dress this evening.”

  I cross my arms, and glare at him. “And how exactly have I dressed this evening?”

  Liam eyes me up and down. “Absolutely captivating,” he says in his lilting Irish accent.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling myself blush. “By the way, if you didn’t have that cute little accent, there’s no way you could have gotten away with saying ‘absolutely captivating’ to a woman without sounding like an idiot.”

  “Noted,” Liam says. “Anyway, the second date is the date where you go do the thing you both said you like to do. For example, you talk to a girl about how you like to go running, she says she loves running, you make a Sunday morning date to go jogging in Griffith Park. Or, let’s say she says she likes the theater or a certain sports team, you get tickets to a play or game you know she’d like.”

  I can’t help but think back: Didn’t he ask me to go see ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ with him? Twice?

  Liam continues. “And, let’s say the girl doesn’t really like to go running, or the theater or sports, she’s just yanking your chain. Well, then, the second date allows you to find out if she’s telling the truth. If not, there probably won’t be a third date.”

  “You mean just because a girl tries to show interest in something you like, she gets punished?” I ask him, a little offended.

  Liam takes another sip of his martini. “Now, see, this is something I’ve never understood about women: why would you pretend to like something you don’t? Why not just say: I’ll go to the football match, but I’m dragging you to the opera the following week to make up for it?”

  “Because then you won’t like us as much,” I answer.

  “Darling, we’ve asked you out. That means we like you. Don’t overthink it. Why is it women have to think about everything all the time?”

  “Probably because we’re killing time watching the game you’ve dragged us to,” I counter.

  Liam gives me an appreciative smile and a wink.

  The hostess calls out Liam’s name, and we follow her to a table by a window. As I look out to watch snow silently fall outside over the lake and trees, I wish I was here with someone who did want to take me somewhere romantic for a seduction date.

  Or, I should say, I wish Liam was really taking me up here for a seduction date.

  “So, hear from Jordan again?” Liam asks as he opens his menu.

  “I’ll take ‘conversation killers’ for a thousand, Alex,” I say dryly.

  “You can’t blame me for being the least bit curious as to how someone could be so stupid as to let you get away.”

  “Speaking of, how is your ex-girlfriend?”

  Liam looks up at me. Smirks. “I’m thinking about getting the rib eye . . .”

  The waitress soon appears to take our orders. I start with the corn chowder, a specialty of the house. Liam goes with a standard Caesar salad.

  “And with the appetizers, we’d like a bottle of your Hanzell Chardonnay,” Liam tells the waitress.

  Nice.

  For our entrees, I order the New York steak, while he opts for the grilled Rib Eye. “And for that,” Liam says, still perusing the wine list. “I think we’ll go for . . .” He looks up at me. “You like Merlot, right?”

  “Actually, when I’m eating steak, I kind of like Cabernet better.”

  “Fantastic,” Liam says to me. “Do you like Chateau Montelena?”

  Yeah, like I’m going to admit I’ve never heard of it. I smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

  Liam closes the wine list, and hands it and our menus to our waitress. “Let’s get a bottle of that with the meal.”

  As she walks away, he looks over at me. “So, shall we put the exes in exile, and not speak of them again this evening?”

  I smile, relieved. “That would be great.”

  “Do you ski?” Liam asks me out of the blue.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Liam says, laughing. “I just thought before we headed back down tomorrow we might want to spend a few hours on the slopes.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” I say sarcastically. “You used to ski up in the Alps, so if someone were to ask you your skill level, you’d say you’re okay. But, in reality, you’re damn good, and have your own set of skis tailor made just for you.”

  Before Liam can respond, our sommelier arrives. “Hanzell Chardonnay,” he says, showing us the bottle before he opens it. The sommelier puts a white wineglass in front of each of us. As he opens the bottle, he asks, “And who will be tasting this evening?”

  “The lady,” Liam says.

  Damn it! Other than knowing if the wine has turned, I never know what I’m supposed to be sniffing, swirling, and tasting. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.

  The sommelier pours a small amount into my glass, and the two men wait for my reaction. I swirl the glass, get my nose in there to sniff, then I have a taste.

  “It’s wonderful,” I say, smiling.

  The sommelier pours for both of us, then places the wine in a silver ice bucket on a stand near the table.

  “So, where were we?” I ask as the man leaves.

  Liam takes a sip of his wine. “You were pretending to compliment me, yet actually insulting me, about my skiing.”

  “No, no,” I quickly correct him. “I wasn’t insulting you. I was actually trying to be self-mocking.”

  “First of all, why? And, secondly, how so?” he asks.

  “Well,” I say, taking a sip of my wine to stall for time. “The why is easy: Basically, you are intimidating as hell. However, you’re so charming, that occasionally I forget how intimidating you are, and I let down my guard. But then you ask some innocuous question like, ‘Do you ski?’ and I’m back to being intimidated again. So I respond by being self-mocking.”

  Liam takes another sip of wine. Any flirtation I may have perceived before has vanished. Now he seems irritated. “I’m unclear here. How am I intimidating again?”

  At that, I burst out into an awkward laugh. He seems startled. I take another nervous sip of wine. “Oh, please. I’m surprised you didn’t put skis in the trunk. Oh wait, you drive the perfect car, except it won’t fit skis in a trunk.”

  “So, I love to ski. How does that make me unapproachable?”

  “I didn’t say you were unapproachable. I said you were intimidating,” I say, starting to feel it is very important to win this debate, and getting angry that he’s not seeing my point here. “I mean, my God, who actually walks around thei
r house wearing boxer shorts?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize my wearing boxer shorts made you uncomfortable.”

  “Well, I mean, how would you like it if I walked around the house in my bra and underwear all through breakfast?”

  “You can walk around your house any way you’re comfortable,” he says crossly. “And, frankly, I’m a man. I will always encourage a beautiful woman to walk around in nothing but her frillies.”

  How can men be so dense? “No woman is comfortable wearing a bra and underwear around a guy she hasn’t slept with!” I nearly yell. “Well, I mean except a Victoria’s Secret model.”

  “I thought we weren’t talking about exes tonight,” Liam says angrily.

  At this my jaw drops. “You actually dated a Victoria’s Secret model? But you don’t see why you’re intimidating?”

  Naturally at this moment, our waitress appears. We abruptly stop arguing. She serves us our appetizers, and refills our wineglasses. Then we sit and eat in silence.

  As I eat my chowder, I will admit, I am already tipsy. Which is probably why I’m so upset he isn’t seeing my point. Could also be why, maddening though he may be, I’m still considering grabbing him by the belt buckle, and pulling him into a kiss.

  But then that would prove that’s he’s not intimidating, which would make him think he was right, and I was wrong, and for some reason that is enough to stop me.

  I sip my wine again.

  “So, I take it you don’t ski?” Liam finally says, still angry.

  “No,” I say definitively.

  “Would you like me to teach you tomorrow?” he asks, his tone steely.

  “Fine,” I say curtly.

  “Fine,” he says back.

  And we continue to eat our appetizers in silence. Liam refills my glass, then his. “I won’t wear the boxers anymore,” he says softly, and I detect the smallest melt in our ice age.

  I shake my head, not angry anymore. “It’s not that. I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

  “By telling me I’m intimidating?”

  “No. By . . . by trying to tell you I wish I was more like you. It came out wrong. I wish I had skied in the Alps. I wish I knew how to produce movies. I wish I liked jogging. It’s like sometimes I look at you, and you’re a reminder of how little I’ve lived up to my potential. And tomorrow, I’ll go out skiing, because I want to be like you. But I won’t be a cute little snow bunny out there; I’ll be uncoordinated, I’ll be embarrassed, and I’ll be wondering how much longer before I can get to the bar at the bottom of the hill.”

  Liam smiles. “You’ve just described my first time with a woman.”

  I laugh.

  And we’re back.

  “Listen, we don’t have to go skiing,” Liam says to me. “We didn’t get a chance to go for a hike around the lake. You want to go do that in the morning?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “We can go on a hike anytime. Let’s go skiing.”

  Liam smiles. “Well, aren’t you being a bad second date, pretending you want to go skiing when you don’t?”

  I laugh nervously. “All right, I’m going to use your advice from earlier, and tell you the truth: I’ll go skiing with you tomorrow, but you’re taking me to a drag queen show Saturday.”

  Liam smiles. “Deal.”

  The next hour flies by. We talk all throughout dinner about anything and everything. Then we head to the bar for a nightcap.

  I am so drunk as we walk through the restaurant and into the bar that I fall into Liam. He caught me, and I definitely feel a spark between us as he puts his arm around me, and leads me to a couch near the fireplace.

  “Are you sure you want another drink?” Liam asks. “I think maybe you’ve had enough.”

  “I’m not driving,” I say. Then I rethink this. “But if you need to call it a night, we can go.”

  “No, no.” Liam says, sounding sober to me. “I’m up for a brandy.”

  The waitress takes our orders, and we sit on the couch. I lean into Liam, and he puts his arm around me.

  “See,” Liam says, turning his face to me, “I’m not so intimidating.”

  I lean toward him as though I plan to kiss him. I won’t actually do it, but I’m hoping he’ll take the hint. “Oh, you are,” I insist softly. “But you’re worth it.”

  Liam smiles, he leans in slightly, we look deep into each other’s eyes . . .

  And my phone rings.

  Damn it! I begrudgingly pull away from Liam and pull my iPhone from my purse. I check the caller ID, then answer. “Hello, Drew.”

  “Hey. Quick question: What constitutes kidnapping?”

  I don’t answer at first. I mean, it’s Drew. The question could mean he’s losing at a game of beer pong. “Is there a woman involved?” I ask him.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you holding her against her will?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Is she over the age of twenty-one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is she incarcerated, running from the law, or mentally unstable in any way?”

  “Can any woman really claim to be mentally stable?” Drew counters.

  “You’re fine. Go to bed.”

  “Wait!” Drew says. “You sound drunk. Have you done the deed yet?”

  “Good night, Drew.”

  “Oh, fine,” he pouts. “Good night.”

  And he hangs up.

  I put the phone down next to my purse, just in case he calls back. Then I turn my attention back to Liam, who leans back against the couch, blissfully listening to the piano in the background. “Don’t you love the piano?” he asks, smiling contentedly. “Everything played sounds so romantic.”

  “It’s very nice,” I agree nervously.

  He stands up. “Dance with me?”

  I look at him, mildly horrified. “What? Here?”

  “Yes, here.”

  I glance around the room. “But there’s no dance floor. No one else is dancing.”

  Liam rolls his eyes, then pulls me up and into his arms, and we begin slow dancing.

  I wish I could write advice for my future great-grandson. Besides writing the obvious:

  Learn to do laundry properly. Pink underwear looks silly on men.

  I would write:

  If you want to meet women, take a dance class. This will also help if you want to land a bridesmaid for the night (just remember to call her the next day).

  Being in Liam’s arms just feels so delicious. It makes me want time to stand still.

  The song ends, a few people clap for the pianist, and we sit again. This time, Liam doesn’t put his arm around me, but he still sits very close to me.

  Oh, to hell with it. I’m going for broke. I intentionally lean back against the couch, subliminally coaxing him into leaning into me.

  Liam relaxes his whole body, leaning in toward me, and gives me that “I’m about to kiss you for the first time” smile.

  And then my phone rings again. I look at the caller ID, then pick up. “Yes, Drew?”

  “What about aiding and abetting? Or being an accessory to a crime? What constitutes that?”

  Now I’m getting miffed. “Was there a crime committed?”

  He responds as though I’ve asked a bizarre question. “I don’t think so.”

  “Drew, you can’t ‘aid and abet’ a criminal if there’s no crime,” I say, exasperated. “Nor can you act as an accessory to anything. Are the police at your house?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think the police will be coming to your house anytime soon?”

  “I don’t see why they would.”

  “Have you hurt anyone in any way?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you’re fine. Go to bed.”

  “Okay,” Drew says. “Speaking of bed, have you . . . ?”

  “Good night, Drew,” I say firmly, then hang up.

  I put my phone down and turn to Liam, who once again
is leaning back in his seat, totally relaxed. “Everything all right?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I take a sip of cognac, lean back, and try to recapture the moment.

  And the phone rings again.

  “What?!” I hiss into the phone.

  It’s my mother on the other end, and she sounds like she’s been crying. “It appears your Mawv has committed suicide,” she tells me through her tears.

  I bolt upright in my seat. “Oh my God. When? What happened?”

  Mom sniffles back tears and tells me, “Well, Andy announced her pregnancy to my family a few days ago, and when Mawv heard, she insisted she wanted to spend the holidays here, where she could be near her new great-great-grandchild. Well, your grandmother would have none of it, and they’ve been fighting ever since. Then one of the nurses went to check on Mawv in her room at the home, and all they found was a suicide note. It said, ‘Dear Rose, I can’t take another Thanksgiving in this God-forsaken place. I’ve gone with Jesus. Don’t be mad. Love, Bernice.’ ”

  I am stunned. Absolutely stunned.

  “It’s ‘Hay-Seuss’,” I angrily say to my mother.

  “What?”

  “She hasn’t gone with ‘GEE-zuss’, she’s gone with ‘Hay-SEUSS.’ Drew’s part-time bodyguard, Jesus. I can’t believe Drew . . . I’m going to fucking kill him.”

  “Sweetie,” Mom says sympathetically, “the first stage of grief is disbelief—”

  “Mom, didn’t anyone find it the least bit odd that they found a note, and not a body? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

  I quickly fill her in on my theory, then hang up to call Drew.

  He answers immediately. “Hello.”

  “Did you kidnap my great-grandmother?” I yell/ask, even though I damn well know the answer.

  “Of course I didn’t kidnap your great-grandmother,” Drew says, highly offended. “She wanted to leave.”

  With Liam looking on, I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “Jesus Christ, Drew. When did you and my Mawv even become friends?”

  “After your wedding,” Drew tells me. “We talk almost every day. She’s like the grandmother I never had.”

  “Both of your grandmothers are still alive!” I remind him angrily.