Read Online A Taste of Sauvignon by Heather Heyford - Free Book Online Page A

living room on a wave of palpable suspicion, quieting the women, making Esteban’s muscles tense up tighter than a gnat’s ass. When Savvy turned to Padre with a look of open curiosity, Esteban remembered with a start that they’d not yet been formally introduced. If he’d had his way, they never would be. Worrying about keeping his stories straight had him so stressed he couldn’t wait for dinner to be over, and it hadn’t even started yet. How was he going to think clearly with that sweater sitting across from him?
    â€œPadre, this is Sauvignon.”
    â€œSavvy,” she said respectfully. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
    Padre nodded curtly and took the hand she offered.
    There was the scrape of chairs as everyone took their seats. After only a few days, Savvy was starting to look right at home in Esteban’s usual spot.
    Madre set her pot in the center of the table and told everyone to help himself.
    â€œSmells wonderful!” said Savvy, ladling broth into her bowl.
    In Spanish, Padre said the blessing, picked up his spoon, and paused, frowning. “What is this?” he grumbled.
    â€œEs pollo en vino,” replied Madre matter-of-factly.
    â€œEn treinta y ocho años de matrimonio, nunca has hecho pollo como esta.” In forty-one years of marriage, you have never made chicken like this.
    A hush fell over the room. Esteban and Savvy stilled, eyeing his parents uneasily.
    â€œIt’s French. I made it in honor of Señorita Savvy,” Madre replied, serving herself last. “And even if you don’t like it, you will eat it anyway, so as not to make a fool of yourself in front of our guest.”
    Esteban groaned inwardly. Off to a great start —
    â€œIt’s a sad state of affairs when a man is told what to do in his own house,” Padre groused in Spanish.
    Smiling brightly, Madre turned to Savvy. “He says, it looks delicious.”
    From the edge of his rickety seat, Esteban waited with bated breath as Padre mouthed his first spoonful of the stew.
    Savvy tore a hunk of bread from the baguette. “Here, Mr. Morales . . .”
    Esteban cringed. Don’t make it worse!
    â€œI brought you some . . .” She stopped short, gaze flickering helplessly between Esteban and Madre.
    Padre was used to rolled up tortillas, not doughy French bread....
    â€œPan,” said Madre. “ Pan is bread in Spanish.”
    â€œPan.” Savvy smiled and nodded encouragingly, tempting Padre like a dog with a bone.
    Though he eyed it suspiciously, Padre finally accepted her offering. “Gracias.” He dipped the bread into his broth. When he’d eaten it, he tore another hunk off the loaf.
    Esteban and his mother sighed with relief. The ice had been broken.
    Madre’s gift of gab took it from there. Crazy how two women who were poles apart in age, nationality, and class could find so much to talk about, yet their shared interests seemed to go on forever. Vegetables, roses, weather, cooking—after a while Esteban lost track. He’d almost let his guard down enough to actually taste his second helping of chicken when Padre’s hand went to his obliques in a gesture that was becoming more and more familiar lately.
    â€œHis back again,” said Madre in English. In Spanish, she said to him, “I made another batch of oregano oil. I’ll rub some on your back later on.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Savvy said. “I don’t mean to interfere, but wouldn’t it give you peace of mind to know Mr. Morales wouldn’t have to keep working forever? If only he would consider reopening negotiations on your property . . .” She took an innocent sip from her bottle of Coke.
    Padre looked up sharply, his spoon falling to his empty flan plate with a clatter. He scowled inquiringly at Esteban, prompting new concern on Madre’s face.
    â€œSeñorita Savvy says she’s glad you’re keeping an open