Shaken or Stirred, page 16
Savannah wanted to talk. That’s what her text said, and Julia thought that was a good idea. Plus, she wanted to see her face.
That was the thing that had her staring at the ceiling.
Even after last night. Even after the discussion with Amelia and her weak excuses, Julia still wanted to see her.
Unexpected hardly covered it.
She’d needed to roll it around before responding to the text, and while she was fairly sure Amelia would understand that, she could almost hear Vanessa’s voice in her head. Why? Why do you have to mull it over? What’s so hard about texting back I’d love to talk? Why do you have to overthink everything? Julia lay there grinning at the imaginary conversation, enjoyed it for a few minutes because driving free-spirited Vanessa insane with logic was one of her favorite pastimes. This time, though, imaginary Vanessa was right.
Her day was kind of packed, as she’d promised to go to her parents’ house early and give her mother a hand with dinner. Then she worked that night. Much as she wanted to see Savannah, she wanted to talk to her without a bar between them and other patrons pulling her attention away. She reached to her left and grabbed her phone, opening Savannah’s text.
I’d love to talk. Today’s rough, but can you come by The Bar Back tomorrow night?
A small snort of a laugh left her, as it always did when she referred to her back room as something with a proper name, making it sound like she ran two bars. It was ridiculous, and also, she loved it.
The gray dots immediately started to bounce. Savannah was awake, as predicted.
I can. Time?
Well. That was less than enthusiastic. Again, she could hear Vanessa’s voice telling her not to read into it, that she had no idea at all what Savannah was doing at the moment—plus, this was text, and there was no emotion or tone of voice or facial expressions over text…
Doing her best to listen to Imaginary Vanessa’s advice, she shook off the weird feeling and sent back a time suggestion, said she was looking forward to it, and left it at that. She had other things to handle today, so she finally rolled out of bed and hit the shower.
Three hours later, she was elbow deep in pasta dough and ricotta cheese and ground beef, helping her mother make homemade ravioli for family dinner.
When she’d been younger—mid to late teens—she’d looked down a bit on the fact that her mom was a stay-at-home mother. She was embarrassed. Ashamed, if she was being honest. Her friends had moms that were doctors and lawyers and entrepreneurs. Julia’s mom cleaned the house and cooked meals and baked cookies, but essentially had no career and did nothing all day. At least, that’s what she’d thought, knowing nothing about how much work it was to run a household of seven and not at all interested in delving any deeper. They didn’t have a lot of money. Raising five kids on a mechanic’s salary wasn’t ideal. They ate cheaply, got clothes from Goodwill sometimes—if there wasn’t an older cousin in the family with hand-me-downs.
As she got older, of course, she understood not only how much work her mother actually did all day, cleaning up after five kids—four of them boys, discovering ways to stretch the food budget, and still finding some time for herself, but also that she wasn’t the only one who looked down on women like her mother. Turned out, there were a lot of people out there who thought a woman without a job outside the home was lazy and old-fashioned, and that the stay-at-home mom went out with the seventies, and when Julia’d realized this, the guilt started to seep in. Thanks, Catholicism! While she’d never actually apologized to her mother for her own thoughts and shame, she made sure to celebrate her whenever she could. And learn from her. It wasn’t lost on her that she’d ended up in a field where she served people. The fruit didn’t fall far from the tree, as her grandma would say.
“Not too much filling, honey, or they’ll break in the water.” Her mom pointed to one pile of ricotta Julia had scooped. She took some away, then went on to the next until she’d done an entire row. Once she’d done three rows, her mother brushed an egg wash around each pile of filling, which would seal the edges. Then together, they laid another sheet of pasta dough over the top and carefully pressed down around each bit of filling, which now looked like bumps under a blanket. Her mother handed her the pasta cutter, which was like a pizza cutter with a wiggly edge.
“Just run it through the rows, up and down, until they’re all separate.”
Julia had helped make ravioli a hundred times—though admittedly, not for a while now—but she loved that her mom still felt the need to direct her, and she nodded as if hearing the instructions for the first time. She cut the dough, and her mom took the cookie sheet they were on and ran them down to the basement where it was cooler, until they were ready to cook. On to the next batch.
They found a rhythm, she and her mom—mixing, rolling, filling, cutting—and they worked well together. They always had. It wasn’t often that she got her mom all to herself, so when the opportunity popped up, she tried to grab it. Even now that she was so busy.
“How are things at the bar?” her mother asked, not looking up from the sauce she was stirring on the stove.
How to answer? Total honesty? A slightly glittery varnishing of reality? Outright lie? She chose number one.
“Last night was great. Vanessa brainstormed with me, and we came up with some ideas for some theme nights and a select martini special each night on the weekends. We pulled in a lot of customers.”
“That’s great. I’m so happy to hear that.” Her mom spooned up some sauce, gave it a taste, added some oregano. “What was last night’s special martini?”
“Last night was the appletini. You’d like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.” She hesitated. “You and Pop should come in sometime.” Her mother met her eyes and Julia said, “Let me rephrase that. Ma, can you please get Dad to bring you in sometime? He’s been in exactly once, and he barely spoke to me.”
She was holding it together well until her mother tipped her head sideways and laid a hand against Julia’s cheek. Her palm was warm and soft, and her dark eyes were filled with love.
“Is he ashamed of me, Ma?” Julia’s voice was barely above a whisper. “’Cause it feels like he is.”
“Oh, sweetie, no.” Her mother pulled her into a hug, wrapped her up tight. “Of course not.”
But what else could she say, right? Yes, he absolutely is. What did you expect would happen when you told your very traditional Catholic Italian father that you’re gay? And you’ve used your fancy-schmancy business degree to be a bartender?
Everybody else in the family seemed fine, but her father? He’d changed since that day. Not drastically, but there’d been a very slight pulling away from her. A stepping back of sorts. It might have been subtle, but she’d felt it like a slap.
Her mother pulled back enough to look up at her face, smoothing a thumb across Julia’s brow. “Your father loves you.”
She nodded. He did. She didn’t doubt that. “I know.”
“Give him some time.”
That had been her mother’s advice for a few years now. Seriously, how much time did the guy actually need?
Chapter Fourteen
Next month is Pride month, you know.” Vanessa was on the couch in The Bar Back, feet crossed at the ankle and propped on the coffee table, Diet Coke in one hand as she pointed at Julia with the other.
“I’m aware.” Julia was playing with different martini recipes and had been for over an hour. It was going on nine on Monday night. Clea was tending to the customers—not a ton, but more than a handful, which was nice for a Monday—and Julia was vacillating between concentrating on the drinks and worrying that she should be manning the bar instead of paying a bartender.
“You need to capitalize on it.” Vanessa’s excitement was clearly growing as she set her soda down and raised her hands up together, then spread them apart like a banner. “Drink specials. Put up some Pride decorations. Maybe sponsor some part of the day or the parade…” Her brain was racing—Julia could tell. Then she gasped. “We could make a float!”
“No float.”
A sigh. “You’re right. It’s probably too late this year. But next year, definitely.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“You haven’t?”
“I mean, I have…” Julia scratched her eyebrow as she remixed a limontini using Uncle Joe’s homemade limoncello that Vanessa had brought with her, instead of the bottled limoncello from her distributor.
Vanessa sat up and pulled out her phone. “I did some googling, and listen to these martini names. The Ruby Slipper martini—Auntie Em! Auntie Em! The Purple Hooter martini—you should serve that one while showing ample amounts of cleavage. The In and Out martini.” She looked up through her eyelashes at Julia. “Come on. If that one isn’t made for a Pride festival, I don’t know what is.” She set down her phone. “Capitalize on the month. Draw a new crowd in addition to your current one. Flaunt your inclusivity, you know?”
It was a fantastic idea, and it was hard not to get caught up in Vanessa’s enthusiasm. Which was par for the course with her. She could talk about anything and get you all worked up and ready to go, simply because her excitement was contagious. That was Vanessa.
A sip of the martini told her that Uncle Joe’s limoncello was more tart, but also tasted fresher than the commercially produced liqueur. “How many bottles of this do you think your dad has?” She held up the bottle.
“Oh God, there have to be three or four dozen in the basement. And he’ll get another batch started by August or September, probably.” Limoncello had to sit for forty days before it was drinkable, and Uncle Joe liked to have it ready for the holidays and gave it out as gifts.
“Excellent. Tell him I want to buy ten bottles.”
“Jules, he’s not going to let you pay for them.”
“Tell him I want to buy ten bottles.”
A quiet knock on the outside door interrupted them, but Julia knew who it was, and her heart skipped a proverbial beat. “Come on in,” she called.
“Hey,” Savannah said, a tentative smile on her face. When she saw Vanessa, her brows rose slightly, and she added, “Oh, I didn’t expect you to be here. Hi.” Her tone said she was happy to see Vanessa, which was no surprise. Everybody was happy to see Vanessa.
“Hey there.” Vanessa stood and gave her a hug. “And good-bye. I was just on my way out.”
“Already?” Savannah slipped off the light jacket she was wearing.
“’Fraid so.” And then Vanessa and Julia said in tandem, “School night.”
“Well, I’m glad I got to see you for eleven and a half seconds anyway.”
Vanessa waved, pulled the door open, and said, “Ask Savannah what she thinks of Pride month,” as a parting shot. A wink, the door shut, she was gone.
Savannah turned to Julia. “I’m very fond of Pride month. Aren’t you?”
Julia grinned. “I am. Vanessa wants me to use it to market, join in the local Pride stuff. Decorations. Special Pride drinks. Stuff like that.”
“That’s a fabulous idea. You could have a theme about everybody being welcome. Inclusion. That kind of thing.”
Julia studied her as she walked up to the practice bar and took a stool. She looked beautiful, as always, despite her simple outfit of jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and black sandals. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but there were lots of escapees around her ears, curled at the back of her neck, draped near her left eye. And she looked tired. Deflated. Something was bothering her, and Julia wondered if it was the whole thing with her brother or something more. Whatever it was, she wanted to help. That was the only clear thing in her brain. She wanted to fix whatever it was that was dimming Savannah’s thousand-watt smile, and that was unexpected.
“Between the two of you, I think I have more than enough ideas.” She grinned, sliding the limontini over to her. “Taste this and tell me what you think. And then tell me what’s bothering you.”
A split-second of surprise zipped across Savannah’s face, and then she sat up a little straighter. Lifted her chin just a bit. In challenge? Defense? “I’m fine.”
“You’re not, though. Drink.” She gestured to the glass, and Savannah took a dutiful sip. What Julia liked was that she didn’t answer right away. She let the drink stay in her mouth for a beat. Swallowed it. Tipped her head in thought. Took another sip.
“That’s delicious,” she finally pronounced. “Really good. Lemony, but not cloyingly so like some citrusy drinks can be. Tart, but not puckery. Just enough. It’s very refreshing.”
A smile crept onto Julia’s face. She could feel it spread. “I love how much you thought about it and how detailed you were. Thank you for that.”
Whatever was holding Savannah down lifted just the smallest amount. “You’re welcome.”
Julia reached across the bar and covered Savannah’s hand with hers. “If you’re worried about the thing with your brother, don’t be. I mean, it wasn’t good, and we need to talk about how to deal with him in the future, but please don’t let it pull you down.” She cleared her throat, realizing what a big assumption she’d made. “If that’s what’s bothering you, I mean.”
Savannah looked at her for what felt like a long moment, and yes, there was definitely something there. A shadow of some kind. Pain? It was hard to say because Julia didn’t know her all that well yet, but there was something.
“What do you do when you need to blow off some steam? When you have something”—she swallowed and tapped her fingers against her chest—“sitting right here, and you don’t know what to do with it?” And when Savannah trained her gaze on her, the blue of her eyes was so deep, but not deep enough to hide the pain in them.
“I mix.” The simplest, most honest answer she had.
“You mix?”
“Come back here.” She gestured for Savannah to join her behind the bar, which she did without hesitation. Standing that close to her felt so many things in that instant. Sexy. Warm. Right. With a shake of her head, she sent those thoughts scattering to the corners of her mind. “Okay. What shall we make? I’m going to suggest a martini of some kind, and you’ll see why.”
Savannah took in all the ingredients and tools Julia had still strewn about the bar. Mixer and strainer and lemons and little bottles of bitters and vermouths and such. A beat went by, and she looked up at Julia with those eyes. “Cosmo?”
“Good choice. Simple, easy, yummy. Okay.” She grabbed the two-piece cocktail shaker and the strainer and put them in front of Savannah on the bar. Then she grabbed the ingredients—vodka, Cointreau, cranberry juice, and a lime—and added them to the supplies. “First thing to know about martinis of any kind—the colder, the better.”
Savannah nodded. “Okay.”
“That’s why we chill the glasses.” She pointed to the variety of glasses stacked in the freezer, then pulled out a tray of ice. “And that’s why the ice is so important.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. Now, fill the glass part of your shaker about two-thirds full of ice.”
“Two-thirds?”
“You wanna leave shaking room.”
“Ah, makes sense.”
Julia directed her on how much of each liquor to pour in, how to juice a quarter of the lime, and then taught her how to slap the stainless steel part of the shaker home so it fit tight.
“Now,” she said, as she moved close behind Savannah so her front was against Savannah’s back and her lips were near Savannah’s ear, “roll up your sleeves.” Savannah did as she was told, and Julia could smell the warm scent of cherries and almonds, and she did her best to stay silent as she inhaled deeply, took the essence of Savannah all the way in. “This is where you can take out some frustrations.” She positioned Savannah’s hands on the shaker, then pulled her arms up so she was holding it over her right shoulder. “Shake it. Everything that has hurt you or pissed you off or made you sad today, just shake it up. Hard. Shake the shit out of it.”
Her words hit home—Julia could tell when she moved back and could see Savannah’s face again. There was a strength there now. A determination. And pain. Definite pain. Savannah gritted her teeth and looked like she shook that damn shaker for all she was worth. Julia took two martini glasses out of the freezer and set them on the bar where they clouded up instantly.
“Most people don’t shake hard enough or long enough,” she said as Savannah kept shaking, and she tried not to get too distracted by the definition in her forearms or the slight flush in her cheeks. “But remember—I said it’s all about cold with martinis. Which means it’s all about the ice. And the longer and harder you shake, the more you get tiny ice chips from the cubes in there, which is what you want. Ten more seconds.”
Savannah’s eyes had watered up by the time ten seconds had passed. Julia taught her to smack the heel of her hand against the shaker to break the seal, then handed her the strainer and watched as Savannah filled both glasses with the pink liquid, all the while clearly struggling to keep her emotions at bay.
They picked up their glasses, touched them together in silent toast, and sipped.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Julia pronounced with a grin. “You get an A-plus.” Then she reached over, took Savannah’s glass, and set them both on the bar. Knowing that this was a big moment, doing what she was about to do, Julia didn’t care. She took both Savannah’s hands in hers, held them, felt their warmth, their softness, even as she dipped her head to catch those blue eyes with hers. Very, very quietly, she said, “Now, please, tell me what’s wrong.”
That was all it took, apparently. The watering in Savannah’s eyes increased and spilled over until teardrops were rolling down her cheeks. A small, quiet sob pushed its way out of her, and all Julia could do was pull her in, pull her close, wrap her up, hold her tight. Savannah sobbed into her shoulder as Julia stroked her head, caressed her neck, and rubbed her shoulders. “Shh,” she said, pressing a kiss to Savannah’s head, and let her cry. As desperately as she wanted to know what was causing so much heartache, she knew she needed to wait, that Savannah would talk when she was ready.
