Aunt Beth bursts into a loud laugh, clutching my arm with one hand. “Oh you! With the witty remarks all the time. I told Bill you’ll be the type to keep him on his toes.”
“And what did he say?”
“I can’t remember, but I’m sure it was positive,” she says, free-pouring gin into the steel shaker. “Martini?”
“Thank you, no,” I say, recalling the one time I took her up on that offer (and woke up face-down on a bench in their sunroom the next morning). “I think I’ll stick with wine tonight.”
“More for me,” she says, dancing shoulders-only style.
“Nora, there you are!” my mum calls, making her way through the crowded room. “I hope you’re not letting Beth talk you into a martini. You do remember the last time you said yes—”
“I don’t remember.” I give her a kiss on each cheek. “Which is why I just said no.”
“Good girl.”
Mum and her sister couldn’t be more different. For every drink Beth has had in her life, my mother has said two prayers. She and Dad have dedicated their lives to service and are pastors at the Benavente Unity Church. Uncle Dan is a plastic surgeon, so Aunt Beth dedicated her life to having servicesdone, like weekly massages and facials.
Mum points at the bright orange liquid in the punch bowl on the table. “I made a non-alcoholic drink for those of us who want to wake up feeling good tomorrow morning.”
I briefly consider pouring a glass (and adding a hefty serving of vodka) but decide to go with the wine. Fewer calories for the same buzz. “I’m allowing myself one glass of Zin.” I pluck a wine glass off the tray and inch my way towards the open bottles of wine, but Beth blocks me in her effort to retrieve more olives for her drink. That’s fine. I’ll wait. “Did Kat come with you and Dad?”
Mum’s smile drops. “She said she was coming with you.”
Uh-oh.
Kat is my parents’ “late in life” baby. I was nine when she came along. Up until then, I was a perfectly happy only child, but after nearly a decade, Mum “prayed” her into existence. At least that’s how she explained the birds and the bees to me when I was eleven. Imagine my fear the next time we went to church. Anyway, Kat has been the source of my mother’s wrinkles since the moment she took her first step. She’s always finding creative new ways of stirring the pot.
As much as I loathe the whole hook-up thing society’s got going on these days, Kat loves it. She’s swiped right on so many guys, it’s a wonder she doesn’t have carpal tunnel in her index finger. Not that my parents know about that, mind you. I don’t dare say a word, because it would literally give my mother a heart attack. Kat’s latest coup (that they know about) has been to extend her gap year into two, putting off university yet again.
Mum is beside herself, but Dad keeps insisting his little girl just needs more time to grow up, after having been coddled by us her entire life. As if he’s not the biggest offender.
“I’m sure she’ll be here right away,” I say, even though I’m guessing she’s dancing on a speaker at the Turtle’s Head Pub by now.
She makes a grunting sound but says nothing else on the topic, clearly not wanting the rest of her judgy family to overhear. My second attempt at getting some wine is blocked by a neighbour of Dan and Beth’s, who swoops in and plucks the bottle of Zinfandel off the counter then walks away with it. I decide to go with the red, except when I pick it up, it’s only the nasty bits at the bottom that drip down into my glass.
Setting it down, I turn to Mum and Aunt Beth. “Say, I have some news.”
“Really?” Mum asks.
“The resort is hosting the World Bartending Championships, and Harrison and Libby have asked me to coordinate it.” I feel a swell of pride. “It’s going to be televised around the globe, and it’ll be incredible advertising for Paradise Bay. Well, for the Benavente Islands as a whole, actually.”
Normally I wouldn’t brag like this, but with family, I figure it’s okay. Also, because I never seem to impress them no matter what I do, when I have the opportunity, I’m not letting it slip by.
Mum and her sister wear matching eyes-glazing-over expressions. “That’s nice, dear.”
“Very. What a lot of fun for you,” Beth says, lifting her glass to her lips. “Oh! Bartenders have a certainje ne sais quoi, don’t they? Maybe you’ll find love… if you and Bill don’t get on, that is.” Wink, wink.
“A bartender?” Mum asks, her voice becoming rather shrill. “No thank you. Not for my little girl.”
“What’s wrong with bartenders?” Beth asks. Before Mum can answer, she adds, “If you think about it, what they do isn’t all that different than what you do, Lori. You’re both dedicated to serving others, and you both wind up listening to people complain about their lives.”
“It is hardly the same thing, Beth,” Mum tells her.
“I bet these world champion ones make good money.” She turns to me. “Do they, Nora?”
“I have no idea.”
“There must be a big prize,” she says, then, turning in the direction of the living room, she shouts, “Dan! How much do world champion bartenders make?”
