Chapter 12 - Barbara

I lied in my caption for chapter 10. There are three places where the next chapter happens right after the previous one. This is the third.

[Link to Chapter 1 (Beginning of Book)]

[Link to Chapter 11 (Previous Chapter)]

“You didn’t have to drop everything to meet me tonight,” Phil says, almost complaining.

I smile. “Don’t worry about it. Your text said ‘as soon as possible’, and I needed an excuse to bail on a bad date.”

I stop smiling. “I walked out on my steak. You can owe me for that.”

Luckily, we’re in one of my favorite wine bars. I don’t like wine, but the wine here is tolerable, and the kitchen serves amazing empanadas. I’ve been on a first-name basis with Mallorie, the head bartender, since the divorce. This place became my regular hangout for catching up on my reading while letting middle-aged women hit on me for the confidence boost. Wine bars are the mothership for lonely cougars.

On its face, the place is a hot mess. Trendy wine bar meets Prohibition speakeasy meets farmhouse chic. Wine from a local Texas vineyard. Charcuterie boards assembled from meats they buy at the grocery store three minutes down the road. Authentic and ‘fusion’ empanadas – which is the Mexican chef stuffing the empanada with shredded barbeque brisket instead of traditional ingredients. Because Texas.

The best part of the place, by far, is the grand piano. The massive instrument looms over the small space. There’s almost always someone playing. While nothing about the place gives off piano bar vibes, it’s the best piano bar in town. With the best empanadas.

“Grand pianos always remind me of my childhood,” I comment. Phillip’s stalling, so I keep talking until he gets around to mentioning the imminent issue he needs to discuss.

“Did you know my parents almost got rid of theirs?” I ask.

Phil takes a too-big sip of the red blend, which is the worst choice for people who like wine, but the best for people who don’t. “That would’ve been a shame,” he says. “You love that thing.” Still not biting. Whatever’s on his mind is bigger than usual.

I took lessons for nine years. I started too late. I was already eight when Mom finally got around to it. So I was always behind my peers. I also never practiced enough. I can fake it well enough to look talented for non-musicians, but anybody remotely musical can tell I’m a hack.

When my parents died – Dad first, then Mom a couple years later – the only thing from their house I wanted was the piano I grew up playing. A signed Bosendorfer baby-grand. Lacquered black wood, red and gold accents, light, cloud-soft action. It sounded amazing in my parents’ tile-floored living room, with the lid propped wide open. It used to, anyway. Every time I visited, it was clear Mom hadn’t had it tuned in ages.

Now it’s mine, and I haven’t had it tuned in ages.