Last Call (5 page)

"Sara!"

"Alright, alright,
mom
, don't get your panties all in a bunch. Yes, we put an ad on the campus site. Big deal. I've used it before."

"Not a glowing recommendation, Sara," quipped Candace from her open room.

I thought back to last year when Sara had used the campus dating site to try and find a date to help her get over her latest flavor of the month. She'd shown up at a local restaurant all dressed up and ready for her hot date with Joe, except Joe was Jo. A girl who was into girls. Amazingly enough, after laughing at the mix-up, they went on to have dinner and drinks and both lamented on their recent break ups. They still hung out occasionally to this day.

"Look, I promise to check and double check all of the facts before I set you up with anyone. Loosen up for once. What's the harm, huh? Go out with a few guys and have some fun," she prodded. "You might meet your future husband."

"That's doubtful." Feeling less than confident, I gave in and warned them, "Okay, I’ll do this - but I'm meeting for drinks and drinks
alone
, at The Garage between six-thirty and seven. I'm not going anywhere else with these guys on a first date, and I don't want to be stuck with some crazy loser for hours on end either."

"Babe, please have a little faith in my skills," Sara blustered; rubbing her hands together as she grabbed her phone and started fiddling with it.

"What about Jax?" questioned Candace as she strayed into the living room again.

"What about him?" Sara answered for me. "She's not a nun, Cand."

"We’ll still get to know each other by phone, but I can't continue to sit around and wait for him to call me every night."

"That's not an option, Savannah. You're right - this is our last summer together, and we’re gonna have some fun."

Wednesday - April 24, 2013

She Dropped a Bomb

"What kind of madness is this? What was I
thinking
?" I stomped around the living room like a madwoman, tossing my phone on the couch.

"What's your damage, Heather?" called Sara, coming down the hallway ready for her first day of work. The phrase came from an eighties cult movie we all loved and it made me stop seething, even for a moment.

"I just got off the phone with
Erika
," I offered; sneering my mother’s name.

"Well of course…it’s either your mother or they canceled ‘The Vampire Diaries’. Those are the only two things that could cause irrational anger in you. What'd she do this time?"

"She dropped a bomb on me." Fuming, I walked into the kitchen to get some coffee. "Apparently the wedding of the century will be a weekend-long extravaganza, and I am expected to be there for every minute detail."

Slamming a mug down on the counter, I recounted the entire, painful conversation with my mother to Sara. Mimicking my mother’s thick southern accent, I drawled out every detail.

"There will be a special cocktail event for all out of town guests and family on Thursday night, as well as an afternoon tea on Friday, followed by the rehearsal dinner later that night. The ladies are having an early morning spa day at the club Saturday with brunch before the big event."

"Ugh," I groaned. "I’m so mad I could spit nails."

Sara sympathized with me as she absentmindedly dug her keys out of her bag. "Do you really have to go to all of it? Can't you just show up late?"

"HA! No, my mother made it
very
clear that everyone was
so looking forward
to seeing me since I haven't been home in a while. It wouldn’t look good for the ‘family name’ for me not to be there."

"How do you deal with that?"

Sara asked the question honestly, and I didn't fault her for it. Sometimes even
I
didn't know how I dealt with my mother.

"Look - I gotta run,” Sara said. “Don't let it get to you. We’ll figure it all out."

Shutting the door behind Sara, I took my coffee and sat with my legs crossed on the couch, thinking about my upbringing. Somehow the uptight and privileged demeanor of my mother never really rubbed off on me.

My father’s family was the one with all the money. Somewhere along the line with my great, great, great grandfather…old Grandpa Guthry had perfected whiskey and became a household name.

Dad took over the company almost right out of college when his father suffered a fatal heart attack. My uncle graduated two years after that, and went straight to work at Guthry Whiskey too. Although they grew up with all the comforts you could imagine, it was a testament to the Guthry name that everyone was required to work hard for their part of the family company.

I was proud of my father for jumping into the business at such a young age, and for being such an integral part of helping it prosper and grow to where it was today. Sometimes I felt bad for both my dad and uncle, because they’d both been blessed with daughters and very demanding wives.

My Aunt Charlene came from old money herself. She grew up with my dad and uncle and went to the same private schools and functions with them. Whereas Uncle Grant was fun and playful, Charlene was rigid and self absorbed. While I was growing up, her calendar revolved around being pampered, and she was obsessed with maintaining her girlish figure and an even more girlish face. Thank goodness for money because you got what you paid for, and in her case, she was getting some good stuff.

I knew relatively little of my mother’s upbringing. Her parents both passed away before I was born, and she’d never talked about her life growing up much. But she’d always been a stickler for propriety. From my earliest days I could remember having to sit at a table in a frilly dress, crossing my legs at the ankles and draping a napkin over my lap. I was groomed to perfection.

My mother used to tease me, "You never know when the Prince will come looking for his Princess, my darling."

I was allowed to play tennis and tennis alone, because that was a country club sport. I took voice lessons, piano and art, all because that was what a refined young woman would do. I remembered feeling as if I was a stifled character in a Jane Austen novel half of my life.

My mother was the cloying Mrs. Bennett who couldn't wait for me to meet the perfect eligible gentleman so that I could secure my own perfect life.

School was an important endeavor to complete, but she fully expected me to utilize my degree for philanthropy. I was absolutely expected to come home and marry someone well known in Charleston society; someone who could help take over and run Guthry Whiskey when my father was ready to step down.

Guthry Whiskey had been passed down between fathers and sons since it first began. Recently it had been weighing on me that Mary Anne and I would be the sole heirs to the company. I knew that Mary Anne didn't care about the business, except for the amount of money it brought in, so I assumed her future spouse would be the one to run her portion. That would be Daniel.

A wave of disgust ran through me at the thought of someone outside my family being able to make decisions for Guthry someday, and for that person to be Daniel was downright unthinkable. But what could I do about it? I was just an Art History major with a mother who had groomed me to be the perfect, happy little wife.

Or had she?

Since leaving Charleston I'd come into my own. During my freshman year I’d sunk deeper and deeper into self-regret, over both my foolish actions the summer before I left, as well as my defunct relationship with Daniel. It was only after going home at Easter break and hitting rock bottom that I’d finally been able to break free from the depression that had been holding me back.

When I returned to school, I finally began to see myself for what I was: a timid little southern belle who wouldn't speak out for herself. I immediately stopped allowing my mother to dictate my life from afar, and started making my own decisions.

Unbeknownst to my parents, I also began taking business courses along with my art classes in order to secure a double major. Art was my love and passion, but it most likely wasn't going to get me very far on my own. I wanted to be qualified enough to secure myself a spot at Guthry Whiskey on my own someday, if needed. I wasn't about to let some man walk into my life and start making decisions for me - husband or not.

At some point this summer I planned on talking with my dad and letting him know about the major in business, and I was excited to tell him that I could come work for him if he wanted me to.

Although I
did
actually want some time after graduation to travel and see some of the art and museums that I'd learned about through the years. I just needed one solitary summer of freedom before I headed back home to Charleston and started trying to convince my mother that I could still be a perfect society woman while single and working. Sometimes I thought I was crazy for wanting to go back home and settle down, but there was no way in hell I was going to let my father down. If it meant dealing with the skeletons in my closet, then so be it.

Thursday - April 25, 2013

Date #1 - Mark

When I entered The Garage I took a moment to scan the crowd and scope out the fellas. The bar area was crowded tonight, but there didn't seem to be any men standing to the side "looking single."

I took a seat at the one empty stool by the far end of the mahogany bar with an uninterrupted view of the entrance so I could see Mark walk in. I set my little clutch in front of me, crossed my legs and tried to look like I belonged. The bartender closest to me looked up and smiled politely, calling out, "I'll be right with you."

Nodding back, I decided to peruse the wine menu while I waited. The dance floor was empty at this early hour of the evening, and I noted that the small stage up front was set up for an open mic night, which I knew typically started around seven. Some of the tables set up on the edge of the floor were occupied, but it was the bar area that was full of people.

A notorious people watcher, I looked around to check out the other patrons. As my eyes drifted past the faces, I was surprised to see the black haired cougar from last Friday night. She was dressed in a spaghetti-strapped little black number, nonchalantly sipping a martini. Her predatory gaze, and I do mean predatory - I could see it from where I sat - was set upon the other bartender waiting on customers. I couldn't see him, as he was turned toward the liquor bottles along the back wall, but Ms. Cougar
definitely
had him in her sights.

"Good evening, what can I get for you tonight?" Pulling me from gawking at the scene down the bar, the bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of me and waited expectantly for my order.

"Oh." I jumped, startled. "Sorry. A Tom Collins, please."

"Sure thing. I'll need to see your ID."

I complied, pulling out my license and offering it to him. He handed it back after a quick glance and set about preparing my drink.

My gaze returned to the other bartender and his adoring fan while I waited for my drink. At a glance, I noted that the seats immediately around the predator were all taken by other fabulously dressed women "of a certain age." The man in question was now leaning forward over the bar, allowing a blond to speak into his ear. Loud guffaws filled the bar after a moment.

What the hell?
I thought, and couldn’t help but watch the way the cougars were monopolizing bartender number two with their flirting. My own bartender placed my cocktail in front of me, and then stepped away after making sure I knew to holler at him if I needed anything. I thanked him and took a sip of the Tom Collins. A shiver ran through me. The drink was somewhat tart for my taste, but still drinkable.

A quick check of the time showed it was six fifty-five. Five minutes to go. I told Mark I would meet him at seven o'clock so technically he wasn’t late, but I guess he didn’t believe in early, either. After a few more minutes of sipping, my attention was drawn to the door where a handsome, dark haired gentleman was standing alone; turning his head and looking around.

Mark?

His eyes searched the area and then zeroed in on me. A smile crossed his face as he made his way over.
That must be him
, I thought, and I straightened up a bit to take him in.

His hair was worn long and he had a bit of the Justin Bieber helmet head-thing going on. Deduct a point. However, his face was nice enough. His good looks were accentuated by his striking dark eyebrows and straight nose. Add a point. He wore a crisply ironed white oxford dress shirt and tan slacks. More points for dressing up.

"Savannah?" he asked politely, as he came up to my chair; his smile showing off perfectly straight teeth.

"Yes. Mark, I assume?" I smiled back. He took my outstretched hand and held it for a moment longer than necessary.

"Wow. You're prettier than your profile picture alluded to," he remarked. "Do you want to sit here at the bar, or would you rather grab a table?"

"Why don't we stay here for now? Maybe we can round you up a stool."

Excusing himself, Mark grabbed an empty stool from one of the nearby bar tables and pulled it over to sit beside me. With his knee touching my thigh it was a bit crowded, but I thought we could make it work.