Page 12 of Red Hot Roaster

Cab, short for “Cabernet,” had accompanied him, off leash and on his best behavior. It was the neighborhood mystery how Cab could wend his way around Jean-Luc’s crowded shop—shelves of wine lining the walls and crates of wines stacked around the floor—without knocking over the valuable inventory.

So by the time Jean-Luc and I had completed our negotiations (meaning he wanted to give me the wine for free and I wanted to pay him for it, with the final agreement that I would pay at cost, although I was sure he was fibbing about the cost), Cab and Lauren were renewing their acquaintance.

Jean-Luc followed me out the door and stopped when he saw Lauren. He looked around for a quick moment, as if expecting to see Oliver, her soon-to-be ex. They’d met once before when Oliver picked up Lauren from our girls’ wine-tasting outing last February—and had taken an instant dislike to each other.

Oliver had been his usual snooty “my family owns a vineyard” self, and Jean-Luc had been his usual superior “how can Californians possibly think they make better wine than the French?” self.

I hadn’t had a chance yet…or a reason…to let him know Lauren and Oliver were divorcing.

With no Oliver in sight, Jean-Luc smiled tightly, white teeth against his close-cut dark beard, and said, “Bonjour, cherie. I see Cab has attached himself to you. Push him away if he’s too heavy.”

Lauren straightened up and gave one final ear rub to Cab. “Oh. Hi Jean-Luc. It’s good to see…your pup again.”

“Pup? Puppy?” He raised one eyebrow, like he was trying to get Lauren’s casual English term right. Orpretendingnot to get it, since he spoke perfect English. “Yes, but I rescued him when he was already full-grown. Some imbécile dumped him when he got too big…and too scared of loud noises.”

“Their loss, your gain,” Lauren agreed. “What a total love bug! I don’t have Baby with me right now, so I’m getting in all the pup cuddles I can. I’ll tell her Cab saysbonjour.”

Rafe stepped out the door behind Jean-Luc. “We’re going down to the shop so I can help Jean-Luc bring back those wines you decided on. After that, I’ll pick up Princess and head back to Pete’s. Looked in on them a couple of times while you were gone—hope that’s okay?”

I nodded, pleased that Rafe was pitching right in.I hadn’t expected that from somebody just passing through.

He finished with “thanks again for letting my girl hang out with your boy.”

When Lauren and I had come home from the airport earlier, Rafe’s pickup had still been parked in my driveway. We’d peeked over the fence at Pirate and his new friend before heading into the house. Lauren, being my snoopy bestie, had started quizzing me.

So while we’d settled her in my old bedroom and changed into clothes more girls’-night-out friendly, I’d filled her in about Rafe. Because it was Lauren, she’d gotten the unedited, uncut, unabridged version—as fast as I could talk.

And once she’d heard me out, she’d cut right to the chase. “Girlfriend, I can’t wait to meet your hot roaster, pup rescuer and man of few words.”

Not mine, I’d protested, to no avail.

So Lauren was prepared when I introduced them outside the café. Of course, I couldn’t trust the little traitor. She turned her back to the guys and gave me “big eyes”—the ones where you raise your brows high, widen your eyes as far as they can go, and curl your lips together in an oh-so-wide smile.

She wiped the expression from her face before turning back around. We all said our goodbyes so the guys could get on with the wine-porting and we could get on down to Fay’s.

I adored two things about Fay’s.

First, their cherry-garnished rye Manhattans hit me just right—sweetandspicy with a bitter undercurrent.

Second, for five bucks, I got ten toothpicks to blow through a straw at their ceiling—pretending I was stabbing the dog butts in my past.

Jen and Mica had already claimed a tall table in the middle of the bar. Shot glasses crammed with frilly toothpicks in a rainbow of colors were set at our places.

Thanks to our good aim, we’d had very few, if any, stabby-toothpick-related emergencies in the past. We took out our male-dominated frustrations on Fay’s ceiling with bragging rights as the only reward.

Charities were the real winners, chosen to receive all the proceeds from the frilly toothpick sales. This month, the local chapter of Guide Dogs for the Blind had secured that coveted spot. The girls and I were happy to do our bit since the pups-in-training often stopped to sit outside the Chocolate Lab and practice being “on duty” while people and their pets walked by.

We waved at Kurt behind the bar as we made our way to the table. Kurt had taken over from his grandmother Fay, who’d opened the bar in the 1930s.

After hugs were traded all around, I eyed our group and announced, “Drinking and chitchat first.”

Our chitchat time was anything but. Sure, some of our catching up was trivial and lighthearted. Lauren hadn’t visited in a while, and Jen, Mica and I had been busy with our businesses. But we also touched on the heavier stuff—family stuff—at least as much as talking in a public place allowed.

When I received no protests, although I hadn’t expected any, I queried this time, “The usual?”

After nods, I waved to Kurt, who was apparently watching for “the signal.” I held up four fingers, followed by two fingers. In turn, he gave a thumbs-up—four rye Manhattans with two cherries each were on their way.

Even though Kurt knew to make them on the rocks, it was a good thing we all lived within walking distance.

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