“The what?” I blanched. “What…is that?”
“Well, Becca,” he shoved me playfully, “sometimes different wines taste different to different people. Because of this, before a big event, people will sample from several varieties to choose—”
“I know what it is, genius,” I said, smacking him. “Why on earth do you think we’re having one?”
He glanced quickly between Marcus and me as my now un-muted phone rang at full volume. Without having to look at the Caller ID, he raised his eyebrows.
“Do you want to be the one to tell mom no?”
Chapter 8
Let me tell you, there are few worse things to do with a hangover than go to a wine tasting. The place my mom picked was an exclusive club up in the hills behind Valencia. A place that, when I mentioned its name to Marcus, he gave a distracted nod and said, “Oh, yeah” so it must be good. The two of us were joined by Amanda and Max, and together, we made our way cautiously inside to see what trouble my mother could have possibly brewed up in the last two hours. As it turned out…there was a lot the woman could do when she put her mind to it.
“Darlings! There you are!”
The prospect of an impending wedding had changed my mother. Long gone was the busy, but laid-back woman who always stuck to the edge of a party and preferred to spend time alone. The Sharon Wood rushing toward me now was a one-woman wrecking ball, snapping her fingers and directing a swarm of waiters with the precision of an army general. I think she may have even developed a slight accent.
I cast a terrified sideways glance at Max, but he just closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Hey, Mom,” I said nervously when she reached me, staring past her to an elaborate table set with enough bottles of booze to sate Charles Bukowski. “Whatcha doing?”
“Well, it’s funny you should ask.” She steered both Marcus and me by the elbows to the table and manhandled us down with a cheery smile. “I was looking through some of those bridal magazines on the plane.” She turned with a conspiratorial whisper to Marcus. “Which just by itself is a miracle because you should have seen some of the misfits Becca brought home before she settled on you.”
I closed my eyes with a grimace. “Mom…”
“Anyway, I realized that planning a wedding is a bit like planning an invasion. There’s just so much to do—so many little details—you wouldn’t believe!”
I glanced around the table with a sinking feeling in my stomach. “This…certainly feels like an invasion…”
She was impervious to my sarcasm. “So I thought that while I was down here, we might as well knock one or two things off our list. And when I told the club it was for Marcus Taylor’s wedding,” she glanced at him indulgently, “well, they cleared the day for us. For a price, that is.”
Marcus blinked at her intense stare, not quite following, before standing up with a sudden smile. “Why don’t I take care of that?” I grabbed onto the side of his coat as he stood up, but he casually wrenched himself free. “I’ll just be a minute, pumpkin. You enjoy some time with your mom.”
I was going to kill him.
Luckily, Amanda and Max swooped into the rescue, each already clutching a large goblet full of something mind-numbing and red. While Max took one look at mom and started discreetly gulping his down, Amanda took one sip and turned a delicate shade of green, holding a hand gingerly to her stomach. Wine and yesterday’s tequila didn’t mix.
“Sit down! Sit down, you two!” Mom beckoned them to the table and started instantly scribbling notes on the different vintages as she waited impatiently for Marcus to return.
Max shook his head with a grin. “Oh—noticed us have you? Noticed your other child? Your first-born son? Just flown in from New York because his mother requested his presence?”
She didn’t lift her eyes from her notes—a frightening, manic glow lighting her face. “It’s good to see you, Max. Sit down and have a glass of that one—tell me what you think.”
He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sharon, your warmth astounds me.”
She looked up sharply when he called her by name. “You know I hate that, Maxwell, take care to mind your manners. Now—drink up! You’re here for a reason.”
“My sister’s getting married?”
“…sometime in the far-off future…” I tried to interject.
Mom was all business. “We need your expertise. I know how much you love to go to all those wine tastings.”
“If you want me to put my talents to good use, I will.”
“Tell me what you think of the Bordeaux.”
Amanda and I shared a quick look and buried our heads in an informational packet to keep from laughing. Mother had never approved of Max’s profession, despite the fact that his work was featured in some of the most prominent galleries in New York. In her mind, painter didn’t equate to grandchildren. And if she wasn’t going to get those, she might as well write off the whole lot of them as a bunch of mindless degenerates who got off huffing acrylics and glue.