SABINE MOVED AROUND THE KITCHEN WITH PRACTICED EASE. At first, she had waited, let Kick run through all the pleasantries of hosting that were so deeply engrained in her being, until a five minute struggle with a cork. “It’ll be faster if you let me.” She could admit that the ‘23 Cabernet had a tricky cork, which she’d be taking up with her head vintner first thing in the morning. “I do this for a living, y’know?”. After that, their partnership meetings had run like a well oiled ship.
They took turns in their misery — Kick first, after, well, the upheaval of her entire life, then Sabine following her grandmother’s death. Blythe Cove was home, and yet it had taken time to reconcile it with the life she’d created beyond it. Coming back felt simultaneously like a homecoming and stuffing herself into a mold that no longer fit. She eventually found her place, carving out a niche amidst the sea breezes and weathered houses. Kick’s house, in particular, became a comfort. This very kitchen had been home to many a late-night brainstorming session, minds too many bottles deep to filter their thoughts as Sabine ran through the merits of expanding the winery’s collection. Fears of destroying generations of work with one ‘shitty currant’ — their logo depicted red currants, not black currants, she’d argued against her own point. Thankfully, Kick had the good sense to suggest they trial any new varieties at the inn first, before sending the blend into mass production.
Mushroom risotto. ❛ Sounds great. ❜ And it was, the white wine would pair nicely with the woodsy flavors of the fungi. She was a willing subject in Kick’s test kitchen, knowing the meals she turned out would be better than the charred remains of whatever Sabine tried to cook in her kitchen. Besides, if she could match the wines to the inn’s seasonal menu, it would earn an uptick in business for both of them. She filtered through the cabinets, hooking a finger around two long-stemmed glasses.
Sabine could bake well enough, although she kept that conveniently close to her chest. If Kick found the tin of cookies at the bottom of the basket, it would be easy enough to dismiss them as a fluke.
❛ Randolph is too busy being important to be practical, ❜ she teased over her shoulder, uncorking the bottle and filling the glasses with a healthy pour. The man’s air of self-importance amused her, especially in the shadow of his daughter’s very real laboring. It would be funny if he weren’t so incorrigibly serious. She contemplated calling him Randy once, just to see if his mustache would twitch the way she imagined, an outward manifestation of his extreme malcontent. What a strange man.
❛ Crazy to think his daughter, who works in hospitality, might actually know something about entertaining. ❜
Sometimes she wondered if all fathers were like him, all bluster and aggrandizing statements, obsessed with who their daughter dated. She wouldn’t know. Hers hadn’t bothered to stick around. And wasn’t she better for it?
❛ What about orchids? ❜ She racked her brain for the proper name, Cym something. Sabine knew carignans and cinsauts, sweet amignes and tart albariños; unfortunately, if it wasn’t a type of grape, it was lost on her. ❛ Boat orchids. My mom swears by them. Festive and non-toxic. Problem solved. ❜ She slid a glass across the dining table, already sipping from her own. ❛ Then, when everyone’s favors die by New Year's, they’ll have a pretty new vase. ❜
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